terrible jobs.
Construction.
Warehouse shifts.
Gas stations.
Landscaping.
Eventually, I walked into Joe’s Diner during a breakfast rush and asked if they needed help.
One waitress had quit mid-shift.
Joe looked me up and down like he was evaluating damaged furniture.
“You ever carry three plates at once?”
“No.”
“You burn food?”
“Sometimes.”
“You steal?”
“No.”
Joe shrugged.
“Good enough. Apron’s in the back. You’ve got ten minutes to learn.”
That was Joe.
Rough voice.
Permanent frown.
Built like a refrigerator someone taught to smoke cigarettes.
But underneath all that
