THE BOSS OF ME
When I was 22 years old, just out of college, living in Manhattan, I worked for a while at a 24-hour restaurant called “Lox Around the Clock.” It was next door to the iconic Limelight Nightclub, which was probably the hottest spot in NYC in the early 90s, so we were always busy.
Waiting tables is hard. And I was almost always scheduled for the especially punishing overnight shift, serving the low-tipping, drug-addled, after-club crowd that would pour in like a flood when I was on my last legs at around 3:00 or 4:00 am.
I hated it. I was making enough to get by, but barely, and it wasn’t at all what I’d envisioned for myself after graduation. The stupid hours had me upside down and exhausted. I had to sleep, so it was very hard to muster time and energy for job-hunting during the day. Some weeks I’d be very lucky and get two weekdays off in a row — so I could recover on the first day and be refreshed enough by the second to make it to interviews during normal business hours.
But then the restaurant hired a new floor manager. I suppose this guy had a reason, maybe even a decent reason, for making the entire wait staff come in for weekly meetings. But I remember him as a bully on a power trip. The worst thing was that these meetings, invariably, were scheduled on my day off, in the middle of the day, when I’d either: a) be asleep in preparation for my next overnight; or b) hopefully interviewing for something else, anything else. I went to two or three of these mandatory meetings, wearily dragging myself out of bed and across town only to find out that we’d been called to spend this extra hour learning a new napkin fold.
First, I tried reasoning with the manager, explaining that this was messing terribly with my schedule. He didn’t care. I suggested that to make it fair, we could maybe alternate day and night meetings — that sometimes he and the day staff could come in at 1:00am to practice refilling ketchup bottles. He called me a smart-ass. So, I skipped the next meeting.
It was a few hours into my next shift when the manager arrived. He’d come specifically to tear into me for missing his meeting. I was heading to a table with a tray of food when he hollered at me from across the room. He berated me, at the top of his voice, in front of customers and the rest of the staff. He threatened to dock my pay, and called me names that probably could win me a discrimination lawsuit today.
I handed him the tray and told him where to shove it. I untied my apron, let it drop to the floor, and walked out. It was a busy Friday night, and I knew they’d be in bad shape without me when the club got out in a few hours. But god, it felt good. Like revolution! Shaking off the yoke of oppression and finally being true to myself. Liberated at last, now I’d be able to attend to my dreams and plans and hopes for my future…
I don’t know if this was the “right” thing to do. It wasn’t not justified — that guy was a jerk. I do know that as good as my rebellion felt in that moment, I paid for it sorely.
Even with my new abundance of time, I was unable to find another job that could cover the rent on my crappy walkup on Avenue C. I lived on cereal for about two months, hoping that the 100% recommended daily allowance of 18 essential vitamins and minerals would keep me going. For a while, I sold Miss Saigon souvenir brochures in a theater lobby during intermission, eight shows a week, on a poor commission. Ultimately, I got kicked out of my apartment and had to move back to my parents’ house in the rural upstate. It was humbling and horrible.
However much I had relished that moment of righteous rebellion — speaking up to the man, fortified with an heroic sense of myself as someone who doesn’t take shit from anybody — it didn’t take long for my story to curdle.
I didn’t walk away with an empowered narrative of personal triumph. Not for long, anyway. Mostly, what I was left with was shame. With an echoing remembrance of all the times in my life when my big mouth had gotten me into trouble. Obviously, I was irredeemably self-destructive. I left New York City with a clear sense of how I’d blown this chance and how I’d probably never get ahead. Because the world was unfair. Or because I didn’t fit into it. Or both. Yeah, both. Because it sure looked like the only way to make it in this unjust world was to compromise your integrity in a way I simply wasn’t willing to do.
My story of shame and self-defeat informed my experiences of work and career, of self and others, for years. It narrowed my ideas about what was possible for someone like me; that is to say, someone broken like me; that is to say: not much. I imagine that it still haunts some deep corner of my psyche and identity, even after decades of healing and forgiveness work.
I’m thinking about this now because every fiber of my being is aching to scream out: take this country and shove it. Take this economy, this war, this bigotry, this theocracy, this corruption and greed, this world. And shove it. Part of me absolutely is ready to walk off the floor right now, consequences be damned.
AND — fortunately — there’s another part of me that remembers that it would probably be wise to have an eye as well on what might be my next steps beyond that.
I’m not knocking the rebel spirit, not at all. In fact, I’m somewhat relieved to find that I’ve still got it. Benjamin Franklin was right on when he said, “It is the first responsibility of every citizen to question authority.” Other smart people from Henry David Thoreau to Albert Einstein to Timothy Leary have paraphrased this sentiment for 250 years. It is fundamental to all progress — societal, scientific, and spiritual — collective and personal.
Step one: question authority. Because we claim our power only to the degree that we are willing to think for ourselves, which means questioning the status quo and any who would assume authority over us. So for god’s sake, let’s challenge unworkable conditions, demand change, and create something new!
This last part is key — create something new. But as I think about it, it seems like this part actually needs to be front and center from the start.
When I was younger, the thought of creating something new, if I thought about it at all, was more like a distant step two (or even step seven). Steps one through six could all indulge in the delicious satisfaction of railing against and tearing down everything that seemed unfair, outmoded, oppressive, and wrong. “You’re not the boss of me!” was my guiding principle. Nobody was the boss of me but me. The problem with that, though, was that I hadn’t the foggiest idea of how I might exercise my agency and power once I’d reclaimed it.
Grievance is easy. Being outraged and taking offense is easy. Blame is easy. Destruction is pretty easy.
Creating and sustaining something new and worthwhile involves time, energy, courage, accountability, and cooperation. All of which, while not necessarily hard, do require patience, adaptability, and commitment.
And does “question authority” still hold as a prime directive even after I’ve reclaimed authority as my own?
It seems to me, now, that while questioning and wondering and opening to uncertainty does remain one of our fundamental duties as autonomous entities, as citizens, it is equally imperative that we take responsibility at the same time for our creative intentions and decisions. Clear intentionality may, in fact, be a more productive and effective first step than simply crashing against that which feels to be in the way of our immediate satisfaction.
So this week, I’m going to take a step back from my anger and frustration and afford myself a little more time to think about how I want to use my own authority. To envision the world I want to live into. To consider how I might contribute to the creation of such a world.
As author, what do I want to write, what story do I want to tell? And if I want to be an inspiring boss of myself, I’d better make sure I’m not giving myself crummy performance reviews about a lifetime of screwups or denigrating the world as a hostile work environment.
I can’t wait to be with you, bosses, this Sunday, March 22. With the divine Patty Stephens. XO, Drew
©2026 Drew Groves
