This was my first week at my new restaurant. I got the job through a friend and even though it’s Beverly Hills– lots of agents, lots of celebrities, lots of substitutions– it seems like it will be a good fit. The staff is really nice and laid back, and everyone laughs a lot. I know it will be fine, but the environment does make me long for my old restaurant. I worked there for over six years, six years of seeing the same faces and taking the same orders and making the same stupid jokes at the expense of the same dopey customers. My coworkers– we developed our own language, our own way to fight, our special way to love, we could look at each other over the heads of customers and know exactly what we were thinking, we drank together and puked together, we wore green on St. Patrick’s day together, we went out for our birthdays, we righteously defended each other to those awful customers who tried to curse and holler and keep us down, we went to see each other perform, we kissed each other, we took orders when one of us was too busy, we drove to weddings to see us grow up and grow in love. We laughed about pubic hair and old ketchup and Libras and karaoke and penis size and The Sound of Music and internet porn (we laughed about porn a lot) and school cheers and missed chances and sexual advances and Aries and torn tee shirts. I fell asleep at work, I cried at work, I hugged at work, I got hugged back at work, I moaned and cursed and talked too much and yelled and laughed, I laughed like it gave me air, I fought, I balanced trays, I ate tostadas and sipped orange soda in the kitchen with Paulo as the place raged around us, I got excited at work, I wondered about my future at work, I banged into chairs, started arguments, loved my friends, I loved my friends so much it twisted something in me on a gut level and I see them everywhere I go even though I’m miles from home.