A corporate lawyer had just dumped me, only months after we were set up by a coworker of mine. The lawyer didn’t feel she was better than me, she just didn’t really know the type of person I was. We typically went to fancy sushi restaurants and places where I had to wear a collared shirt and dress shoes. One night I met up with her wearing jeans and sneakers. I told her I felt like going to a diner for grilled cheese sandwiches. This ballooned into an argument and the following day she broke up with me via email.

In my apartment, my phone vibrated on top of my rickety, three-shelf, thrift store bookcase.Text messages from my friends at the local bar. They were all harassing me to come and join the fray. Most of them were four or five years older than me; they were cops, teachers and firemen, and the closest I had to family in New York. Finally I received a text from Pat the Bartender, who looks like a young Carroll O’Conner. “If you’re not here in 19 minutes, I’m taking it back.” It was the television he gave to me when he found out mine was broken. He showed up drunk at my door one night wanting to watch The Wire on DVD.When I placed my laptop on top of my deceased TV and pressed play, he blurted out, “Are you serious?” He left in a huff. The next morning, as I dressed for work, Pat knocked on my door. He was there with a brand new one in his arms.

Pat’s playful threat was enough motivation to leave the house.When I walked into the bar, my friends all shouted my last name in unison as if I were the patron saint of the place. Pat opened a bottle of Heineken Light without me even asking. This was Pat’s way of saying he wanted me to have a good night.

I took my first sip and began clearing empties off the tables behind me; sometimes I swap bar-back duties for a few rounds. I gathered some finished bottles at a table where two pretty girls in their mid-twenties were sitting. I gave them a grin and happily nodded my head, something I do when I’m overexcited. The girl on the left gave me a slight smirk, but the one on the right flashed a huge smile. The center of my forehead, right above my eyes, numbed a little and I heard ringing. The kind of ringing that comes from a bell mounted on the handlebars of a girl’s bicycle. She reminded me of a girl I used to scoop ice cream with at my high school job.

The Smile Girl spoke to me: “Have a drink with us.”

“OK,” I said, and stuck around for a half hour chatting, and they invited me to go to a dive bar a couple blocks away. I thought about it for a moment until the smile girl patted me on the back and said, “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Leaving with the two girls, Pat and the regulars giddily watched me, like proud parents at a little league game.

A few beers, three shots of Jameson and two and a half hours later, Smile Girl’s friend was long gone and the two of us closed the joint.

She talked about her cat, Leo the Lion, and how he broke all the sides of the plastic blinds that were in the windows of her apartment. She also told me that her clothing closet was in her kitchen. I found her realness extremely attractive. I bet she liked going to diners and ordering grilled cheeses.

Her name was Martha, which was also the first name of my 60-year-old landlady. When she gave me her phone number I immediately plugged her name into my cell as Martha Cool Girl—I planned on calling her and didn’t want to end up dialing my landlady by mistake.

Martha Cool Girl walked me home, and for the first time I wasn’t ashamed about where I lived. As we stood outside the steps of my basement apartment, I told her, “It’s just temporary. Once the renovation construction of the penthouse is complete, I can move back up there.” I pointed up to the top floor of my building, the unkempt art studio that belonged to my landlady’s husband. Through the windows you could see the lit, multicolored Christmas lights and silhouettes of plastic plates made to look like UFOs.

She laughed. “Who’s renovating it, Captain Kirk?”

I laughed out loud, then leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek and said, “I had a great time, Martha Cool Girl.”

Then I went in again, this time for her lips. I took a rare, uncharacteristic chance, and as she kissed me back, I felt like I had just won the lottery.

Martha smiled, and as she started walking away, she turned to me and said, “You got my number; you better call me.” As I watched her walk into the misty night, I grinned and happily nodded my head.There was hope for me after all.

Adam Wade is a New York-based writer and current GrandSLAM Storytelling Champion at The Moth.You can find more of his work at adamwade.com.

When I’d interviewed to be a waiter at Virgil’s Barbeque in Times Square, the general manager told me that Chef Dan scheduled his vacations around the dates that Southern states had their annual “smoke out” competitions. This was supposed to be the ultimate reinforcement that Virgil’s was a cut above the competition of other barbeque restaurants in the city.

As I finished my hearty pre-shift breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausages, ribs and French fries, Chef Dan went over the lunch specials with us. His “Yabba Dabba Doo” loudmouth routine suddenly disappeared as he became uncharacteristically soft and serious.

“I need to address the graffiti that was written on the door to the handicapped bathroom late last night. I was sickened this morning to see, in big black magic marker, the words ‘PORK SUCKS’ on there.” He glared over the room, hoping one of the wait-staff would own up to the desecration.

It was a moment where the big man was looking for empathy, but he received none.

Chef Dan was not a nice man. I grew up in rural New Hampshire, and Chef Dan was everything that frightened me about the big city. Whenever he saw me, he made fun of me: the way I talked, the way I looked (he said I resembled a bespectacled Rick Moranis from Honey, I Shrunk the Kids), even how I unevenly put a piece of cornbread onto a plate. It wasn’t just me; everybody on his radar was fair game.

I finally moved that summer to Manhattan, at age 22, and my biggest fear was I wouldn’t meet nice people. To my surprise, the people at Virgil’s were great. They became family. We pooled tips, and whenever I needed help, someone was always there. The Spanish-speaking busboys would greet me enthusiastically by snapping their fingers and singing The Addams Family theme song—their personal ode to my first name.

The only person who wasn’t nice was Chef Dan. I always hoped I’d see another side of him, one with a caring heart. I never did.

It was only a matter of time before someone was going to take a shot at him. Now the shot had been taken, and they’d hit a bull’s eye. Writing “PORK SUCKS” on a bathroom door seemed so simple;, but on the other hand, it was brilliant. The employees collectively experienced a brief moment of euphoria and admiration for the mystery graffiti artist, though we knew there’d be massive repercussions. Sitting at the morning meeting, Chef Dan continued the barrage of venom.

“Now look at you, Michelle. You wannabe a painter. And David, you wannabe a dancer. Of course, Patrick, you wannabe an actor. These are professions you aspire to have.” Then there was dead silence. Everybody was puzzled.

The chef raised his voice, “But for now, let’s get something straight. You’re all waiters at Virgil’s, which Zagat’s described as ‘the barbeque capitol of New York City.’ As long as you work here, pork…doesn’t suck.”

He stopped again, and I thought he’d explode right there, as he started screaming and pounding his fat hairy fist onto a two-top. “BECAUSE PORK PAYS YOUR BILLS. PORK PUTS FOOD IN YOUR MOUTH! AND DON’T YOU WANNABES EVER FORGET IT!”

There he stood, calling out everybody in the meeting. I loathed this man, but I also knew he was correct. It hadn’t been Chef Dan’s intention, but his unforgettable tirade was extremely motivational to me. A year and a half later, when I landed a job as an NBC page, I realized I was moving on to better things because I no longer needed “pork” to help me survive.

I’ve continued to have a soft spot for Virgil’s and still visit often, especially after Chef Dan got canned: Karma finally caught up to him. I’m always grateful for the unexpected free appetizer or dessert that happens to show up with my meals, and I can’t help but smile when the busboys notice me and, as if on cue, start singing that familiar tune from The Addams Family.

Adam Wade is a New York-based writer who still knows the whole Virgil’s menu by heart. You can find more of his work at adamwade.com.