Anarchy and the zen of September

Only in America could almost an entire nation take a day off from working on a supposed holiday billed as Labor Day. Many years ago, this was a time to hang up the factory apron and head out to the fields for the harvest. But today, it’s much different. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

For nine-to-fivers, Labor Day means a trip the grocer for a set of 10 lb. steaks, a keg of semi-palatable beer and some Tiki torches. By mid afternoon, it’s time to sit around the backyard and revel about how great the summer was and lament how a splitting hangover will feel come Tuesday morning at the office; all while on the way to the bar for another vodka and tonic.

But for many in Saratoga Springs, the day represents the end of days; the last push before September’s reprieve, when the traffic dwindles, the track closes and every last restaurant worker still standing goes out on the town for a bakers’ dozen cocktails. By midnight, a shroud of tranquility will drape across Broadway and its once-bustling side streets. True workers are too tired to make it much past the witching hour without either losing consciousness or being arrested.

Besides, there’s too much ill will after a solid season in the trenches to come out, waving arms in triumph. And for a the band of kitchen-bound warriors and mercenaries who did battle for two months, only to fight most furiously in the last six weeks, the end –the ebbing flow of tourists –is nothing short of a god send. It’s a sullen time to take stock of the casualties and move their corpses off the battlefield.

For these damned souls, this lifestyle is somewhat of a norm. Six weeks of abject alcoholism, wanton drug use and a passion for anything that might bring the walls of this fair city to an untimely demise. They foster a deep-seeded festering hatred for anything that contributes to their workload, especially if it speaks with an urban accent, drives a BMW and takes every opportunity to brazenly wave around a gold money clip. These instances give restaurant workers a sense that sheer anarchy might not be such a bad thing. After all, anarchy is the tune loudly blasting from the back stoop of every restaurant in the city.

Anarchy? What the hell are you blathering about? There’s no such thing as anarchy in beautiful Saratoga Springs, polished to fine shimmer that’s only accentuated by August’s beaming sun. Flowery hats, fine Italian suites, plus a steady procession of Ferraris, Rolls Royce and Porsches trekking down Broadway, there’s no anarchy in the Spa City.

Why, yes it’s there. But it lurks just off to the periphery in the shadows, behind the double doors, in the alley, waiting for the weak willed and the psychotic to trip over the edge. Then, as the poor bastard falls into the haze, arms flailing and muscles twitching, that’s when the beast lunges, clutching the wayward wanderer in its mandibles for a journey through indentured servitude. And all it takes is one look into its crazed eyes to see the extent of the maelstrom that’s about to touch down come opening day.

Yet there’s something grand about being accosted by such a beast that the few who escape can appreciate. It’s like watching a horrible car accident unfold; nobody wants to watch it, but there’s no way to pull the eyes away. The pulse speeds, the adrenal gland pumps, the stomach churns and the skin crawls. Then suddenly, it happens and it’s all over.

There’s also an air about anarchy that can also bring out the complete best in an otherwise sordid person. There are heroes born in Saratoga every race season. There’s the cook who worked through the night despite nearly severing the tip of his finger; the dishwasher who cleaned the biohazard in the ladies room because no one else would do it; the bartender who travels back from college for a weekend because there’s no one else to man the drinking station. They’re the folks who tether themselves to the bow of a sinking ship and pull the damn thing to shore, instead of of diving for the lifeboats at the first sign of rough waters. They’re not your prototypical run-into-a-burning-building heroes that the news media frequently fawns over, but they’re heroes nonetheless.

This seemly thankless endeavor usually pays less than a livable wage despite the highway robbery many owners choose to bilk from their patrons. This difference causes a sort of quandary for the restaurant worker: they get a pittance of pay, yet take the brunt of caustic remarks made by diners thoroughly pissed off after they realize the $55 steak they just ate came from the same cow as the the shoe leather their drunk Uncle Frank usually serves at his Fourth of July bash.

Yet there is a sense of accomplishment in most kitchens after they’ve beating back the hordes of masticating tourons; a sense that the beast has been beaten into submission for at least a few moments. On the back stoop, the chain smoke cigarettes as they regale over the number of dinners they served. Later at the bars, they’ll bandy about these numbers to others in the business, usually inflating them slightly for effect. They tell stories over beers that sound more like personal conquests than simple restaurant service. They relive the exhilaration they had after putting out the last meal on Travers’ Day. And it’s a feeling of exhilaration that can’t be achieved with drug diets or cocktails.

Today, there’s a cool wind blowing in. For restaurant workers across the city, it’s September, and she’s coming to the rescue. In just a short time, they’ll be sitting in the lap of relative luxury, swilling cocktails and nursing their wounds.

Autumn’s wind means winter isn’t far behind, where the sun disappears and the climate becomes harsh. Still, a keen sense of smell can catch the mellifluous scent left by the ebbing tide of anarchy, as it slowly subsides from the city, taking with it the shattered dreams and lost recollections of thousands. Those who relish this essence are sometimes even saddened, longing for it to hold on for one more whiff before the season disappears behind a veil of amber leaves and cool winds.