I open the microwave door and pull out the bag by the edge. I unlatch the back of The Nacho Machine. It has no other name than that. The heat shoots up my nostrils and my thoughts turn to breakfast possibilities. Then I shut the back of the door, reach my hand around to the front and turn the power on.
Nachos are ready.
The night guy is supposed to take care of bad milk and bad beer, but he never does. I don't blame him. He hasn't had time to be trained. He's only been here a week, and the guy who he replaced had only been here two months. The guy before him had been here four full months, but a robbery scared him out of convenience store work and back into school.