And indeed, what a blessing it was to get a day off.  The eve of Labor Day, no fucking busboy.  Set up by yourself, the food runner finally showing up at six.  It could have gone on longer, but it had been goddamn tiring.  Home to pass out on the couch without even a glass of wine, some shit on the TV he had no time to pay attention to before the nap.  Then awake an hour and a half later, contacts dry, still with the need to ride the bike on the stand and drink a bottle of red Sancerre to get the stress out.  The further domino fall of waking up at One PM groggy as shit, barely able to make tea, not knowing what to get up out of bed for, but finally going very slowly and carefully through a small yoga routine over the course of two hours without even showering.  Taking a break to cook burgers under the broiler and call his lovely old mom, the only one he can talk to.  Gradually his mental health improves.

What a goddamn lie the restaurant business has been for me, the animal thought.  Too trusting, I am, and I get taken advantage of.  That's where the problems come, from believing in people and what they say.  Because people will destroy you, without blaming themselves.  The shit we do for health insurance, ruining our own in order to have it.