I was a 26-year-old college dropout, smoking pot every day, drinking every night and working as a busboy at Cooky’s Restaurant in the Green Acres Mall in Valley Stream. Not even at Cooky’s Steak Pub, which might have had a touch of class, but at the mall restaurant - no class at all. (Redeeming virtues: it was in the days before food courts and I wasn’t a dishwasher.)
Cooky was the guy who owned the restaurant and a chain of steak houses. He was a middle-aged guy with a classy blond wife and a chauffeur in uniform. The trio came to the restaurant often enough for me to notice.
I smoked at least one joint on my walk to work and the high usually lasted nicely into the setting up before lunch and wore off quickly just as the restaurant was getting busy. One day the manager told me to sweep the middle dining room just before opening; I was still pretty high.
I’m kind of listlessly pushing the dirt around with a broom when in walks Cooky:
“That’s no way to sweep a floor. Here! Let me show you.”
Cooky grabs the broom and starts sweeping the floor taking extra care to show me how to get the dirt out of the corners and away from the walls. He had the room done in no time and handed me back the broom. Oh well, off to do side work.
He was no stranger to work, that Cooky. That’s probably why he was riding to work in the back of a limo and I was walking.
Note to DEA Agents, prospective employers, and recovery friends: I do not advocate the use or abuse of any controlled substances. The statute of limitations has passed. Please don't give me a hard time.
