Early 20's Moment

This is Sasquatch. In this famous photo, Sasquatch is running wild, driven into a sleep deprivation-induced temporary psychosis. His baby sasquatch must be teething. Or going through a developmental surge. Or having growing pains. In any case, given his mental state, he needs to not be operating heavy machinery. A psychotic jog through the woods,on a trail he built himself, is fine, though.

Some people say Sasquatch does not exist. Few people, however, think that sleep deprivation does not exist. The vast majority of Americans are, in fact, sleep deprived (and under-hydrated, but that's something else). During the Korean War, the United States government conducted some sexy sleep-deprivation experiments on a few unlucky soldiers. What they discovered was pretty much what you would expect: If you don't get enough sleep, you rapidly start to lose your joie de vivre. Eleanor was up forty-seven times last night. And me, I'm not far from hallucinating at present.

Last night at work my charge was to officiate & oversee the All You Can Eat buffet, where the rutabagas I peeled two days ago were piled sky-high in an aristocratc pan labeled stewed rutabagas. There was also roast beef, white rice, green beans, butter beans, fried chicken, fried catfish, hush puppies, biscuits, rolls, cornbread, fried green tomatoes, and a salad bar from Hell. It may sound easy - officiating and overseeing an All You Can Eat Buffet. I assure you it is not. Oh, I forgot. There was also a "seafood casserole" with frozen shrimp and imitation crab that swam in a sea of alfredo sauce. "We now come full circle, rutabagas," I thought, gooping huge servings into styrofoam "to go" containers, right there alongside the roast beef.

I have been working at this restaurant off and on for eighteen years now. There are few roles - cook, waiter, bus boy, dishwasher, pot scrubber - that I do not know how to play. And the hallways of the restaurant are filled with memories of younger versions of myself and the world. I keep remembering the Fall of 1996, I think it was, when I laid out of school for a quarter to earn some extra dough. I brought On The Road and various books on Buddhism and Taoism to read during my lunch break. I worked every double shift I could get scheduled for, and I made a lot of money. I had the feeling that I was poised on the edge of the Real World, and I desperately wanted to arm myself with some kind of ancient ethos or inspiration for change or, failing that, at least a wad of cash.

"Pretty women make graves," I'd say to myself whenever I saw a comely lass at the salad bar, in an attempt to reign in my favorite distraction and remind myself that all actions have consequences. "Pretty women make graves, as Sal Paradise knows" - it was that pure, earnest early Twenties moment of worldly appraisal, when optimism is easy to fetch and you're high on a certain hope that you've figured out a way to end some serious suffering in the world. There is a tendency to pathologize that moment (which is really just a twisted way of mourning that it has passed and time has pissed on you yet again). Don't. It was beautiful. You were never innocent. And to look back upon that time with some grace is a good thing.