My walks through the neighborhood allow me to reminisce my childhood. The smell of honey suckles and roses penetrating something deeper than my nostrils. Watching a middle school couple walk a dog, holding hands. Blissfully ignorant to their surrounds, yet dead in conversation.
For if I didn't have motion sickness I could write a book of short stories on buses. I sit on the vessels for sometimes hours. Sometimes it's just what feels like hours. I look at the same bleak faces everyday and wonder why people take the same bus at the same time everyday.
Are they going home? To work? From work? Their clothing gives only a small semblance of what they really do. I can tell the people who work with food, but the others propose a new challenge. What do they do? Why do they wear a suit and a tie? Where do they work? Do they like it? Why do they do it?
Every great cook I have ever known either has his own home, or a car. Rarely both. We tend to party until the sun touches the sand. Why you ask? I couldn't tell you. Long hours, stress, a void we try to fill? Perhaps it's like an old chef I had worked with told me. "Isn't it funny how we used to skip class in high school to smoke cigarettes, are tattoo and thrill seeking junkies. For as much shit as we got by our peers isn't it funny that we cook for them now, and they respect us?"
We as America abolished slavery, yet it's still something we live by.
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