Carnival Tricks for a Paycheck=“The Founding Farmers Act Like Founding Fathers”

I apply to a job.

I go on interview after interview. After interview. After interview. After interview.

More interviews.

Take a train here. Drive over there. Dress up. Smile. Nod. Sell myself. All for one job. One spot.

I jump through the hoops. I loop through the hoops. I play their games. I do my little carnival tricks — make ’em laugh, make ’em think I’m magic. Make ’em think I’m the one.

Managers. Owners. HR. Personality tests. Stare-downs. “Tell me about a time when…”

I get hired.

You think getting hired was the hard part?

They send me the contract that night. Monday night. Cold and clean in my inbox.

The next day, I feel it. Eyes. People. Following me?

Not like — I’m paranoid. Like… maybe. Maybe I’m being followed.

It’s the day before I start. First day’s March 9th. I have to be up at 3 a.m., so I step out around 1:30. Can’t sleep anyway.

I go to the dispensary. I leave with a big smile. The guy behind the counter looks at me like he knows me from somewhere. He says something weird.

“You’re important to me,” he says. “People like us have to stick together.”

I’m thinking — what is he talking about?

People like us?

What, humans?

Then I hit the bookstore. I’m looking at an ADHD book for my girl’s mom — she’s tough to deal with. All that energy. Sometimes it’s like she’s vibrating in a different dimension. Maybe the book helps. Maybe it doesn’t.

I head home. It’s 1:50 a.m.

I get a text.

It’s one of the owners. Congratulating me. Telling me how excited he is to have me on the team.

Then he says it:

“Can’t wait to see your big smile down in Alexandria.”

Big smile.

Alexandria.

I’m frozen.

I just walked out from the dispensary with a Big smile.

What are the chances?

I proceed to take the train down to my first day of work. Orientation day. Got my clothes right. Mind focused. Ready to start fresh.

The HR lady is all smiles — but there’s something behind it. That kind of grin that stretches too wide. Something off. Her teeth show like they’re proud of something I’m not in on.

“Oh,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “The owner changed your training schedule. It’s five weeks now, not seven.”

No explanation. No “why.”

Just a smile.

Orientation is over. Just like that.

I take the train back to Philly. But now — now the following gets real. Ruthless.

They’re not even hiding it anymore.

They’re behind me. Around me.

Inside of me.

I feel it in my bones, in my breath. My heart don’t beat the same.

So I do the only thing I can think to do.

I google:

What do you do if someone is following you?

Top results:

Call the police.

Report it to the EEOC.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Something tells me this isn’t just about being followed.

This is about being watched.

And maybe… tested?

So I’m on the train. Heading back to Philly.

I call the police. I file the complaint with the EEOC.

And I say it out loud.

Let them hear it.

Whoever’s creeping behind me.

Whoever’s letting their breath touch my neck.

I want them to know I’m not blind.

I want them to know I’m not scared, either.

Then it gets messier.

They reach out to my neighbors.

They go to my old job.

They harass employees — ask questions like I’m some kind of threat.

They just want information.

But not the kind that fits on a resume.

The next day, more texts from the owner. Still trying to smile through a screen.

“Were you welcomed nicely?”

“Did you receive Meez recipes?”

I know what this is. Passive aggression dressed like team bonding.

They told me — don’t do any work at home.

Don’t work on your day off.

But here he is, sliding into my messages like I owe him something.

What they really want is control. Not performance. Not talent. Not teamwork. Just quiet obedience.This is the same owner who, during the interview, asked me how much I used to make. How much I make now. Not because he cared — because he wanted me to squirm.He wanted to shrink me before I ever stepped into the kitchen.So here I am — working on my day off.

Because even though they said don’t do work at home, HR had already emailed me, told me to do it. So I did.

Finished it. Timely. Clean. No complaints. Just like always.

I’m preparing for my second full day. First day, I planned to leave early. Real early. Two hours in advance.

Took the train, no traffic, no excuses. I was gonna be early. I wanted to be nice and early. On the train, there’s a woman. She needed help.

So I help her. That’s just who I am.

Train stops. It’s my stop.

I get off.

Then I feel it — something’s missing.

I look down, look behind me, feel my back like it might still be there.

Chef coat’s gone.

I left it on the train. My uniform. My armor.

I panic.

I’ve got an hour and fifty minutes to get to work. And my chef coat — the one thing I need to wear to step into that kitchen — is riding further and further away.

