I was 13 years old and had a job washing dishes and shucking oysters at an '80s-cliché Panhandle restaurant. It was high-stress and high-production. The workflow had a refinement like that of an aggressive redneck luxury watch company run from behind a dumpster at a Waffle House in a gated community.

Everyone worked hard, was good at their job, and expressed love for one another through creative racism, insults, and emotional bullying. If they didn't try to make you cry, you should cry because no one likes you. It was hot and dangerous, and I was probably the only sober person in the kitchen. Minus the fact that I was probably the only one not having sex in the walk-in or parking lot, it was great. If cancel culture ever finds out about life before the internet, we're all gonna be spending a lot of time in HR, or pretending to support them and high-five them as they try to cancel the entire human past.

I thought I was being trained; the managers told me about the system and the company policies, and they treated training like a motivational self-development seminar. And just like those seminars, there was a lot of hype and empty words that went right out the door when the actual stress of the workload set in.

On my first night, the dishes piled up on me to the point where the cooks were out of dishes, food was dying in pans, the waitstaff had no silverware, and everyone decided to solve this problem by yelling at me. I saw no hope of getting out of the weeds, and the rest of the team saw themselves getting in the weeds too, because of my lack of organization and execution. I was starting to believe that the meeting earlier, where the company said things like "we're the best" and "we're like a family," wasn't really true. I was obviously not the best, and if this were my new work family, they're almost as bad as my other family, who laugh at me every time I visit as I'm being rushed to the ER.

Then, Ricky, a busboy a little older than me, walks into the dish room and shoulders me out of the way. He was a juvenile delinquent, in and out of "the system" for stealing cars, stereos, and bikes, with great hair and a lot of confidence. We met that day when I pulled up on my bike. He was outside smoking.

"Hey, man, you working here?"

"Yeah, I'm Matt."

"I'm Ricky, nice bike, don't leave it out, I'll get it."

It was funny because it was true.

In his fresh white front-of-house shirt and black tie, he blew out all the dishes while narrating, letting us all know how good and fast he is. "This is nothin', man." "Keep em' comin'" "I'm too good, y'all ain't fast enough for me."

It was like a service-industry version of street ball, as he was talking trash and pumping himself up. I stood there, filthy and stressed, watching his back, and trying to find something more helpful than putting my hands in my pockets or writing in my journal. Then he turned, and I saw a perfectly clean dish area. Ricky looked right at me and pointed at his spotless white shirt, "Still pretty, baby; that's how it's done."

I realized what my martial arts teachers were always saying to me.

"Mathew, the lowest level of teaching is standing in front of people telling them what to do. The highest form of teaching is transmission… Practice." 

The transmission had been received. Like watching the 4-minute mile or the first slam dunk. I never got backed up again. I was out early every night. That's all it took; my teachers called it transmission, but to me, it's The Ricky Effect.

Ricky transmitted pure speed, ease, and efficiency in that moment. I won't go into my legacy of how I became perhaps the best and most sought-after "dish dog" in that area, then into being a chef, but yeah, if I were to see Ricky today, I would thank him, bow to him, and hope that in some way I have made my delinquent sensei proud.

The executives who pumped me up and tried to motivate me were really just trying to get me to be loyal and make themselves look good. Then I was left to figure out the "how" on my own. They transmitted nervousness, confusion, and fear, while I learned that I was part of a "family" that holds performance reviews.

Ricky, the criminal delinquent, was the real thing, a true warrior. We all felt his absence every time he had a day off. Then, he got thrown back in juvey because he needed to make money, but I'd like to think he wanted to teach me one more thing. Empty words, paper awards, and accolades aren't enough to live like an executive.