The ups-and-downs of the hospitality industry are no joke. Bosses and owners use words like “feast or famine” to describe the activity between the “busy seasons” and “slow seasons.”

I came from a beach town, where “slow season” meant quiet time. It meant half the local, non-chain ice cream stands and places on the boardwalk simply shuttered from Labor Day to Easter. Kids who wanted/needed summer jobs near their parents summer homes knew they needed to have their applications and resumes in shortly after Valentines Day if they wanted an apron waiting for them by the time Mom and Dad aired out the “life’s a beach” and “Island state of mind” decor.

The winery’s busy season starts around Easter- our “dress rehearsal” for Mother’s Day Brunch- and lasts the entirety of Wedding Season (May- September) with possibly a small lull before the Holiday Party. After New Years Day, however, business goes off a cliff. Hours get cut, and employees cash out reserved PTO to fluff up their checks and pay bills. They find gig work, pursue side hustles, or even pick up per diem jobs at places with skeleton crews and sick time policies.

Absolutely none of that means that the work gets much lighter- hours just get cut to make the lesser amount of work produce the same amount of stress. Hours out of the kitchen are still hours of freedom though- it’s no mistake that late fall and winter are my best writing times. My wife and therapist have ever-so-gently reminded me that while my intention to supplement my paychecks via teach baking classes is very laudable, rest is important and that I have very much enjoyed having the spare bandwidth to write a bit more.

Weeks like this past one remind me why they are quite correct. Due to less events and slacking business, I was only scheduled for four days this week. That’s why I’m writing this from a two-top in Belmont Station in my gym wear. It’s No Kings Day, so at least until the protests wrap up my favorite local biercafe is blessedly quiet and empty. I’m sipping a Mexican dark lager and thoroughly enjoying the Marshall Tucker Band on the stereo.

“Heard it in a looove song…. Heard it in a looooove song…. Can’t be wrong.”

Considering “Fire on the Mountain” just played, I have to imagine life doesn’t always turn out like songs and tales say. Kinda like how “reduced schedule” is clearly something other people worry about. A four day week should have meant 32 paid hours- enough to keep me full time, but also take a nibble out of the finances. Instead, I clocked in 42 hours- overtime pay that my ownership knows not to bitch at me over because they definitely made more than they lost keeping me on the clock.

So during this “slow time”, I pulled three 11 hour shifts and a single 9 hour. I got home last night and proceeded to sleep for twelve hours. I’m pretty sure that, had they called me in and I made any sounds related to consent, my wife would have knocked me unconscious and called me in sick with dumb-ass disease.

As much as I want to go out and express my discontent with the rest of the populace, I’m simply too fucking tired. After a “short week,” all I want in this life is a beer, some time alone, silence, and maybe a cigar on the porch with whiskey and a book. Remember that anytime you want to get pissy about “why don’t more people come out to support [insert cause here.]” The biggest strength and biggest weakness in any movement is one word long and it’s the same word- “PEOPLE.” You simply can’t assume that people en masse will put the day-to-day survival of themselves and their families on the back burner so they can come out and cosplay Che Guevara with you.

Pulling out of that little tangent right now… The last six months saw me all but render myself a digital hermit, and while it hasn’t utterly blocked out the happenings of the world or stopped my opinions on them, it has made me a lot more suspect of how and to whom I voice my- in my estimation- deeply fucking vanilla points of view. I have very little time in my life who make being angry their whole personality these days.

The evening of the protests, after the sum total of my accomplishments for the day included “wake up,” “go to the gym,” and “take a shower”, I spent the rest of the night getting back to the things that unwind me. I watched a half-decent 90-minute Horror flick, knit a bit, and then retired to the porch to have a cigar, some whiskey, and knit while listening to an audiobook. The world is big and old enough to look after itself for a few hours while Matt has his “me time.”

Clearly, it was the correct choice. I brought the bottle with me and a small glass of ice so I wouldn’t have to get up and refill if I so chose. A little speaker piped out one of my comfort listens- “The Tombs of Atuan by Ursula K. LeGuin- and when I figured I’d had enough whiskey and done enough rows on the scarf to merit my hands having a rest, I lit up the cigar from a company my friend Nick told me about. Brother’s Broadleaf is what happens when the scions of a tobacco company prefer marijuana and gear their company toward making cigarillos of fine tobacco specifically to be made into blunts- partially unrolling a cigar or cigerette, mixing in weed, and re-rolling. The tobacco, however, is perfectly excellent on its own.

Sitting on the porch in a warm hoodie and fuzzy socks, the audiobook playing, I lit up my cigar and took a puff, watching the smoke funnel out into a blue-gray wisp only just blended with my fogged breath in the chilly night. Just then, the quiet drizzle that had been misting the air made up its mind and upgraded to a proper rain, drumming monotonously on the awning.

As I puffed the cigar I’d been waiting all week for, I leaned over and shut off the audiobook for a moment to listen to the rain. The sound felt like a final blanket being wrapped around me and the day. Nothing was needed, nothing needed to be done, and I didn’t need to be the one doing it. I’d gone out of my way to relax, give myself space and time to just be, and this felt like an acknowledgement from the universe that all else could wait.

Looking out into the mist and rain from my rocking chair, I found myself reciting the Hebrew blessing for when you receive good news, do something for the first time that year, or when a joyous occasion happens.

“Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, shechechianu, vikiamanu, vehiggianu, lazman hazeh.”
“Blessed are you, Lord , ruler of the Universe, who has sustained us, maintained us, and enabled us to see this day.”

The big occasion was no occasion whatsoever- just a recognition of ordinary joys aligning perfectly when I needed them to. There’s plenty to be mad about, and plenty to be exhausted with, and plenty to be grateful for, and it doesn’t cheapen or belittle any of it to hold all of it in tenderness at once. We are messy, complicated creatures, and were made to handle messy, complicated things. I think maybe we mess it up when we try to flatten and simplify our complex selves, then try to complicate simple things.

Regardless, a world with rainy nights, whiskey, good tobacco, and fuzzy socks can’t be all bad, long short weeks and all.

Stay Classy,