I Spit in Your Food

Meet Bob. Bob is our dishwasher. Well, one of our dishwashers. Our kitchen has roughly eight dishwashers to help control the massive volume of pots, pans, silverware, and dishes that we go through every day. The majority of the dishwashers are people who are developmentally disabled, with the exception of a few people to help keep things flowing smoothly and the disabled workers from having too many meltdowns. Then, there is Bob.
Bob is the one full time, unionized dishwasher who has been working in the kitchen for more then ten years. I think that all of the steam has seeped into his brain and crossed a few wires. Upon first glance he seems like a great enough guy. Normal, able to function in regular society. Which he is. Though he has a habit of commenting on how much he hates certain people. Such as his assistant dishwasher. The assistant works slow and is annoying, but I don’t think he is annoying enough to mention to anyone that walks by that he wants to kill him.
I don’t know about the rest of the public, but I don’t like being told when someone feels the urge to kill.
Or, this was one of my first experiences with communicating with Bob. As I was putting something away in my locker I asked Bob how he was doing. He responded with “I’m doing good.”
Excellent! He is doing good!
“You know what I hate? Those f—— who say hi to you at work but then ignore you outside of work. Gah how I hate those people!”
Wait…where did that outburst come from? I didn’t ask for an extra portion of insight into my co-workers with that “How are you?” question.
Bob does this all the time. Random comments spurt out of his mouth at the strangest times. I should start writing them down.
Bob. Our “mostly” normal dishwasher.

God save us. He wants to kill again.