You know your life can't be working out too well if you are accepting orders for Grand Slam Breakfasts. It was March of '99. I had misguidedly lost my virginity to an AWOL marine and discovered the harsh reality of government involvement in my paychecks. Life was not looking up. I would get my revenge in small ways: serving decaf to those who wanted regular and vice versa. When pretty girls came in I would often rave about the milkshakes, secretly hoping they would leave at my weight instead of theirs. But it wasn't until I was offered a job as a prostitute by a man named Quantum that I truly realized life was an asshole.

            The day had gotten off to a rocky start. I had already been accused of being a racist because of the way I had served lemon wedges to a biracial family. It was then that two gaudy, scantily clad women entered with Quantum on that brisk March evening. They both wore sunglasses despite the absence of sun, and he looked as though he was in an SNL skit making fun of himself. The women ordered salads and I furtively withheld the croutons. He ordered nothing. They left after generously leaving me a quarter. I assumed the interchange was over. I was outside on my fifteen-minute break when my manager walked out and said I had a phone call. Quantum was on the phone. His breath was audible before his voice.

            "Do you like your job?" he asked me with gooey condescension. I didn't quite know how to respond. I thought about all the times that I had begged my mother to tell my manager I had a bleeding ulcer, and all the times I had wished that a big rig would topple onto my face so I would not have to deal with the four elderly retarded perverts who sat at my station for hours ordering Cherry Coke and paying in nickels.

            "Yes, I like my job." I replied.

            "I could offer you a much better one, Cutie." He quickly retorted.

            "No, thank you." I was sixteen and still said things like "thank you" after being sexually harassed.

            "You could make a lot of money. Wouldn't you like a new car?"

            I hung up. Could it be that my job was so horrible that becoming a hooker was a step up? Was being a hooker really any more degrading? I would serve tables of football teams on Saturday afternoons and receive a two-dollar tip. I would run around frantically looking for green crayons and booster seats while Quantum and his posse causally ordered Caesar salads. Was I really so above his proposition? What the Hell was I doing with my life? There had to be a better way.

            March tuned to April and I quit working at Denny's. I told them that school had become too demanding. When I went to pick up my last paycheck it took me five minutes and a photo ID to convince my former boss I had ever worked there at all.