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.

I work in the food service industry. That is what my resume says. In reality I’m a guy standing behind a sneeze guard with a hair net that only partially covers my hair and a stain covered apron that was white at some point in existence.
My resume goes on to say that I am involved with food preparation. That means that on occasion I help cut potatoes for the mashed potatoes (we don’t even bother peeling them) and place food into a deep fryer. More on that “food” in a later post.
What my job entails is mostly being the face for the kitchen, a smiling, helpful face that must give you the impression that I am reaching near orgasmic satisfaction from dumping your food into a container. The worst part is, some customers actually seem to expect that the act of serving their every hunger oriented need should bring me the greatest joy known to exist.
I call that bull crap.
At least not out loud. Or around my bosses. I like having a job, it pays the bills. Paying bills is a good thing.
Why am I in such a job?
One that pays minimum wage.
One that makes me wear a smile all day.
One that makes me take bull crap from customers all day.
Because I can spit in your food.