THE TRIQUETRA OF LIFE: Wisdom, Wealth, and Wellness

An Excerpt from Chapter 41

Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous

I climbed the back stairs to the kitchen in the dark, the smell hitting me before I reached the door—grease, burned meat, sour water left too long in metal trays. Inside, a mountain of pots and pans waited, slick with fat, stacked like wreckage. I usually worked alone on the graveyard shift.

My hands sank into gray water. I scrubbed until my fingers wrinkled and stung. Steam rose and clung to my face. The hours passed in heat and noise—metal striking metal, water running, my breath steady to keep pace. When I was hungry, I ate what was left behind: shrimp, lobster, sirloin, whatever the customers had not finished. I didn’t ask questions. I just ate.

I had been down to 125 pounds. Skin and bone. Dizzy from low blood sugar. My heart fluttering under strain. Now, with food in me, I could feel strength returning. Twenty-five pounds came back in a few months. My hands steadied. My legs held. The work was filthy, but it was steady, and I needed that.

Each night I rode my bicycle along Harbor Drive in the early hours, past the quiet stretch of Lindbergh Field. The air was cold and clean out there. For a few minutes, before the shift, I could breathe.

Inside the kitchen, it was different.

The men I worked beside said little. Most of them were Mexican, speaking in short bursts of Spanish I barely followed. They coughed. They sneezed. One wiped his nose on his sleeve, then went back to handling plates that would carry food to customers. No gloves. No masks.

I watched it for days.

One of them came in shaking with fever. I heard the floor manager warn him: show up or lose your job. No sick pay. No rest. Work or go hungry.

I kept scrubbing. Plates. Pots. Trays. The rhythm held me in place, but I couldn’t stop seeing it—the coughing, the hands, the food going out.

Then I saw something else.

A manager shoved one of the workers hard enough to stagger him. No words. Just a push to keep the line moving. Heads stayed down. No one answered back.

I felt it tighten in me. That old pull. The same one that had followed me for years—the urge to step in, to say something, to force the moment open.

I wiped my hands, dried them on my apron, and walked to the office.

I knocked once.

“Come in,” he said.

He didn’t look up at first. Papers on his desk. Calm. Controlled. I stood there until he finished.

“What’s your name, and what can I do for you?”

I told him.

Then I said it plain.

“The workers are coming in sick. They’re handling food. They don’t have a choice. And I’ve seen them pushed around. There’s no sick pay. No protection.”

He watched me. His face didn’t change much.

“What else is on your mind?” he asked.

I told him about the overtime. The pressure. The way they were driven.

He sat back slightly.

“I appreciate your feedback,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Then he paused.

“But meanwhile, you can pick up your termination check. Knights in shining armor are not welcome around here.”

I didn’t move at first.

Through the window, I could see the dishwashers still working. Heads down. Hands moving.

I turned and walked out.

The night air hit me cold as I stepped outside. I got on my bicycle and started home.

Two blocks. That’s all I travelled. Then the tears came.

I hadn’t planned it. I hadn’t thought it through.

No savings. No backup. Just the certainty that I couldn’t stay silent.

I had done the right thing. And it cost me everything.

My small act—nothing heroic, nothing grand—had led me straight into it.

Not the abstract idea of sacrifice.

The thing itself. I was tasting it now.

The truth—crucified.

From the memoir-in-progress, nearing publication:
Path Perilous: My Search for God and the Miraculous
—a spiritual epic for truth-seekers, contemplative mystics, and all who long for God.

Visit www.RMDellOrfanoAuthor.com and pass it forward.