Only option is to go back home. Drive. Try to beat the clock.

But the math don’t add up.

The drive will make me late.

Even if I speed, even if every light turns green, I’m chasing time and losing.

All that preparation. All that pressure. All that effort to be early.

And one moment of kindness has me scrambling.

I take an Uber home. Grab my chef coat. Pack up. Race back.

I’m 15 minutes late.

Walk into the building, and there he is — waiting.

Tall. Bearded. Irish. Built like someone who never has to rush for anything.

He greets me like I’ve done something wrong.

“I thought I asked if you had transportation to work.”

I say, “I do. I took an Uber. There’s no difference.”

He smirks.

“Yeah… there’s a big difference.”

No explanation. Just that tone. That you-should-know-better tone. Like an Uber’s not real. Like getting here by any means necessary doesn’t count unless it looks like how he got here.

But the chefs in the kitchen? They heard.

And they spoke up.

Said Uber is the same as having a car. Said I did what I had to do. Said I showed up.

They didn’t have to say it, but they did.

Sometimes the kitchen is colder than the office. But not today.

I proceed with my first full day.

There’s shenanigans. Games. The kind you can’t quite name, but you feel them.

Managers walking past me like I’m invisible.

Conversations I’m not invited to.

Instructions whispered around me, not to me.

Shunned, in small ways. Cold shoulders in a warm building.

But hey — it’s all in a day’s work in the hospitality industry.

This ain’t new.

I’ve seen the same smiles stretch across different faces in different cities. Same tone. Same games. Like they’re all playing from a handbook nobody hands you, but you’re expected to memorize.

Still — I show up. I stay sharp. I don’t flinch.

And the kitchen? The chefs?

They’re good.

They’re human.

They speak to me like I exist. Like I belong there. Like I’m not just some name on a schedule or another body to throw at the fire.

That’s the thing about kitchens — if you show up and do your work, they don’t care where you came from or how you got there.

They just care that you do the work.

I’m in the back of the Uber. It’s around 6:30 p.m. First day’s behind me. My body’s tired. My brain’s on autopilot, just scrolling through emails, trying to come down from the noise.

Then I see it.

An email.

Subject line doesn’t prepare me.

I open it.

It’s from my cousin’s ex.

Jason, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

Your cousin passed away.

My eyes don’t even blink. My chest doesn’t rise.

Just stillness.

Like the whole day — the interviews, the coat, the Uber, the smirks, the whispers, the forced smiles, the kitchen warmth — all of it collapses into this one cold sentence.

I sit there, quiet. In motion, but not moving.

Driver’s talking about traffic or music or whatever people talk about when life hasn’t just sucker-punched them in the throat.

And I just stare at the screen. The words.

Your cousin passed away.

I get home.

I call my mother.

She’s hysterical. Can barely breathe between sobs. That’s her son.

The boy she raised, loved, worried about, fought for.

Nothing prepares you to hear that kind of grief through a phone.

Nothing prepares you to hold it and still show up the next day.

But I do.

Because now I’ve got to walk into a place that’s already cold.

Already testing me.

Already waiting for a reason to call me “difficult” or “distracted.”

I walk in, heavy, but composed.

They say they want communication —

“Tell us what’s going on. We’re a team here.”

So I do.

I pull the chef aside and say it straight:

“My cousin passed away last night.”

He looks at me.

“You okay?”

I say,

“Yes.”

Because what else am I supposed to say?

No?

That I cried in an Uber? That I heard my mother break in real time? That my mind is running a marathon while I dice onions?

No.

So I say “yes.”

Because yes is survival.

I go on through my week.

Head down. Focused.

I do the work. I show up on time. I move with intention, even when my spirit’s running on low.

But still — I get the looks.

The whispers that stop when I walk by.

The fake smiles that don’t reach their eyes.

It’s a toxic place.

Not in the food. In the air.

It wears on you.

And at the end of the week, I sit with myself. No noise. No uniform. No bosses. No games.

And I ask —

What’s the most important thing to me?

Or things?

Is it money? Is it pride?

Is it peace? Is it showing up no matter what?

Is it loyalty — to people, to myself?

Is it being respected, or just being left alone?

I don’t have all the answers. Not yet.

But I know this:

Whatever I choose has to feed me, not starve me.

Because I can’t keep trading pieces of myself just to survive someone else’s system.

I realized — my family is the most important thing.

Always has been.

Always will be.

