There's Irene, the quiet woman with a worried mother's eyes. I help her unpack magical boxes filled with staggering volumes of Frank's Red Hot sauce, breaded chicken filet, Double Dutch Chocolate Frozen Yogurt Mix. Her son is named Tim, she told me today.
Erica made small talk with me and my attractive co-worker; I appreciated her breaking the ice.
Lorraine is above it all. She masters her Newsday crossword (at least I think it's Newsday, I was never able to get close enough to her to see), leaning over a table. She'll let you know when you need to yell louder.
We're supposed to yell out the name of whatever we take from the kitchen, so the cooks know when they're running out. Bellowing out "Tater Tots!" every 15 minutes or so, only to be graced with a "Thank You!" to which I respond, "Thank you."It is one of the great pleasures of my occupation.
There is another that bears mentioning, but I do not know her name. If I could name her, she would be Bonnie. She waddles in a rapid, skittish manner, making comments to herself constantly. Example: reaching for a jar on a high shelf. "Come here you." Breaking down a cardboard box: "You had to be taped up, didn't you?." Once I responded to one of her twitterings. Something inane like "One of those days?" She seemed surprised that I had talked to her. She mumbled something and walked past me.
