Third shift always makes me think about murdering my manager. His name is Kenneth, but Corporate made him have KENNY on his name tag. They think it’s friendlier. Horseshit. Bad enough I get to be bossed around by a pimply puke younger than my grandson. Having to call him “Kenny” is insult to injury.
Third shift means switching from late menu to breakfast, so there’s a lot of downtime between bars closing and the working stiffs starting their days. The pair of moths that landed on the drive through last night are still there.
I miss my Gretchen so much.