This is the part I didn't really want to talk about. Or think about. So I'm gonna go kinda quick over it, so I don't have to remember too much. 

Working in a restaurant is hard. Real hard. I expected that. I just didn't expect to totally hate it. 

I didn't have any particular job there, which means I ended up doing a whole bunch of 'em- whatever needed doing, whenever someone told me to do it. That was fine, I'm pretty flexible and it kept me from getting bored doing the same old thing all the time. I cleared tables. I set tables. I brought out beverages and got peoples' coats for them and fetched stuff from the refrigerators or freezers or cupboards, and washed dishes- okay, well, ran the dish-washers and unloaded them- and took trash out and pretty much everything a kid of ten could do. 

What made it miserable was the atmosphere. No one ever- EVER- said thank you. No one ever said 'please', either. And sure as hell no one ever said, "Hey, good job." 

I'm not a machine. I like a little word now and again, aside from do this, do that, now, and hurry up. 

It was a trickle-down effect. When the owner doesn't praise his crew or encourage them, they don't praise or encourage each other. When he doesn't use basic civility, they don't either. When he's got a bad attitude, he passes it on to them. And when they can't leave because they can't afford to lose the pay, well...talk about your vicious circles. The more unhappy they are, the worse a job they'll do. 

I knew it, not because I had some profound insight- but because the same thing happened at home, just on a smaller scale. When Pop was in a foul mood, everyone walked softly and didn't make noise or laugh or play much until he was gone again. He had this whole...stifling influence. I'm sure he didn't mean to- probably wasn't even aware of it, since he was never around when anyone was cheerful and happy. Which is pathetic, really. But whether he meant to or not, it made being around him an ordeal. I mean, really, when everything you do is done with the intent of not getting yelled at, you stress! Big-time. 

No one ever really talked to me there- I mean, aside from telling me what to do- so I never knew quite how they saw me or how they felt about me being there. Maybe they were glad I didn't get preferential treatment. On the other hand, though, maybe seeing the boss treat his own kid like just another dense employee made them think there was no chance of ever getting a commendations from him. I suppose in a strict sense, one could say it was fair that I not get treated any differently...but equal-opportunity scoldings and insults aren't exactly ideal, you know? 

What made it bearable was the customers. I had almost as much contact with them as the servers did- bringing water, helping carry trays, that kind of thing- and they were almost always pleasant and cheerful. Soon I recognized the regulars and started making special efforts for them. It's kind of amazing, how much you can find to do for someone who's come in tired and hungry and wanting a relaxing meal; whether it's admiring a new coat or hairstyle, sympathetically observing that someone looks real tired, bringing some extra napkins, or digging up a trinket or two for someone's kids... I can safely say I got pretty popular with the diners. And I earned some good tips too. 

Walking back into the kitchen was always disorienting. It was like two completely different worlds- the cheerful, friendly, deferential world the customers saw and the real one, the mean unhappy one. I often wondered how many people would come to eat there if they knew how it really was in the kitchen- all the insults and glares and barked orders. 

I only worked three or four hours each night, from after school until eight o'clock- but four hours is a long, long time to a ten-year old. Especially when they're unpleasant hours. I can safely say I didn't get bored, but there were lots of times I wondered if the kitchen clock was broken. It never seemed to move fast enough.

After about a month of that, I decided I'd had enough, but it took me another two weeks to get my nerve together and tell my parents I didn't want to have to go to the restaurant anymore. 

Talk about your family brawls. My father wouldn't hear of it- dismissed me with a wave and a 'don't be ridiculous, of course you'll continue to work' but I stood my ground and responded firmly that I was not going to go to the restaurant and work anymore, since it was leaving me with no time to do my homework. That was only partly true; I was still doing it, but I wasn't doing it at all well. I was always in a huge rush and it showed in some very stupid mistakes. My father considered the matter for a few minutes while I waited, practically shaking with tension. I'd never confronted my parents this way before, never thought I ever would, and it was completely nerve-racking.

"Well, if it's a question of studying," my father said finally, "I suppose some compromise is required. You may leave an hour earlier-"

I snapped. There's no other way to describe it; I ran to his chair, leaned over him, and screamed in his face, "I am not going back there! I won't work there! You can't make me, I don't care how much you beat me or what you call me or anything else, I won't go back there! I won't, won't, won't! I hate them and I hate you and I wish you weren't my father because you're terrible, you're a horrible person and all your employees hate you, and that includes me because that's all I am is one of your idiot employees and I wish- you'd- DIE!"

I'm not exactly sure what his reaction to all that was; all I know is one minute I was shouting at the top of my lungs and the next I was hanging on to my mother and crying into her bathrobe. I think she and my father had a little discussion over my head, but I didn't hear what they said, just their voices. Then Ma led me down the hall to my room and sat with me until I calmed down, which didn't take as long as one might have thought it would. Just being out of my father's presence was a vast relief.

But I didn't apologize...and interestingly enough, Ma didn't suggest that I should. Either she knew I wouldn't and didn't waste her breath, or she didn't feel I ought to. Probably the latter, from what she said a few moments later. 

"Your father is not a terrible man," she said thoughtfully after a while, looking down at me. "If he was, I would not have married him."

I didn't say a word, mainly because I didn't want to argue with her, but I did not agree.

"He is an honest man, and a hard-working one, but he is not very good with people. He believes too much in discipline and strictness, and not enough in encouraging and being approachable," she went on, and at that I nodded. "I have tried to suggest the kinder way to him, but...perhaps I was too indirect. I do not think he knew that his people greatly dislike him. Perhaps what you have told him tonight will help him to change his ways." Ma smoothed my hair, then kissed me. "Lie down, my son, and rest- you're all tired out from so many feelings."