So I make plans to go to the funeral.

To show up. To stand next to my people, no matter the weight we’re carrying.

But before that, I take the young one — my girl’s daughter — out to dinner.

We sit. We eat. We laugh a little.

And I make sure she knows, without a doubt,

how much she’s loved.

how much she’s wanted.

how much she matters.

Because the world’s loud and confusing, and people don’t always say what they mean.

But love? Love’s simple. It shows up. It speaks clear.

That dinner wasn’t about food.

It was a reminder.

That no matter what’s happening outside —

in jobs, in emails, on trains, in the shadows —

this is what matters.

Family.

Presence.

Love that doesn’t play games.

Day of the funeral.

I take the train.

Same tracks, different destination.

But I don’t wear black.

Not because I don’t feel it.

But because I don’t want to add more weight to a room already heavy with it.

I think about my mother.

I think about his daughter.

They’ve cried enough.

I don’t want them to see shadows.

I want them to see light.

I want them to remember the good times —

the laughs, the warmth, the way he made people feel when he walked in a room.

Not the time they didn’t get.

Not the moments lost.

We already carry that.

We don’t need black to remind us.

So I show up in something soft.

Something he might’ve smiled at.

Something that says, I’m here, and I love you.

Because grief isn’t about wearing the right color.

It’s about showing up for the people who still breathe.

My mother’s husband picks me up from the train station in Newark.

It’s a strange full circle —

the sad kind.

Because Newark is where it all started.

Where my cousin first slipped.

Where the addiction took root.

Where life started to tilt sideways for him, slowly, then all at once.

There’s something about pulling into that city for his funeral that doesn’t feel like coincidence.

More like… a quiet echo.

We drive toward the cemetery.

Before we pull in, we slow down — circle it once, like we need to ease into it.

We talk.

Not about the weather.

Not about plans.

We talk about life.

About how fast it goes.

About how heavy it gets.

About how it humbles you — whether you’re ready or not.

We don’t say much.

But what we say matters.

Sometimes, grief makes people loud.

Sometimes, it just makes them real.

I get out of the car at the cemetery.

The air feels different — thick, still, holding its breath.

Before I can even find my footing, his dog runs straight to me.

Not like I’m a stranger.

Not like it needs to sniff me first.

Like it knows me.

Like it’s been waiting for me.

And just like that, it stays by my side.

All day. All night.

Like I’m its owner.

Like I’m the one it’s been looking for.

It doesn’t bark. Doesn’t wander.

Just walks when I walk, sits when I sit.

I don’t say much to anyone.

But that dog… it says everything without a single sound.

Maybe it felt my cousin in me.

Maybe it just knew I needed something loyal.

Something pure.

Maybe grief finds its own way of showing love, even through a four-legged soul.

After the funeral, I took two days off from work.

Not because I was tired — though I was.

Not because I needed a break — though I did.

I took the time for my mother.

To sit with her grief.

To help carry some of the weight.

She didn’t talk much.

Didn’t need to.

Sometimes silence is the only honest thing left in the room.

So I cooked.

Simple meals.

Something warm. Something she didn’t have to think about.

Just food.

So she could eat.

So her body wouldn’t give out while her heart tried to stay standing.

We didn’t talk about the pain.

Not directly.

We just tried to reflect on the good.

The better moments. The laughs. The stories that made us smile, even if just for a second.

Because that’s what grief is sometimes —

just a quiet fight to remember joy in the middle of everything that hurts.

I travel back home on the same train.

Same route.

Different man.

I go back to work — one day before I have five long weeks of training still ahead of me.

I walk in.

Same cold eyes.

Same whispers.

Same frozen energy from everyone but the chef.

But I keep moving.

Grief’s still fresh.

Love’s still with me.

And so is the silence of that dog, the strength of my mother, the weight of everything I carried — and cooked — through.

As my shift rounds up, I start looking forward to training down in Alexandria.

Not because it’s easier.

But because forward is the only way I know how to go.

I take the train to Alexandria.

Different city, same weight.

But when I get there, it’s like I stepped into the Twilight Zone.

All eyes on me.

Like I’m some movie star that asked for the spotlight.

Like just being here is too loud for them.

I don’t say much.

Just keep my head down, my steps steady.

I quietly make my way to my room.

No big entrance. No waves. No noise.

Just me and my bag.

Just me and everything I’ve carried to get here.

I unpack. I breathe. I get my things in order.

And I get ready.

