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Most people, whether they want to admit it or not, live their lives by taking whatever path seems easiest at the moment a decision is required. Whether subconsciously or purposefully, they are drawn to the simplest solutions, the straightest edge, the widest berth; they are deaf to the knock of opportunity as a dictator turns a blind eye to the cries of his people. I grew up in a home where conformity was expected. My parents paid their bills, went to work, helped me with my homework and disciplined me when I was wrong. I essentially was raised in the epitome of the American dream, and although I would later come to realize that this wasn’t the journey upon which I wanted to embark, it was a safe and loving environment for which I will always be grateful. Nevertheless, I began to stray from that type of lifestyle when I was in my late ‘teens, and by the time I reached the ripe old age of twenty-one, I’d pretty much decided that I was the proverbial Black Sheep of my family. Unsure of my future, blinded by conflict between what I could have and what I really wanted, I took a job as a Shift Leader at the local Jack in the Box. It was a steady paycheck, something to do, a safe harbor in which I could rest my sails for a bit while I contemplated my purpose in life. I knew that the world was full of possibilities, many of which appealed intensely to me, but I wasn’t yet sure how I might take advantage of those opportunities at such a young age. No college education, no skills, no prospects—I was lost in a sea of opportunity that had yet to solidify into anything I could constructively use. It just so happened that, while working at Jack in the Box, I met the man who would one day become my husband. He was my soul mate, a man trapped in the same holding pattern in which I’d floundered for the better part of my life, flipping burgers when he could have been starting his own dot-com corporation or performing surgery or arguing case law in court. We connected without making any effort to connect, which is the way in which romance is supposed to blossom. Most weeks, he and I worked the graveyard shift at Jack in the Box. It was just the two of us in a darkened fast-food joint, working the drive-thru when there were customers and playing cards when there weren’t. We discussed our hopes, our dreams, our passions, our fears—and it was to him that I finally made the admission that would later change my life. “I want to be a writer,” I told him, nervously shuffling a deck of Bicycle cards and hoping that he wouldn’t laugh in my face. “Then you should be a writer,” he told me without a trace of guile. He was right, of course, but I wasn’t ready to decide that writing was the path along which the brightest lanterns shone, so I nodded my head agreeably and dealt the cards. Two weeks later, we were again working the graveyard shift, growing increasingly grainy-eyed and stiff-muscled as the night wore on. At two o’clock on that Saturday night, the after-last-call bar rush began, and the drive-thru was soon filled with drunk college girls and disappointed boys who would be spending the night alone—though not for lack of trying. My future husband fired up the grill and I began taking orders through my drive-thru headset. The words, “Welcome to Jack in the Box. Can I take your order please?” seemed to resonate in my skull with the intensity and irritation of nails on a chalk board, and when I opened the window for umpteenth time to collect money and to pass drinks into the hands of thirsty customers, I was sure I was going to throw a bucket of fryer grease in the face of the next person who ordered a Jumbo Jack, hold the onions. The customer outside my window, however, was on his cell phone, talking rapidly with a Bluetooth device firmly attached to his ear. As I took his fifty-dollar bill and handed him a medium Diet Coke, I heard him say, “Bill I’ve been telling you for years, you’ll never make any real money working for someone else.” Usually, the private conversations of customers in the drive-thru line were like the steady din of excited patrons before the opening number at a rock concert. I rarely distinguished one word from the next, but for some reason this customer’s words reached my ears. “What did you say?” I asked, the Diet Coke still poised in my hand. The customer, who was dressed in a fine blue suit, said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I was talking on the phone.” “I know,” I mumbled distractedly, and I was suddenly incapable of wearing the drive-thru headset any longer. I ripped it off my head, snagging a tangle of hair in the earpiece but not noticing the sting of pain that followed. I handed the customer back his fifty-dollar bill and said, “Tonight it’s on the house.” From the grill, my husband-to-be announced that the next order was ready, so I bagged it and handed it through the window. “You should feel honored,” I told the customer. “You get the last Breakfast Jacks I’ll ever serve in this hell-hole. I owe it all to you.” Before he could reply, I shut the window and latched it shut with the thumb-turn bolt at the center of the panel. I unclipped the drive-thru belt from around my waist, and headed back to the grill. “There’s a line all the way around the store,” my husband-to-be said incredulously. “Guess they’ll have to find somewhere else to stave off their hangovers,” I replied. We finished the prep work for the following day, cleaned the grill, mopped the floors and punched out without calling anyone. I used my Shift Leader keys to lock the doors from inside, then left a note for my boss saying we wouldn’t be back. Then we got in my black Ford Explorer and parked across the street to watch the customers we despised with such vehemence pounding on the drive-thru window. The next day, armed with as much passion and determination as talent, my husband-to-be and I started a ghostwriting business. Over the subsequent months, it flourished and floundered; rose and fell; ebbed and flowed; but we never regretted the decision to jump out of the current for the far more satisfying tributaries along its side. I wrote stories and articles and brochures while he handled the business end of ghostwriting full-time, and now we’re poised to take the next great leap in our adventure. Sometimes the easiest path is the right one, but more often, you can find more excitement and pleasure in the less-traveled seas and streams. Take a moment in your safe harbor to regroup and to narrow your desires, but don’t stay too long at the risk of getting stuck. Comment on this story on our public message board |
