A skinny kid in a green apron.

“What’s your social security, hun?”

“…My what? I’m sorry…”

Fran’s frizzy bleach blonde hair smelled like cigarettes. Heavy mascara added to the weight of her bagged eyes. Her gnarled coffee teeth jutted out slightly forming a wicked grin.

“Your social security card? There’s a number on it? You’ll need that to punch in, dear.”

She stared up at my forehead with exhausted superiority.

“Oh, ok.” I mumbled.

My fourteen year-old hands started to shake. Fumbling through my packed wallet, I came up with the card. A few trials later and I was “clocked in.”

She led me through the kitchen with no introductions. I was fresh, disposable meat. The dishwasher shook my hand enthusiastically.

“My name, Leo.”

“Andy. Pleased to meet you.”

He nodded vigorously and hefted a rack of glasses from the tile floor and onto the machine belt. His large back brace dripped with soapy water.

“Here’s where you get the mashed taters,” said Fran pointing to a large stack of boxes. “They’s instant.”

Fran swung open the walk-in cooler door. A six-foot five line cook stood groping a petite server. Her apron was around her ankles, her shirt halfway off. His long waife-thin hair shook from side-to-side, free from the chef’s hat. They jumped apart and into the food racks. Ranch dressing flew through the air and onto my apron. The first of many unsolvable stains.

Fran’s reaction was typical. She rolled her eyes and slammed the cooler door. I stood in the walk-in with two half dressed strangers.

“Hi,” I mumbled. Head down, arms aswing, I Forrest Gumped my way out the door behind me.

Fran puffed away on the end of a cigarette in the back doorway.

“Break down boxes back here,” she said pointing to the parking lot. A mountain of boxes lined the outside wall.

“Was gonna show you the taco meat in the cooler, but it was occupado.” She tossed the butt on the ground and it rolled toward the boxes — stopping inches away.

I followed her back to the kitchen, but she kept walking. Must have been the end of my training. I observed a shiny bald cook. He worked with frenzied strength all the way down the line: chicken wings, mashed potatoes, corn, green beans, taco meat (textured vegetable protein), bread pudding, rolls. He banged-whirled pans around like a redneck ginzu knife show.

Overhead, theme music played: I DOWANNA WAIT…FOR OUR LIVES TO BE OOOHHVA.

A lumberjack thick man burst through the front door.

“WILL. GET YOUR ASS OUTSIDE. IT’S ON!”

The sweat-shiny bald cook sprinted in his no-slip boots back to the prep room and grabbed a mop handle. He chased after the man — already out the door — silently.

I watched the line with panic. Timers exploded into action and I could only watch.

Someone unseen shouted, “Grab the bread!”

I rushed sliding over to the illuminated oven and slung it open. To my credit, I found the oven mitts quickly and reached in for the bread. The tray was unsteady and it singed my arm. Holding back much profanity, I slung the tray onto the adjacent counter.

Shouting in the parking lot rose to a level slightly above the timers and grill sizzle. Doors slammed and tires squealed. The chase was on and speed bumps could not stop them.

I heard later that night that the gun store around the corner had been robbed — two employees killed — totally unrelated, yet simulataneous.

I clamored to catch up with no regard for sanitation. Mammoth beast families raided the wings faster than crank Thanksgiving at the Limbaugh house. At the certain apex, I slipped on grease — helping me achieve my first “fun with potato salad” bath.

At the end of an 8-hr Sunday shift I walked out to my purple Taurus and it was still running — doors locked. What a champ. I had to call a cop to break in for me. Only lost a quarter of a tank of gas.