We were having dinner outside on the side patio. I'd spent the last few weeks fixing it up-- even putting in an outdoor heater to be able to eat outside in the winter. For a brief moment, Eric and I agreed to put all the problems on hold and just have a nice dinner -- baked chicken, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, my famous baked onion appetizer... and of course, our Cabernet.
"They got an amazing review in the Times and L.A. Magazine last month," I said. "The position would get me out of the kitchen and into setting up events and planning long-term goals. It's a great opportunity and more than anything Eric, it's WORK! I'm dying to get back to work!"
"What kind of track record does this company have, Drew?" he asked. "The truth is, they've been in business less than a year, they don't have a reputation yet, just a few good reviews in some local magazines. And who's to say there's not some lunatic like Rudy Marinaro working there? This industry seems to attract those types Drew. I just don't understand why you're so driven to go back into that line of work, hell, why don't you go back to school or something?"
God, Eric missed his calling -- he should have been a lawyer. He could argue something till it was dead in the ground and always did a number on my logic. He had a point however, Eclectic Food was technically a new company.
"Eric, they made it sound like a plus-- being new."
"Of course they did. They're not fools. How much are they offering?" he asked.
"Starting at 50k a year with bonuses and perks." I tossed out casually. Finally, one for me. He took a sip of cabernet, thought a moment, and couldn't come up with a negative remark until...
"Good starting pay, but for something you're not that interested in? Tell 'em to double it."
Was Eric nuts? They'd never pay me a hundred thousand a year. "Eric, they'd drop the whole thing... is that what you want, Eric? Do you want me to get this job or not?"
"I want what you want." he said. But the words were hollow.
I gulped a mouthful of wine -- "Eric, I don't get it. I would think you'd want me, your life partner, to have a career -- to have an identity beyond what we have at home. Why don't you want this for me, Eric? Why?"
He was silent. He didn't have an answer. I waited and waited for something, some kind of response until...
"Andrew, clearly you're not interested in my opinion." And he got up from the table.
"I am too, Eric. Of course what you feel matters to me."
"Then my advice is that you're better than catering. You should reach higher. Fight harder. Look to the finish line, Andrew."
He always said that when he couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Look to the finish line."
Screw the damn finish line! What about enjoying the race?
