Even Though She Had A Seizure And Flopped Like A Fish -- The Ship Stayed On Course

I grew up in a restaurant. I mean, my family had a house, but we also had a restaurant, which doubled as a home. The slew of Hispanic, middle and teen - aged cashiers, and regular guests were easily comparable to one huge extended family.  This is how it was set up: It was a small take-out pizza joint. I don't get to say "joint" as much as I would like. We had a bar counter where you could eat if you'd like. There were two benches. There was the counter you ordered at.

Behind the counter was about four feet of width between the counter and the heat lamps that would keep the ordered food warm until the guests picked it up. Close by was the soda fountain machine where I spent the better half of my years gulping down Dr.Pepper.

I remember the first time I saw someone have a seizure. Her name was Agnes. Now that I think about it, the name itself sounds like the result of a seizure. Agnes was an employee that had worked for my parents on and off for as long as I could remember. She had acquired the role as a family friend over the years as well. She had a knack for being loud and goofy for an older woman, but nonetheless, she seemed to have a heart of gold and an apparent chronic neurological disorder that made her have seizures at the drop of a hat.

I remember she hit the floor like a fish out of water. Not a goldfish. Not a domestic pet. We're talking deep sea fishing fish. The kind that take real man power to get out of the water. The kind that could cause harm to an inattentive individual. That's the kind of fish she flopped around like.

As Agnes was flopping around, I stood there and watched her. Not the kind of watching that's associated with sociopaths. I wasn't comparable to Macauly Culkin in The Good Son. It was more of a genuine stare. I was maybe eight years old and the way Agnes was acting wasn't acceptable when throwing tantrums in a store, so it confused me greatly. My father was in the back making pizzas. My mother was at the cash register, ringing up tickets and manning the telephone lines like she was taking calls for a PBS Telethon. I was still standing there.

My mother turned around to see what I was staring at and had the kind of look on her face that comes with the "not again!" attitude that you sometimes can get. She told me to run to the back and get my father. I remember going back there and handing him a ticket for a new order and nonchalantly telling him that "Agnes is in the floor and Mom wants you."

"Shit," my father said, as he quickly finished making the pizza he was working on as if it were an art that couldn't be disturbed while being created. My father threw it in the oven that I'm sure we bought from a WWII relic museum because of its unnatural ability to overheat the entire building (especially in the summers). My father grabbed a spoon on the way to the front of the store. At the time, I remember being confused. We didn't have many spoons in the restaurant. It was a pizza and sandwich joint for the most part, so other than for cooking, there was no real need for spoons in the building. As he grabbed a spoon, I thought to myself that this was a horrible time for soup -- but a great time for ice cream.

My father bent down and shoved the spoon in her mouth and rolled Agnes on her side. My mother was stepping over them and still working. A few guests were looking over the counter to see what was going on and my mother gave them the "mind your own business" glare, as she practiced her preaching, and minded her business...and continued taking orders.

My mother then dialed a number on the phone and informed Agnes' husband that she was having another seizure. This routine felt oddly routine. Everyone just knew how to deal with it. I had a problem with this. I could hear her mumbling. I could see her eyes rolling around like a drunken uncle at a family reunion. It was unnerving for the most part to see such a chaotic scene be completely under control. Literally -- When I say "everything," -- everything was working out like a perfect machine. Even though a cog fell off it's rotation and hit the floor, the machine was still operating according to plan.

Guests coming in. My mother greeted them. Took their orders. Answered the phones and manned the register simultaneously. I continued to run tickets back to my father, stepping over Agnes' body when needed. My father would come check to make sure the spoon was in her mouth. I swear, my mother could have been rocking Agnes with her free foot and gently soothing her while working like an octopus with her remaining appendages, and I wouldn't have been surprised.

This order of operations continued itself until Agnes' husband showed up. I don't remember what happened really after that, but I remember she got better and went home with him. I think that lately, people have forgotten the meaning of wading through shit. I mean, our generation is so easy to throw up their hands and call it quits that it really makes me worry about the upcoming years. I'm not implying that 2012 was John Cusack's best work to date (I'm not even implying I saw the film because -- yeah...no), I just think that even if nothing happens, the onslaught of fear will still be in the air, and that's enough to make people give up.

When people give up, they do horrible things. Things that I honestly don't want to be a part of. I'm not really built for prison, but I think a holding cell would be the safest place to be during that time. Giving up really isn't an option if you want things to come to you. You can't just give up and expect to succeed or make things happen the way you want them. You can't just give up when your cashier hits the floor and starts flopping around, because then you couldn't make profit for the day. Remember that.