A long time ago, but not too far way, I was 19 and cruising towards Golden Gate bridge from Sonoma county at 3am in the rain when my Chevy Chevette hit a large rock. Don't ask me what that boulder thought it was doing, crossing the 101 at 3am, and spare me the jokes about it getting to the other side. Suffice to say that the Chevette was totalled. The story of how I made it back home with no money is an interesting one, but best left for another time. The point is that I found myself back home with no money to pay rent and no way to get to my current job. And so I found myself contemplating my fate over a mug 'o coffee, the next evening, two blocks away.

And around 10:30 a large, red-faced, fat man waddled out demanding to know where the graveyard waitress was. The current waitresses related, in a rather colorful manner, that they did not know, nor could they be bothered to find out. So the fat man suggested that one of them pull a double shift. And one of the waitresses suggested he fuck a dump truck. And the fat man, possibly contemplating the idea of waddling around slinging hash all night, began to look as if he might cry.

Most of the time, we are not around to witness the moments that decide our fate, much less observe the sequence of events leading up to that moment. But fate had clearly spoken that this was going to be one of those 'serenity to accept the things I cannot change' deals. And so I stood before the fat man, and humbly stated that if he would hire me, I would work the graveyard shift. Tonight.

And the fat man paused, reaching deep into depths of his eighth grade education, and figured nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'. And I worked the graveyard shift that night. And I worked for the next five years.

With the drunks and the punks, and the morning hags, and the dead-heads on acid who do not eat their food as much as play with it and study it, and the brits, who in a Denny's acheive levels of rudeness that make the French blush, and the Twisted Sisters (actually mother and daughter) who are older than time, harder than pavement, and meaner than a hangover, and Noel, the permanent fixture at the end of the counter that drank coffee 24 hours a day, and became unglued when the newbies forgot to keep him on decaf, and restaurant management -- last refuge of the hopelessly incompetent.

And Reverand Clarence Thomas (no relation) with more soul in his little finger than most see in a lifetime, who came to see me walk at graduation, and Irma who went out and bought me an iron because she was sick of seeing me show up in a wrinkled uniform, and Tina, 4'10" 85 pounds of fiendish wit and superhuman serving skills, and Kelli, the stunning, regal, queen of swingshift who I dated for two years (six months of which were kept secret from the Denny's crew). Five Years.

And the only solid evidence of my time there is my Denny's coffee mug, which I fully expect to hold my ashes one day -- testament to a life who's soundtrack would not so much be accompanied by an orchestra as much as a kazoo. Aside from my memories, that mug is all I have. But I can't seem to locate it at the moment. Should any of you run across it in the near future, please return it to my desk as soon as possible.