By Hannah Ruttan
Bright red sauce splattered across the stainless steel cooler doors and plastic black handles. White chocolate so viscous that there is a chorus of jokes whenever we have to use it. Those are the best nights, where we can joke about some things on the floor and everything else behind closed wooden doors. That goddamn mustard, coating every inch of the paper wrapper and clear food service gloves. At least the pay makes up for the dark yellow stains on my blue jeans. The pungent, spicy smell of Sriracha mixed with mayonnaise and peppers. Corporate named it Boom Boom sauce. Damn it, another ketchup packet on the floor.