Despite the harassment, I wasn’t ready to part with my transportation. I figured that if I got caught up with my payments that they wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on. My cash flow was low, so I started casting about for a way to make some money fast. One of my room mates was running a thriving business in ‘sales’ and in the back of my mind a sinister idea was forming. I had hit low ebb and my compunctions about certain things had been stripped away. I talked to the manager, Rick, at a bar called Snardies in South Everett and managed to convince him that I would make an excellent cook. He hired me on and I started a campaign to improve the over all quality of food coming out of the corner kitchen. It wasn’t too tall of an order to improve on the food that had been dredged out of that kitchen. The previous cook swilled from a hidden bottle of Jack Daniels and before the evening barely started he was always sloppy drunk, swearing and cussing at the customers when they didn’t leave him a big enough tip, and under or overcooking the burgers and fries. It wasn‘t too tough to improve on his fine tradition of grease-soaked cuisine, and I took pride in cooking up a decent tasting meal. The customers appreciated me, and didn’t seem to miss the belligerence or the burnt fries. The pay was pretty poor, and I subsisted off of the tips that I made. Tips were pretty minimal for the cook, though, and most of the male patrons saved their tip money for the pretty bartenders. While I was laboring over the grill I began to formulate the details for away to improve my cash flow, without even having to get another job. Health wise, working in a bar wasn’t the most intelligent move I could make. Generally, someone with Cystic Fibrosis is well-advised to stay away from smoke filled taverns. It was pretty harsh on me in the mornings. It took me a couple of hours to hack my lungs clear enough to get moving. I did, however, enjoy the casual environment of the job. For the most part, it didn’t really seem like work at all. My moods would often swing from black and depressed to hopeful and ambitious, then back again in a matter of minutes. I found myself telling Shannon, the beautiful blonde-haired and brown eyed bartender, about how I wanted to get a degree and teach history in the schools; how I wanted to give something of myself and have a positive impact. The next minute I would be telling her how chances were that I wasn’t going to live out the year. It was the two sides within me that were constantly conflicted. The one that honestly intended to get off his butt and do something positive with his life and the second me that knew my time was very limited and said, "why bother?" In the meantime, my room mate hooked me up with a grower and I began selling marijuana from Snardies’ kitchen. I succumbed to the lure of easy money and gradually began to gain a steady clientele. It was the perfect outlet to sell pott from. I had been covertly asked many times by patrons of the bar, where they might find some weed, and it was easy enough to mention to these same people that I now had some available.

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