I wasn't scheduled to work that night at the diner, but one of my coworkers slipped on a packet of ketchup and sprained her butt. That's why I was called in to fill her position that dark and stormy night when he showed up. It was the usual chaos around the diner, a dirty little place off the intersection of Going and Nowhere, which, like this book, was the story of my life. I'd worked at the small, cramped, old-fashioned rectangular building for the last seven years and saw myself coming near the end of my college years without any way to brake and put the car of life in reverse. I was plump, but not fat, witty, but not mean, blond haired, but not dumb, and made more friends than enemies with whom I met. It was a comfortable life, other than the stress of college and work, but not one with much prospect of becoming a millionaire and living a life of retirement at age forty. If I kept up this pace I could retire at four hundred and spend the rest of my days on life-support. One of my friends, Sheila, was helping me run the diner that night.
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