The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas

It might be too early to say this, and I might be jinxing myself, but I think I've got a novel growing in. My brain is too small for it right now. I hope it doesn't have to be extracted, and instead my brain grows to accommodate it.

Tonight is my last shift at Pinetta's. I'll be really sad on some level--you don't just work for someone for 5 years and not be sad when you have to part ways. And my co-workers, I'll never have co-workers like that again. The bar is perpetually raised, and though I've never worked at another restaurant before, I know I won't find such a tight-knit group anywhere else. They're my siblings in some parallel universe, where our mother is abusive and we have no choice but to fraternize and unite against the injustice being served to us.

Everyone who just read that thinks I'm absolutely nuts. I'll keep going anyway.

My idea of Pinetta's is intertwined with my idea of the South. It's originally from Croatia, but there's this spirit of Louisiana in it that mimics old South values. The unchanging decor, the rarely-changed menu, the pride with which we serve the food (there are no substitutions, additions or alterations), and the favoritism that goes on (no substitutions, additions or alterations, unless you're Mr. xxxxx or Mrs. xxxxx or the daughter of Mr. xxxxxx). The emphasis is on family, who's who, and fighting fiercely to keep tradition the same. To keep that way of life the same, because if it's not, somehow everything else starts to crumble. It's a building made up of illusions and worldviews.

And, as if I needed more validation, no matter how many times the owner is rude or runs people away or pisses people off, we still somehow manage to go on a wait every weekend. We just get busier as time goes on. People LIKE the way she fights for it. The people who claim they'll take an ad out in the paper against Pinetta's, never do. Same goes for the ones who say they'll report us to the Better Business Bureau. We never hear from those people again, and no one notices them gone, because they didn't fit in with the illusion, therefore we cannot see them.

The novel seems to dance around this, slightly circle around it without ever smashing it to pieces. Because no matter how much the employees might hate the institution or the person representing it, they can't do a damn thing to change it except remove themselves from it. After that, it can crumble, because the group of disgruntled employees is a necessary component of the South, and maybe not just the South. Maybe it's a component of a lot of other social systems in the world. I'm not talking about slavery... It's something more universal, some part of free enterprise that no one likes to talk about, the part where we need a lower class and peons, the krill of society, in order for anyone to get rich or be successful.

The grand illusion of the South was that they could support a grandiose lifestyle with all the finest of everything, a true Southern Gentleman, while simultaneously condoning human slavery not ten feet away at all times.

I'm not saying Pinetta's employs slaves, but damnit, we felt like we were. And that sentiment was never acknowledged or given any thought when it was brought up, in the entire five years I've worked there. It's not just us being young, either: when I first started working there, I worked with people anywhere from five to twelve years older than I was. They felt the same, five years ago. What this did to us, was kind of instill a fear of leaving in us. We have always been free to go, but for some reason, never did, or always came back. Paternalism and fear.

In a lot of ways, the restaurant is the last bastion, the final stand. The most unique restaurant in Baton Rouge. Truly, there are a hell of a lot of reasons to fight for its survival, but just like the old South, the cushy ladylike comfort of it is entirely an illusion. It's a memory people are trying to preserve.

I quit.