Hell Reeks of Grease
	I remember walking into Wendy’s in my nicest pants and button-up shirt, fidgeting my hands alone at the restaurant's only round table, awaiting my first ever job interview. I look around the restaurant, hoping for some sign of encouragement, but only receive dejected looks from the employees as they sit in a torn booth, cleaning the hard plastic trays with a damp towel. I am expecting a long, gruesome interview where I have to prove to the company why I am the best possible candidate to be a so-highly-honored sandwich artiste. I am not expecting to be hired on the spot, blindly agreeing to sell my soul to the depths of hell.
	I remember the overwhelming dread penetrating my core every time I enter the first set of double doors leading into the dining room. Every day walking in, I am forced to start making mediocre sandwiches to relieve the backup caused by the incompetent employees before me, barely having time to throw on a greasy apron before being shoved behind the assembly line of pitiful meats and vegetables. In between sandwiches, I am rushing to the frying station and sticking my hand into the basket of pure heat, feeling tumors growing on my hand through the thin rubber glove as the radiation bakes down. Whenever there is a blissful moment without customers, a bottle of ungodly acid and a disposable towel thinner than a sheet of looseleaf paper are thrown into my hands as I am shoved into the bathroom to clean up the messes made by people who have no clue how toilets actually work. On the off-chance that I am lucky enough to be awarded a thirty minute unpaid break, I am sure to order a greasy junior bacon cheeseburger meal that I have to make myself, but it is all worth it when I save a crisp one dollar bill with the lucrative 50% off employee discount. I take my sorry hamburger to an empty booth, careful not to spill my drink as I will be forced to clean it up, and silently eat my meal as the smell of pure grease assaults my nose.
	The moment my thirty minutes of peace time out, I am forcefully drug back behind the counter to fix the life-threatening issues that have sprung up. The automated vending machine running out of syrup for Mello Yello. The fryer leaking grease onto the sticky tile floor. The fries scattered across the floor of the walk-in freezer when somebody thought kicking a soggy cardboard box of loosely contained fries would be a good way to release anger. The man in his mid-forties demanding a refund because his triple cheeseburger only had a regular amount of pickles when he distinctly asked for extra pickles, who apparently has nothing else to do on a Thursday afternoon than complain about poor service at a dumpy fast food restaurant run by teenagers. The same man coming back into the restaurant and stealing a cardboard box of hundreds of ketchup packets to get revenge on the establishment. Despite some of these minor troubles, it is all worth it, when I receive my juicy pink paycheck for not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, not six, not seven, but seven dollars and fifty cents every hour, before government withholdings of course.