Irrelevant

Occasionally, I'll think of an old co-worker. Let’s call him François from France. He had to be at least double my age; I was still in college, taking a break from school. Let's call it my cheap-ass study abroad, but not abroad and not studying, just messing around in LA, trying to make a documentary about Asian American actors—why? Because why not? I was 21, and who the hell knows why young, dumb me did whatever I did.

So, François from France worked at the hip-hop club where all the wealthy, spoiled international students were deemed cool because they served food along with drinks, and that so-called restaurant turned into a nightclub. Well, for me to survive on my tuna fish and rice diet, I needed a job, and back in those days, you didn’t need a resume to get a crappy job. You rolled up to the place, asked if they were hiring, and boom, bam, boom, you're in—if you're halfway decent.

François and I had nothing in common. Mostly, I'd listen to his stories about his kids and how LA is a lonely place to live, but hey, it could be worse. He liked me for some reason, I think mostly because I was the only busser who was not a boy and could understand him. At the time, most of the bussers were Spanish-speaking. I didn’t know what I was doing, but because I was a "girl," everything was excused, and upper management typically blamed a guy for a job I didn't do right. Not to say I didn’t do my job, it's just I didn’t know because there was no training.

Getting back to François, he invited me to dinner, nothing creepy, just two coworkers getting food. He seemed lonely, and I, with no friends nearby, no TV, or internet for that matter, had nothing to lose. It wasn’t a date, but I figured I'd get a free meal out of it, even though there was a chance of us splitting the bill. I figured he’s old as hell, he’ll do what most older men would do and look at me as a sorry loser and pay for my meal.

This story seems long, so I’ll cut to the chase. We had a nice time getting to know each other, but when I tell you how excited I was about this beautifully crafted cheese that was cut into thick yet flaky slices, and perfectly placed on top of my Caesar salad, I couldn’t stop talking about it. I asked him what kind of cheese it was, and he replied, "Parmesan cheese." I tried my best to remember because I have ADHD—I need to repeat the name three times out loud to remember it.

I went on and on about how scrumptious the cheese was, to the point where he got annoyed, looked at me, and said, "It’s just cheese."

And that was the day I realized we had different priorities.