I got my first job the summer before my first year at the University of Michigan. I figured I'd need money for late-night Taco Bell excursions, and something on my resume under "jobs" other than giving music lessons. I wanted a uniform, I wanted regular hours, I wanted stories about nightmare customers I could tell my children years ahead, when they were diving into the world of working for minimum wage.

I got the job through my friend Rachel. I planned to ask her to put in a good word for me in a most gracious way. I would tell her that I adored working with people, and how I was passionate about creating a clean, safe, and enjoyable dining experience for people. The conversation was a lot more informal than I planned.

Me: Hey, I kinda need a job.

Rachel: Oh, do you wanna work with me?

Me: Yeah.

Rachel: K.

A few days later, I found myself sitting in a booth with another girl from my high school, as the manager at Bilbo's Pizza asked about our availability and whether or not we were 18. We both got jobs, and we started that next Friday. I was both a hostess and a waitress, and I stayed for the whole summer, only leaving when classes began in Ann Arbor.

(Author's note: Yes, you heard that right. B-I-L-B-O-S Pizza. As in, "Lord of the Rings." As in, our bread sticks were called "Hobbit Sticks." Sadly, if you're looking to give Bilbo's a try after reading this, Bilbo's has been replaced by Kalamazoo County's first Chik-Fil-A. RIP Bilbo's.)

I could write an article about how I learned to give great customer service, diffuse tense situations with unhappy customers, and how I learned so much about myself in the process. However, these aren't those stories. Instead, I give to you, dear reader, a collection of tales about the most memorable customers at Bilbo's Pizza.

The Heroin Salad Man

I'll set the scene: It's a happy, sun-shiny day, and it's one of my first shifts as a waitress. I was very excited, because I'd finished my training, and I'd get to make tips! My first customer was a very large man, with many, many chins. They didn't simply sit on his face--oh, no! Instead, as the number of complaints that fell from his lips increased, his chins wobbled on top of each other, making his face look like a waterfall of blubber and skin.

He wanted a big salad--one with green peppers, onions, black olives, anchovies, and pepperoni. I told him that we'd have to charge for the different meats, but of course he could have a big salad. I took it to him, and he said his salad wasn't vegetable-y enough. I asked if he wanted more peppers or onions, and he just sort of stared off into space and said, "It just isn't vegetable-y." I pressed more: "I'm sorry, sir. Do you want more peppers, more olives?" His temper grew: "IT JUST NEEDS TO BE MORE VEGETABLE-Y!"

He wound up leaving, after refusing to pay for his drink he also ordered. His chins wobbled threateningly. Later, I told my manager about him. "Oh, that guy?" she said. "Yeah, I know that guy. He used to live in a building near me. He did a lot of heroin, and he's bipolar."

Thanks for sticking me with heroin salad man, bro.

The Daddy-Daughter Date (Feat. Incest)

Another memorable pair was a father and daughter duo. He was saying how proud he was of her as I took them to their seats, and my heart was happy, knowing I'd get to take care of a nice family. Seeing them brought happy memories I had of me and my father to mind: how we'd get donuts together, how he taught me to drive, and how he accompanied me to the Daddy-Daughter Dance my Girl Scout Troop hosted. The dad had typical grey-dad hair, with khaki shorts and sandals, and the daughter wore a trendy outfit from Victoria's Secret.

It wasn't till I returned with their drinks, to find them with their tongues down each other's throats, that I learned they were apparently (hopefully) not father and daughter. They looked very surprised to see my facial expression had morphed into such a surprised grimace, which wouldn't have been there at all had he not looked like one of those dads who volunteered at elementary school field days.

Oh well, they tipped 20 percent.

The Kind Mushroom Lady

I helped a lady in a wheelchair settle into her table, as she'd arrived ten minutes before her husband. As I got her situated, she took from her purse a small blue box. She opened it, showing me a turquoise ring she planned to give to him that night, the night of their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and, on a sadder note, the anniversary their son died. She said how he'd always loved the look of the matte turquoise stones, and how the blue of the gem reminded her of his eyes, and also the eyes of their son, who'd been adopted but took on some of her husband's smallest mannerisms.

She also ordered a dozen of our stuffed portobello mushrooms, because "Hey, I just like mushrooms."

I hope that the kind mushroom lady is doing well, wherever she is.

The Nice, Unfortunate Kids Who Worked at Journeys

Some people about my age were having their employee meeting at Bilbo's. I learned they were all students, all worked at Journey's (a shoe store) and all loved hot pepper flakes. "I love hot pepper flakes," one girl said. A guy said, "But I love them more."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah."

"Nope."

Through that simple exchange, a challenge was born. Who loved hot pepper more, Girl Who Worked at Journey's, or Dude Who Worked at Journey's? Dude Who Worked at Journeys (DWWAJ from here on out) shook a bit of red pepper flakes into his hand. He ate them, without grimacing. Girl Who Worked at Journey's (GWWAJ from here on out) shook out even more flakes and ate those.

"Wow!" I said, actually impressed.

Enter: Unfortunate Girl, who fell prey to the oh-so-simple lack of self control (who will be referred to as "Lot's Wife" from here on out). With such gusto and pride, she enthusiastically shook the red pepper flake container, whose top flew off, covering her hands, wrists, and forearms with red pepper flakes.

And you know what? She ate them. Lot's Wife inhaled them like a coked out vacuum cleaner.

Then she went into the bathroom and, I'm fairly sure, projectile vomited.

And that was the end of that. They tipped 25%.

Red pepper, picky heroin addicts, cute families, kind old ladies, free bread sticks, pay checks, tiny waitress aprons.

10/10.