If not for Del

When I met Del, he was living in my mother's basement apartment and working as a prep cook at Shari’s. A lot of people say I owe a lot to Del. Before he and I met, I'd seen quite a few hardships. There had been some nasty breakups, a few failed real estate investments, and at least one house fire. It was taking me me a while to get out from under my business debt, and the price of gold had dropped drastically. Life was not good, and I have to admit I was a little depressed. Then I met Del.

I was at my mom's house while she was at work at the nursing home. I'd stopped by to take some cash out of the old pantyhose she kept in the rice canister. I was suprised to see Del sitting in my mom's kitchen, having a cup of tea. Later I'd find out that the teabag was actually steeping in coffee. That was one of his charming eccentricities that would never cease to blow my mind.

He said simply, "Hi, I'm Del," when I walked in. I knew my mom had a renter, but I didn't know that she'd let him sit naked at her kitchen table drinking her tea. "Would you like some tea?" Del inquired. Too stunned to say anything else, I said, yes, with lemon and sugar, and some LU Petit Ecolier Biscuits if he had any. That was the beginning of my unique friendship with Del, one that was rife with laughter, tears, sharing, and brutality. It's a friendship I'll never forget.

When Del and I decided to open a sandwich shop together a few weeks later, we faced a lot of derision from the Downtown Business Association. And from my mother. "What the hell do you know about making sandwiches?" she said. "You can't even butter bread." Which was true. But who was she to stand between me and my dream? I wanted to tell her that I wasn't going to listen to any advice from some dried up old professional bedpan changer who kept her cash in the rice bin. But I held my tongue.

As Del was the one with food industry experience, I was confident that I could put the majority of the production in his hands. It was my job to be the big thinker of the team. I bought a top-grain cowhide journal and a ballpoint pen set at the stationery store, and spent my days sweating over the business end of things—the shop's decor (French ice cream parlor, or gay 90s?), menu additions, and franchise opportunities. This freed up Del to open and close the shop, prep the food, and provide unmatched customer service.

We ran a tight ship. Del still worked the early morning shift prepping at Shari's, and was able to procure supplies from the restaurant's walk-in fridge, which really shaved a lot off our food budget. As he knew how busy I was with high-level business concerns, he always had time for the little extras, like cleaning the bathroom tile grout with a toothbrush, or buffing our second hand kitchen appliances with a professional stainless steel sander 'til they shone. Unfortunately, Del's Shari's work schedule made it impossible for him to attend our grand opening cocktail reception, but I saved him a watercress sandwich and a cup of sparkling cider in to-go cups.

Once we got the business off the ground, there was no time to rest. I had a weekly blog to plan, and out-of-state restaurateur conferences to attend. But here's one thing they don't teach you at those conferences: devotion to your business makes you blind to your personal life. I ignored all the signs, and by the time I could see that things were falling apart, it was too late.

I used to think I had the world by a string, and that string was looped comfortingly around the throats of those I loved, binding them ever closer to me. But I was lost in my own sense of loyalty, justice, and business acumen. As they say, you're always the last to know.

After I found some scattered rice grains and the empty pantyhose in the kitchen sink, my mother's bathroom cosmetics drawer cleaned out, and the shop's supply closet bereft of deli paper basket liners, I knew my mother had been providing Del with more than tea for quite some time.

So now I'm in transition. Count me down, but not out. Like a tiny, gentle sea ray peeking out from its ocean-floor hideout after a strenuous escape from a black-tipped shark that continued to circle until late in the afternoon on a Saturday, I'm shaking the sand off my back, and moving onward.

My current job as a host at Shari's keeps me busy and gives me plenty of time to plan for my future. And it's introduced me to Sandra, a real sharp go-getter waitressing in the evenings after her high school track practice. Lately, she's seemed to be seeking my advice on her boyfriend, who hasn't asked her to some formal dance, or forgot or birthday, or something like that. I don't know—usually I tune her out.

But my trust has been bruised, and I've told myself that I'm not going to make the same mistakes again. So I've been giving her small assignments, like sending her out to my car for my cigarettes, or to the mini-mart next door to buy me a diet Coke to see if she brings back the change. Which she does. So far, she hasn't asked why I don't just drink a Coke from the restaurant. I think this is a good sign. And boy, can that girl carry a bus tub.