Because tomorrow starts the first week of training.

Five weeks to go.

And no matter what waits behind those kitchen doors,

I’m already sharper than when I started.

Training starts.

And right away, I can feel it.

The cold shoulder.

Nobody says much to me — not the trainers, not the team. Like I’m just there, like I somehow skipped the step where you get welcomed in.

The owner? He’s there every day.

Walks by me like I’m part of the wall.

No hello. No nod.

Nothing.

Then day two comes.

I’m doing good.

Actually — I’m doing very good.

I’m fast, I’m focused, I know what I’m doing.

That’s when the shift comes.

They sit me down. Quiet tone. Corporate smile.

“We’re going to send you back to your home store.”

I blink.

“I’m sorry,” they say. “You can’t be trained here.”

No real reason. No critique.

Just a decision already made.

And I sit there, holding that sentence like a stone in my chest.

Can’t be trained here.

Even though I’m showing up. Even though I’m doing the work.

Even though I’m finally getting it right.

It’s not about performance.

It never was.

Saturday comes.

And now, it’s not just the silence.

It’s not just the cold shoulders or the stares.

Now it’s contact.

Girls are bumping into me left and right.

Blocking me from passing, standing in front of the fridge like they don’t see me.

Smiling — but not in a kind way.

Waving like I’m invisible. Like I’m the joke.

Every time I turn, someone’s in my path.

Every time I move, I feel a shoulder, a back, an intentional obstacle.

At first, I think — maybe I’m imagining it.

But it keeps happening. Over and over.

In the walk-in. On the line. Near the sink.

And that quiet feeling I’ve been carrying — the one that started on the train, followed me into orientation, sat with me at the funeral —

It starts to grow.

I don’t feel safe.

Not just unwelcome.

Not just “different.”

Unsafe.

Like I’m being pushed — not out of the way, but out of the space entirely.

I go home.

And I do what they told me to do — what the owner said he wanted:

“I want to know everything.”

So I write the email.

Not angry. Not emotional. Just honest.

I tell him:

I’m being attacked at work.

People are bumping into me on purpose.

Blocking my path. Standing in front of me like I don’t exist.

It’s not just cold now — it’s aggressive.

I tell him I’ve been feeling followed.

That I’ve received strange text messages from the other owner.

Messages that don’t make sense. That feel off. That feel wrong.

And I tell him:

“When you hired me, I didn’t expect this.

This is an easy job. I know how to do this job.

But none of this feels easy.”

I end it like this:

“Just tell me how I can make all the problems go away.”

Because that’s all I really want.

To do the work.

To be respected.

To stop being treated like a problem for showing up.

He replies to my email.

Says he’s “looping in HR.”

That phrase — looping in — like we’re all just names on a chain.

Like this isn’t about safety. About respect. About me.

Sunday comes. I’m at work.

Phone buzzes.

It’s HR.

A text.

“We’ve scheduled a meeting for 3PM Monday to discuss the situation.”

Monday.

My day off.

The one day I get to breathe, to reset, to be a human outside of this job.

And now they want to fold that into “process.”

Turn my rest into another appointment. Another table where I have to defend myself for simply speaking up.

No, “Are you okay?”

No, “Can we make time that works for you?”

Just — show up.

I asked for support.

What I got was scheduling.

Monday comes.

My day off, now turned into a meeting.

HR, 3PM. On the phone.

Before that, I run to the store to pick up allergy medicine — because pollen season in Washington is no joke.

My eyes are red. Burning. Itchy.

Standard stuff. Nothing dramatic.

But when I get back, I see it again — the eyes.

Not mine. Theirs.

They stare. They assume.

The way they look at me — it’s like they’ve already written a story I didn’t get to approve.

“He’s high.”

“He must’ve smoked before the meeting.”

“Look at his eyes.”

No one stops to think it could be allergies.

That maybe I’m just trying to breathe. Trying to feel better before stepping into a conversation about being attacked at work.

But when people want to believe the worst, they’ll find any reason.

And when you’re already under the microscope, everything becomes evidence — even your body.

get back from the store, eyes still itching from the pollen.

I decide to throw some clothes in the laundry — just trying to take care of the small things. Keep myself grounded.

But even in the laundry room, there’s no peace.

There’s an older woman in there.

Fussing. Talking. Playing like she’s doing laundry but watching me the whole time.

Staring like I’m some kind of puzzle she’s trying to solve.

She walks over. Talks at me — not with me.

