For 3 years I worked in a little Italian deli. The term ‘deli’ is to be used very loosely, however, seeing as it was also a bar, bakery, and pizzeria with a catering element and large stage where local jazz bands would play off-tune Elton John covers far beyond closing hours. I have a million stories to tell from my time at the deli, all the way from helping to cater an old folk’s home fashion show to being chased by a meth addict through the parking lot. The restaurant had quite a few physical quirks: the boy’s bathroom would flood about once a month, the tiles weren’t laid properly by the front door and would regularly pop off while we were sweeping, and the backroom was covered in spatters of white and blue paint.

These paint marks were a recent addition. Back in August of 2019, there was a group of kids that came in for a painting party. My coworkers and I were back there constantly refilling water and bringing out more utensils to replace the ones that were dropped every couple of minutes. In all honesty the party was a trainwreck; most of the kids had resorted to finger painting, the parents seemed angry, and there was paint quite literally everywhere. By the time they left it was over an hour after close and cleaning took another two hours. During those extra hours, we tirelessly scrubbed the tables and walls of acrylic residue and, as all people do in times of boredom, I thought about my future. This is when I decided I wanted to become an art teacher. None of the finished pieces looked like the example and the mess was extreme, however the joy was genuine. For the rest of my time in highschool, whenever it came to close, I would sweep the backroom, look at all the splotches of paint we couldn’t get off, and remember what I was working towards.