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I work as a valet at a big hotel downtown. I sit in my glass booth on the corner, watch cars go by, tell people where the closest CVS is, and occasionally, park a car.
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Somedays, while he is on break, Pops the Chef will stand outside my booth and tell me stories while he smokes two or three cigarettes. Four, if it’s a really hot day in the kitchen.
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“Pops” is not actually his name. His name is Bobby, but the first time he introduced himself, I misheard and thought he said “Pops.” There are loud cars driving by, you understand. Plus, my supervisor’s name is Bobby, so “Pops” just stuck in my head.
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In his spotless white chef outfit and American flag bandanna, he’ll tell me his crazy stories. Bobby the Supervisor describes Pops as a loose cannon. Pops talks about how he saves so much money with this DirecTV subscription he has, or how the other chefs don’t spice up their food like he does, or sometimes about New York, which is where he’s from. He has a great accent.
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Yesterday I had just gotten to work and was sitting there eating an Italian BMT from Subway. Pops showed up for his break and threw open the door to my booth. “What are you eating!?” he cried in his loud New York voice.
“You caught me!” I said, raising my hands.
“Subway! You wasted your hard-earned money on Subway!?”
“My mom sent me a giftcard,” I said.
“Well, I guess if your mom sent you a giftcard…” he said.
Pops fought in Beirut years and years ago. He’ll tell me stories about that, too. Like this one time he blew up some kids. With a bazooka or something. No joke. It’s awful. But he says the kids had guns and were just waiting for them to get close enough, so he had to do it, you see.
I enjoy storytime with Pops. At first I was a bit intimidated by him. I would just sit there and nod and smile and laugh when he made a joke, or agree with him when he started talking about politics. It doesn’t matter who you support; if you think somebody could have some kinda war flashback and go crazy on you, talking about those bazookas, you’d agree with him too.