Decisions, decisions and more decisions. This is my first adult summer. It was no longer enough to study botany or distillation with my friends. I had to make a choice about my future and soon. There were several options. I could get a job. This would be valuable in paying for any books and Uber rides I may need next year. Another option was to get an internship which would give me hands on experience in a select field. It could make or break a possible career choice. Then the third option was taking college courses at a local community college so that I could ace them and bring in credits for the low. This could help my grade point average finally rise to a 3.0.

Soon, my well of summer internship opportunities dried up. It was already too late to apply for summer classes because of my school’s tedious process for getting courses approved. This was new. I’d never before felt this pressure before bearing down on me during summer. Summer was supposed to be a festival of all fun adolescent rites of passage not a mere extension of the monotonous and cutthroat world of academics.

I was thrust into the role of an adult before the shoe quite fit. In the end it seemed the decision was made for me. My mother, father and aunt insistently pressed me to look for a job. I tried everything. I applied to Best Buy to be their asset protector. The first rejection email came soon after. Then, I applied to Barnes & Noble as a part time barista. My email dinged, yet another rejection. Next, it was a seasonal sales representative at Zumiez. Soon, I realized this process was a lot more painstaking than I thought. Finding a job on such short notice would be impossible. There was so much to do. I needed references and cover letters. I had to complete a 60-question multiple choice test. I told my parents that I was looking for a job but took little to no steps towards one. Prospects were dim. It seemed my summer would quietly dwindle without any substantive steps towards my future.

But, then, a sudden twist of fate. We were sitting there partaking in our normal summer routine. It was dreary outside as John, Noah and I sat watching Travis Scott interviews and laughing at Birdman. My cell phone began to ring. It was my cousin Joshua. He asked “If I was looking for work?”. To which I replied “Yes”. He said that the Forum Diner was hiring busboys to work six days a week, from five prime meridiem to eleven prime meridiem.

I obliged and began work the next day. It didn’t seem that hard, in theory. All I had to do was clear tables and then set them up. Soon I was in a world of confusion that never seemed to end. Being a busboy involved all sorts of things I never imagined. I had to stock the fridges in the back, stock all the silverware in the front, make sure every table had a bottle of water, restock the glasses at the bussing station, and close the diner every night. Not to mention that I had to memorize where everything was from yogurt sauce to coleslaw and to-go bags.

But it was all worth it for the pay I received at the end of the night. I made a measly seven dollars and fifty cents for hourly wage, but my first day on the job I made $53 in tips. I worked day in and day out, six days a week from five prime meridiem to almost eleven prime meridiem on most weekdays. Then, on Fridays and Saturdays, I worked from three prime meridiem to nearly one ante meridiem. It was nearly impossible to have any sort of social life, but it was worth it. I finally felt like I could lead my own life and contribute to my college fees even if it was just a few hundred dollars. This feeling didn’t last long.

After eight days of work, I was let go on Sunday. It came at the hands of our host. I’d witnessed him visibly somber during a phone call earlier. He’d argued for my job, told the bosses that he’d work alongside me and that I was improving day by day. But it was futile. They fired me when an old busboy showed up wanting his job back. He was a prodigy. I heard his name many times before in the legends told to me by fellow waiters and busboys. He was the chosen one. So it came as no surprise when I was let go. They wanted somebody more permanent; that was one of the pitfalls of being a college student.

I was relieved. My job as a busboy taught me to never slack in academics again. I was one more failing grade away from having to work in a situation like that for my entire life. It wasn’t a life I could bear, living everyday looking forward to the next day off. It was an existence characterized by waiting and waiting. There was no room for chance or exploration. It wasn’t the life for me. It was midnight when I arrived home that night. I sat on my couch in a tired stupor, deciding what to do with the rest of my summer.