It was the summer after my senior year in college. I had a degree from Nebraska in my back pocket, but I was totally burned out. It was like The Graduate, when Ben's dad told him, "For goodness sakes, you'd think a young man would take some stock of himself after a couple of weeks and take some initiative..." Yada yada yada, before the plastics speech. My father couldn't believe I was hitting the road in a rusted-out hulk that had once resembled a Ford Bronco. But I took off with eight hundred bucks in my pocket and headed west. I had absolutely no idea where I was going. I just drove and drove and drove. A couple days later, I somehow pulled into Lake Oswego, Oregon. I was completely exhausted and needed to get a job. I stumbled into the back of the Bronco and crashed.

The next morning I ate a huge breakfast at McDonalds and started looking for work. I had no intention of doing anything hard or anything requiring thought. I noticed a help wanted ad at something called The Waffle Hut. The joint was open twenty-four hours, and they were looking for a short-order cook. I knew how to make Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and cocoa. So I figured I could learn how to operate a waffle maker.

Thirty minutes later, I was hired. I was to report at 11:30 that night and work an eight-hour shift. They would train me for two nights and then I'd be on my own, along with two waitresses. Maury, the day manager, had taken one look at my resume and the rusted-out Bronco in the parking lot and told me "Lookit." (He said "lookit" a lot). "I know you ain't who you say you is, but s'lon as yuze got a drivah's license I don' care nothin'. Lookit, just be here on time."

I was overjoyed. I had a job, seven hundred bucks in my pocket, a Bronco to sleep in (I planned to slum it the whole summer) and the Pacific Northwest to discover for the next three months. Immediately I drove out to Mount Hood and spent the day hiking around and feeling completely free for the first time in four years. I'd majored in CAD in college, had worked full-time, and was utterly mentally exhausted. I was giving myself three months to live like Jack Kerouac before entering the exciting world of plastics. Based on what I'd seen of Mount Hood, I was probably gonna spend most of my weekends out there.

The first night at the Waffle King wasn't so bad. As strange as it sounds, I loved it. The sense of adventure was palpable and it was damn easy work. The waitresses were both older gals, but nice as could be. Willie, the usual weekend guy, told me he was "gonna get me train't in one night" so he wouldn't have to come in the second night. I figured, how hard could it be?

I quickly found out that being a short-order cook was an exacting profession that required discipline, thinking ahead, a level head, and even a certain amount of coordination. So it ended up taking me four nights to learn the ropes (which pissed Willie off to no end), but by the fifth night I'd learned how to make Denver omellettes, reuben sandwiches, Irish stew (they had a diverse menu), and waffles. The whole experience was pleasant because of the cool clear skies in the Portland area and because I had zero responsibilities. There weren't many customers, and the whole experience showed me that I should have been working as a cook during college instead of waxing floors.

But then it happened. My Monday-through-Friday schedule suddenly became seven nights a week after Willie quit, and I started getting burned out pretty quick. The symbolic loss of my weekends started to remind me of my college days. And besides, Friday and Saturday nights were thirty times as busy as weeknights. This was suddenly no fun. Drunk and obnoxious people came in and they all smoked (something I hate) and left small tips.

And there was another problem.

I was responsible for the men's bathroom. By "responsible," I'm saying cleaning up the crap, poop, spit, vomit, urine, and drool that came oozing out of these inbred jackals. It was hard doing all the orders, but the bathroom had to be cleaned up if I had time between busy spots, and it was always filthy. People would clog the toilet, throw up in the urinal, smear poop on the rails, leave the water going, not flush the toilet, smoke pot, snort coke, clean boots, and try to take "camping" showers in the bathroom. One time I smelled something that might have been crystal meth.

A month of this and I was burned out again. I told the owner I had to go back to five days a week and he refused. I would be fired if I didn't show up.

And then it happened.

Entering the bathroom, I slipped on a slimy poop that had missed the bowl and slammed into the wall.

I crawled out of there and went and sat down in the Bronco and turned the radio on to my favorite station, and refused to come back into the Waffle Hut.

The waitresses both came out because people were getting mad waiting for the orders.

Soon enough, everyone in the restaurant was looking out the windows and pointing, wondering what was wrong with me.

I got out of the Bronco and walked a couple of steps and then turned around and got back into the Bronco and headed east.

I felt sorry for Maury, but I hated cleaning those bathrooms so bad, I just couldn't stand working there another night.

Two days later, I entered the exciting world of plastics.