Questions I didn’t ask for. Energy I didn’t invite.

Sizing me up like I’m on display.

I want no part of it.

So I keep to myself.

Eventually, she goes to leave. I think it’s over.

But she pretends to forget something — doubles back, like she wants to time her exit with mine.

She walks in too far.

Too close.

Like it’s not about laundry anymore.

Something feels off.

So I move fast.

I race out the door. Don’t look back.

Head straight to my hotel room.

Close the door. Lock it.

And breathe.

I don’t know what that was.

I don’t know if I’m being paranoid, or if I’m finally just seeing things clearly.

But I know this: I need to be sharp.

The meeting’s coming.

And I’m walking into it carrying everything — the stares, the whispers, the funeral, the silence, the work, the weight.

These Founding Farmers?

They act like our Founding Fathers.

Like this is their country, and we’re just lucky to be allowed in.

Like they make the rules — not just for the job, but for who we’re allowed to be inside of it.

They walk around like they wrote the Constitution of this place.

Like every look, every decision, every cold shoulder is law.

It’s not just a restaurant. It’s their kingdom.

And we’re supposed to bow, smile, stay grateful.

But I didn’t sign up for a revolution.

I signed up to cook.

To work.

To grow.

Not to be ruled.

I order food — trying to have something to look forward to after the meeting.

A small moment of peace, if I can find it.

The phone rings.

It’s time.

I sit down, notes in front of me. Focused. Ready.

I know what I’ve experienced. I know what I’ve felt.

She starts going through my email.

Word by word. Sentence by sentence.

But it’s not curiosity I hear in her voice — it’s combat.

She’s contentious. Defensive.

Looking for a fight, not a conversation.

She asks a question. I take a moment to think — careful with my words, not rushing.

And then she cuts in:

“You seem distracted.”

I pause.

Not because I’m distracted, but because I know what that means.

It’s not just an observation.

It’s a strike. A label.

I keep my voice steady.

“I’m not distracted. I’m just thinking.”

Because I’m allowed to think.

I’m allowed to breathe.

I’m allowed to gather myself when the room feels like a test I never signed up for.

She listens just long enough to respond — not to understand.

Then she says it:

“You’re the problem.”

Not the bumping.

Not the cold shoulders.

Not the texts.

Not the silence.

Me.

Because I mentioned the cameras.

Because I pointed to the one thing that could prove I wasn’t lying.

That’s when it changes.

“Since you brought up the cameras,” she says,

“you’re no longer a good fit for the company.

You should start looking for employment elsewhere.”

No warning.

No conversation.

Just an exit wrapped in a smile.

I take a breath.

I say,

“I disagree with you. But you’re the boss. Okay.”

Because at that point, what else is there?

She owns the power.

But I own my truth.

Before the call ends, she goes one step further.

She tells me I’m crazy.

For telling the truth.

For calling out what actually happened.

Like gaslighting is part of the HR script.

Then she says she’ll have someone from HR arrange my ticket home.

Someone else messages me.

“What time would you like to leave?”

I say 11 a.m. — from Alexandria.

They say, Got it.

Then send the ticket.

I open it.

It’s for Washington, D.C.

Not where I am. Not what I asked for.

Another little punishment dressed up as incompetence.

Founding Farmers — million-dollar people.

Pretending to care. Pretending to lead.

But in the end, they just try to screw the little guy on the way out.

Make it hard. Make it expensive. Make you feel small.

So I pay for the extra train myself.

Not because I should have to.

But because I know better than to expect fairness from people who only know control.And let’s be real —

Everything they did?

Against the law.

Retaliation. Harassment. Discrimination.

But instead of fixing it, they tried to spite me for speaking up.

Because I contacted the EEOC.

But here’s the thing they don’t understand:

You can take the job.

You can take the title.

But you can’t take my pride.

I’m a hard-working man.

I show up. I do the right thing in life.

Always have.

This company was supposed to be built on the same thing —

doing the right thing.

But they didn’t just miss the mark.

They went in the opposite direction.

And they’re still going.

I can walk away with my name clean.

With my soul intact.

Because I know who I am.

And nothing they do will ever change that.

I’m just the chef with a soul who cares.

Who wants to help.

Who wants to mentor.

Who wants to make people’s day brighter, better.

Make them smile. Make them laugh.

Help them enjoy life as much as I do.

That’s all I ever wanted.

That’s all I ever needed.

The end.