She was certainly right about that. I lay down and sighed, feeling more exhausted than I ever had before in my life. Crying is amazingly hard work, really. "I'm still not going back there, not even if he does change," I muttered as she pulled the covers over me. "I don't wanna work for him, and I don't want to take over when I'm older. I'm going to do something else. One of the brothers can have it- if they want it."

"That's a decision for later," Ma remarked, giving me another kiss. "Much later. Tonight's decision is that tomorrow, you come home from school. You will not be expected at the restaurant."

"Okay," I said sleepily. "Thanks, Ma. I love you."

"And I love you, my son," she replied softly, and left a little more slowly than usual, closing the door behind her. I wondered for a few minutes what it must be like to have to carry all that weight. It seemed dreadfully awkward, but Ma never complained. Probably after four of us, she was sort of used to it. I wondered if she'd stay home for a while with the new baby, and hoped so; I might get some more lessons, and even if not, it was always nicer when Ma was in the house. Then I turned on my side, banished all the thoughts about my father and his restaurant that were trying to creep into my head, and went to sleep. 

I didn't see my father again for almost a week. He left earlier and came home later than ever before- mostly while I was asleep- and I had a guilty feeling that he was having to work harder because I wasn't there. I told myself I didn't care and I was only ten and shouldn't have been working so much anyway- and besides, Ma needed me. She was getting along towards the time for the baby and looking after the kids was getting very hard for her to do. So I went back to taking care of my brothers and helping my sister with stuff and Ma was very glad I was around.

But on Sunday...

Well. 

Well, that's really private. See, Pop came home early to talk to me and...um, I think I can say that it didn't go anywhere near as well as he thought it would. I mean, I think he expected to clear everything up and everything be all great and happy and me, yeah, come back to help out in the restaurant. I mean...I think he'd convinced himself that after our talk, I'd want to come back. 

Didn't work that way.

I also think it was a huge shock to him to understand that things never had been very clear, great or happy between him and I. I suppose it never occured to him that his kids were afraid of him, but once he got the idea, he was very upset by it. Not in a yelling way, fortunately for me; I was just waiting for him to stop being so kind and quiet and get all grim and angry about something; didn't happen, but I couldn't stop expecting it to. I guess that was what tipped him off. I was being so evasive and formal that he finally asked me what I was so afraid of. I couldn't answer, which was an answer in itself, and that was when things started going seriously downhill. 

I don't feel it's necessary to put down exactly what he said to me, it doesn't have much to do with my yoroi. Basically, he made some promises about changing his ways and spending more time with his family. Said he wanted to know his kids and wished he'd taken a job that let him be home more often. I guess the look on my face when he said that gave him a pretty good notion just how in favor I was...wasn't... of that idea, and that really upset him. I guess it would bother me if my kids not only didn't know me, but didn't want to. 

So it ended up with him asking me to give him a chance to show he was more than just an irritable man with a nasty scowl and that kind of made me feel bad, so I said okay, I would. Then he asked me what he could do that would help prove it, and all I could think of was what Ma had said about him not really knowing how to be approachable. "Well, you could smile at people sometimes. And if they do something right you could say 'good job' or something. And if they make a mistake, you could not yell and call them names," I began. "And you could- you could ask how Sister's doing in school and say you're proud of her, 'cause she's doing great..."

I went on like that for a while. And y'know the sad thing? He took notes. I dunno if that means I talked too much or if he was just so... I hate to say it...clueless that he had to write it all down. I admit, I do talk a lot sometimes, but honestly, it was just basic common sense... So I dunno. 

But I give him credit, he tried. He tried very hard, and over time, it actually started to work. His employees thought he'd gone mad at first, but they decided it was a very welcome change, mad or not, and things got a lot better over there in terms of people enjoying their work. Of course it wasn't all tea and cakes, but there was a lot more cooperation and courtesy, so everything ran generally smoother. 

The best part about it was that no one ever tried to make me go back there. Which isn't to say I didn't, but not until I was a good deal older. I came home after school, did my homework, helped Ma out, and played with the kids between times. Ironically, it was around then that Ma started teaching me how to cook; she'd sit at the counter and give me instructions and I'd dispatch a sibling or two to carry things out. Like setting the table and such. It was a good way to learn, and it spared her from having to stand up and move around so much. It was kind of fun, too, and very satisfying to see Sister, who's a rather picky eater, devour everything on her plate and ask for more. My brothers are another matter. I bet if I diced and fried my gym socks...Hmm, I may just try that one day.

Oh, and I want to set something to rest here. There's a rumor flying that I once deliberately drank spoiled milk because I knew yogurt was made from sour milk. That's pure nonsense. I did once drink some bad milk, but it was not on purpose. 

See, the winter I was ten, I got a wicked cold and couldn't taste very well. So when I got thirsty one afternoon, I went out to the kitchen and got a glass of milk and was halfway through it before I registered that it didn't seem to taste right. Sister came in while I was checking the expiration date and discovering it was three or four days past due, and said cheerfully, "Well, don't worry, it won't kill you. After all, yogurt is made from old milk."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better," I replied. "No wonder I've always hated the stuff." And with that I threw out the old milk, washed out the glass, drank some water, and went back to my room to spend some more time with my jumbo box of tissues. She was right, it didn't kill me, but it didn't sit too well either. I've always made sure to check expiration dates since then, and I still hate yogurt. 

So now you know.