Working at the El Monte (or these are the gems I come across when weeding through my papers)

in Granby, Colorado. Run by Polish immigrants. I was sitting with my co-workers at a table as they watched the Super Bowl. "Who's playing?" I asked. "The Broncos! How can you not know? The Denver Broncos!" There was an older, hardened lady with permed lackluster brown hair. A chain smoker. There was a man in his 40's who was always asking me, "How in the hell did you end up here?" I forget his job. Then another tall guy who was the cook and lived in barely more than a shed out back. The dishwasher was the old Polish grandmotehr who spoke no English. The two little boys were full of mishief. Especially the slovenly older one who seemed so sneaky and was always trying to get his brother in trouble. I ate those crazy sandwiches there. What are they called? Oh yeah, Monte Cristos. It was like fried dough with ham and swiss cheese inside and powdered sugar on the outside. And shoestring fries. They had an old fashioned milk machine. When I worked the front desk I watched TV. Me and the wife of Joe, the owner.