3. The Family-Owned Restaurant

       In June of 2009, I had graduated high school and was still in the bottom feeder bagger position. After my hints at wanting to become a cashier were tactfully ignored, and my blatant request was convolutedly denied, I decided that I needed a change of scenery. The vacant storefront next to my best friend's tanning salon job had been bought by a Jordanian man who wanted to open up a restaurant. While smoking out front, either the owner or myself suggested that I work there. From that moment on, I didn't realize, I would be his right hand (wo)man in helping him run this restaurant.

       I was to be paid $8 an hour under the table in exchange for my soul and all my free time. I consistently worked until 4am, dealing with drunk men constantly. I couldn't even really tell you my job title; I cooked, cleaned, ran the cash register, ran deliveries, distributed advertisements, created a Facebook, and got supplies from GFS and Restaurant Depot. There was a guy who worked with me who was very sweet but also was an alcoholic. He lived in a halfway house and I gave him rides to work a lot. He did a lot of the cooking.

I played around with PhotoBooth a lot on slow days.

       The owner's family members would help also, and he would frequently bring in his daughters to "help", but of course we didn't really make them work. They would bring food out to customers and help me get baclava and soda from the cooler. They were all so very sweet and I thought of them like the little sisters I never had. His wife would come in also, but she didn't really work at all. She was a pleasant lady, and one day she took me shopping at a thrift store and lunch at Roosters, not knowing at all that my grandmother also loves to take me shopping at the thrift store. I try to make sure I don't go over $10 when I go, but even then it amounts to four or five items. It's amazing. (They give everything to you in a tied up plastic bag, and you have to make sure that you dry them on high heat, then wash and dry them again. A theatre friend of my brother's claimed to have gotten bed bugs from thrift store items they bought for their costume wardrobe). 

       I felt like a part of the family, something that a lot of businesses do to keep you from complaining about your pay. I had a time sheet, but often would not write down my clock in time because upon arrival, oftentimes I would immediately be put to work. Usually he would just hand me $300 in cash every so often, maybe weekly, but I can't remember now.

      Halting my employment there to head off to Ohio University, I would come back to work during break periods. I started to grow very tired of the job, mostly because of the money. The restaurant was struggling, and the discrepancy between my hours worked and my money received began to grow larger. I felt guilty asking for money because he oftentimes would not have enough money to pay rent or bills. The food was great, but sometimes he would charge people's credit cards twice and take forever refunding the money. Rather then get a credit card machine of his own and pay the fees associated, he would have me call his friends who owned a more successful business in Cincinnati. There was this machine that would scan the credit card for the total and everything, but then I would have to give the Cincinnati friends the number and total over the phone, and then they would actually charge it. It seemed pretty sketchy, and just added to my growing uncomfortable feeling at this job.

What $8 an hour gets you as a business owner.

     After Spring quarter at OU and a long story later, I decided to transfer to the Ohio State University, which is within commuting distance from where my parents lived. I continued working at this restaurant until I could not sustain it any longer. I applied for and got a job at a Subway near OSU's campus, and quit the job at the restaurant. I have never received my final "paycheck", but I gave up on that long ago. Every time I would go visit, he would be in dire straits, and it became clear that there was no money to go around. It seemed to be that the restaurant was hanging by a thread the entire time it was open. It closed at some point, by my guess around 2015 or 2016. To this day I feel guilty for not helping more, but it is useless guilt. That restaurant was his dream, and was not my responsibility to devote my life to it. Of course, I am still sad to hear about it.

       This story, I am sure, is not entirely different from any other story from people on the inside when it comes to small, family-owned businesses. I learned a great deal from my experience there, and saw first hand the intense struggle it is to start a restaurant and keep it afloat.