In the bowels of a historic hotel on the southern edge of one of the seven natural wonders of the world, works a man.

This man is a real person, but shall remain obscure to protect the ... well, to protect the man. The man has stringy gray hair and unordinarily vivid, rosy cheeks. his face is so womanish that the first time I met him, I only knew he was a man by hearing his name: Bob.

Recently my girlfriend and I went on a little adventure to the Grand Canyon to work there for the summer. We thirsted for some place new and exciting, some place to explore, some place other than home. I hoped to be financially independent for three months, meet new people and gain a decent job reference. I didn't reach financial independence even once. I will probably never actually put my work there on a resume. But I did meet people that will forever live in my thoughts. One such man was Bob.

Bob trained me in the art of washing dishes and scrubbing pots - pots I could've crawled into and hidden in had I thought to. And indeed I might've had the pots not been filled with pools of slurry and muck.

I asked Bob how he liked the work. The man appeared to be spending the last quarter of his life slaving at least 10 hours a night in a ridiculously hot kitchen, underpaid and understaffed, and I had the gall to ask how he liked it. But he replied with a deceptively casual nod, "The work is good." His wet, popping-wide eyes, however, perpetually howled in opposition to that white lie. The work was not good. He knew it and so did I.

Maybe the lousy work was well worth having one of the seven natural wonders of the world in our backyard. Maybe it wasn't. But Bob never gave me the impression that he was even fully aware of our extraordinary location. Actually, Bob didn't give me the impression of being fully aware at all. I soon found that Bob's grip on reality seemed a mixed bag that I learned to approach with caution.

I suppose the kitchen had that effect on most of the kitchen utility workers. I know I felt a bit delirious walking to my dingy dorm room in the wee hours of the morning with other people's dinner grease holding up my hair.

Bob and this other kitchen guy with a mustache, whose name I never cared to learn, used to yell and swear at each other throughout the nightshift. On a few occasions it seemed the only things that kept them from breaking out into a brawl with industrial-sized kitchen knives were the metal counter between them and the shared desire to keep their jobs. One time Bob actually journeyed around the long metal counter to face the mustache guy, perhaps just to assure his younger colleague that he could make the trip if need be.

Bob had a way of answering questions in a dramatic modification of his already high-pitched voice. He made it seem that whatever I'd asked was an issue he'd already given much thought and worry to. Though he was my superior and mentor, I found his knowledge of kitchen goings-on to be surreal. According to Bob, we weren't allowed any breaks except for five minutes here and there to re-hydrate our profusely sweating bodies. I later discovered I had the luxury of a full-on dinner break if I could work fast enough to make up for those lost ten minutes or so.

Bob once informed me we were understaffed because the company that owned the restaurant simply couldn't find enough people to hire. Actually, the company received so many applications for summer work, they rejected perfectly qualified applicants. He once told me the kitchen utility workers weren't allowed to listen to music even though the rest of the kitchen staff had music playing the entire time. Bob was just a bank of random knowledge - He had no need of verification just some sort of response.

Bob was a good enough guy, I guess. But I have to wonder what the hell he was doing with his life. If the man had genuinely enjoyed his work, that would be one thing. But Bob seemed a truly disparaged man. You know the expression that goes something like, "If you keep making that face, it's going to freeze like that?" Bob's face looked as though he'd been on the verge of weeping enough times to prove the cliché true. Maybe I'm wrong. I sincerely hope I'm wrong. If I'm not wrong, I pray that the life paths I follow lead me to a happier place than Bob's path lead him - cleaning away his life and health in an oven-like kitchen in the bowels of a historic hotel in one of the seven natural wonders of the world.

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