Nutjob

I could not locate the phrase or word nutjob in any of the dictionaries I consulted and take its absence as liberty to proffer my own definition...nutjob n. / slang / person whose delusions adversely impact surrounding habitats. Unlike narcissist and bipolar, which are unduly clinical, or jerk and a--hole, which are respectively bland and uncouth, nutjob possesses a richer and more playful timbre - in the same spirit as blowhard, yet, like the term douche bag, is more derogatory than calling someone a piece of work.

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You may wonder how I became an authority on nutjobs. Well, for nearly a decade I lived a stone's throw away from one. Credentials aside, you may then ask how any of this relates to Evins Mill. It doesn't - except for nutjobs. You see, years ago my neighbor converted his residence into what is known as an "event venue," a municipal designation allowing homeowners in residentially zoned areas to host special events.
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If the term special event sounds benign, note that it is often a coiffed euphemism for a large and lively reception. Maybe my friends and I were unusually raucous, but the wedding receptions of my early adulthood were among the most exuberant and profligate events I've had the pleasure of attending – if not always accurately recollecting. Think about it. It's a highly charged affair to begin with. You're young. The drinks are flowing. The band is playing. You and your chums are all dressed-up - and so too is that cute bridesmaid you've been eying. The evening is pregnant with possibility, from romantic forays to sophomoric hi jinks.
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While I can still howl at the moon with as much verve as my younger self once did, I do believe businesses should host such nocturnal revelries in appropriately zoned areas, not in residential neighborhoods. My opposition to this endeavor didn't just irk my nutjob of a neighbor - it drove him apoplectic. With a weak case to defend, he did what many politicians do to advance their interests - deflect attention away from the substance of an issue by impugning the integrity of those with opposing viewpoints. His primary line of attack framed me as a rival business owner, intent on devouring the competition - and his home to boot.
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No matter that dozens of other neighbors with no affiliation to the hospitality industry also opposed it. No matter that Evins Mill is located on a forested and restful forty acres over an hour from the nearest urban center, while my neighbor's home sat on a half-acre lot in an urban neighborhood. No matter that I served on the board of the state association of inns and was later asked to serve as its president. No matter that when my neighbor once inexplicably asked me to acquire his home - and thus his business, I categorically refused.
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No matter that nothing in my biography suggests I am motivated by such avarice. None of this mattered to Nutjob, who incessantly pitched neighbors and city officials alike that I was unscrupulously trying to sabotage his business expressly to benefit my own. So convinced was he of this fabricated and far-fetched reality, he eventually sued me for $50,000 and filed an injunction that would have effectively muzzled my opposition. He later retreated - perhaps even he grasped the absurd.
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Other than disclosing his gender, I've taken every precaution to hide Nutjob's identity. It would be in poor taste to do otherwise, though prudence also played a role - I'm not exactly itching for another fight. To be safe though, I've established a legal defense fund and ask you to consider a donation or note of support by clicking here. Or if you're an attorney and are open to bartering with Evins Mill, call me - after this blog, I may need to lawyer up and mount another defense.

Mob

Push come to shove, I could perform nearly every job at Evins Mill – not all of them well mind you, but if necessary I could cover for most of my employees. If my reservationist and accountant chose to take simultaneous vacations, it would be a royal pain in my ass, but I could pick up where they left off without skipping much of a beat. Were our housekeepers inexplicably to walk out, I could - at great strain to my body and dishonor to the profession, turn-over rooms.
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Should the dining room need a server, I could lend a helping if not a clumsy hand. If our groundskeeper suffered a prolonged illness, I could operate many of his gadgets, though probably not without injuring them, myself or both. Even if our innkeeper took a sabbatical, I could fill in for her too, albeit with only a fraction of her grace under pressure. More to the point, I know enough about these jobs, or could learn quickly enough, to train acceptable substitutes.
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While none of the above is to diminish the challenging work these positions entail, it is to say that in a pinch – and as a business owner I regularly entertain such pinches, I could maintain the Inn's unruffled facade even while the challenge may discombobulate me. There are two notable exceptions to this rule, that is, two employees whose jobs I could not, without years of training and practice, adequately perform.
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One is Gary, our plant manager, who oversees our physical structures. When Gary retires, an event I trust is years away, it will be a significant loss to me, for Gary brings to fruition many of my plans to develop and expand the Inn's physical plant – an endeavor in which I take enduring pleasure. But while my job would be less fulfilling without Gary and fraught with more maintenance headaches, day-to-day operations would proceed smoothly enough.
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The other exception is Jason, our executive chef, who…well, you know what he does. In yesteryear, we viewed the beauty of the property and charm of the facilities as the main attractions, with the cuisine as a mere side show. While the property remains scenic and the facilities much improved, cuisine has gradually taken center stage, as Jason confidently predicted it would when we started working together seven years ago.

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On one hand I am clearly heartened by this development. It has elevated the Inn to a more refined level of hospitality, brandished its market appeal, buttressed our bottom line and prompted me to accord cuisine the preeminent place it deserves. On the other hand, that more and more guests are as likely to associate Evins Mill with good food as they are with breathtaking scenery is somewhat unsettling, as food now shares the driver's seat with me, and if there's one thing I'm not fond of sharing, it's the steering wheel. As long as my co-pilot is competent, and he is, all is well. As long as...
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I’ve divined no evidence that Jason plans to relocate anytime soon – and I should stress that such prospects did not precipitate this essay. There are in fact encouraging signs he may linger at least a little while longer. But to be safe I should warn him that if and when he ever contemplates a new job or career, he may look out his window one night to face a large and angry mob, an unruly and determined cadre of patrons and co-workers protesting his decision. While I may not have organized this rabble, I will quietly be egging it on.