I had just earned my driver’s license after turning 16 while being a junior at Dr. Phillips High School in Orlando, Florida — go panthers.
It was about two weeks later that my parents got me a car with the stipulation I would be safe, pay the insurance, pay for my own gas and any other issues that would arise from car ownership — you know, like oil changes or when the alternator decides not to work.
It was a 1988 Chevrolet Beretta, white, 2-door, 5-speed with tinted windows, I even had a Chevrolet decal across the top portion of the front windshield … in my head, I was cool. All the sudden everyone was my friend because I had a car, too.
It was about a month after getting my license that I was driving home from swim practice that I may have been driving my sports car a little too fast, I was also hungry and wanted to get home, but that’s no excuse.
All the sudden, police lights were flashing in my rearview mirror and that quick “wup-woo” sound from the cruiser blared indicating me to pull over.
So, I did.
(He also pulled another person over at the same time — he was good).
Walking up to my window, the officer politely asked: “Do you know why I pulled you over, and why don’t you have your seatbelt on?”
I had no real answer other than, “I’m a dumb teenage.”
Fifteen minutes later, two tickets in hand, I walked into my parents house and told them the news.
Silence from parents is the WORST form of punishment.
Several minutes later my dad simply asked me: “So, how are you going to pay for these?”
To which I replied: “Well, it looks like I’m getting job.”
The silence continued.
The next day I walked into an Italian restaurant with my very thin resume in hand seeking work. Twenty minutes later I walked out with an apron and the title of “dishwasher.”
I had a job and was going to be rich, oh, and pay off my fines.
And I did. But, I didn’t quit after I had paid everything off. I stayed and worked, hard.
My counterpart dishwasher, I would call him (Mark) chief dishwasher, taught me very important lessons — to work hard and always be humble.
Side note, Mark was a priest from Kenya and was working to save money so his wife could join him in the U.S. so they could start a family.
He would sing, praise the Lord throughout the chaos of a Friday night at a restaurant and would never falter from his appreciation of being able to work hard.
From scrubbing floors, clean pots, pans, plates, silverware, cups, wine glasses to running behind the line and re-stocking the cooks with what they needed to cook to being told, “Get the ‘expletive’ out of the way, dude.”
It was an experience and I wouldn’t change a thing. At the end of the night the cooks would cook Mark and myself a meal.
Today, I will never forget that experience I had at Enzo’s because 1.) I learned the meaning of working hard, 2.) It taught me to show up to work on time, be respectful and never judge people for a quick reaction that stemmed from a quick moment.
For Mark, he taught me the appreciation of being alive – regardless of what I do for a living, be kind and never limit myself.
Personally, I think more people should experience working in a restaurant because it’s different beast.
Oh, Mark’s wife did join him, they started a family and he started his own church.
Until next time.
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