Sal’s
only job was to make sure the saltshakers were always filled. Full. His boss
told him on his first day that he knew exactly how much a perfectly filled salt
shaker should weigh, and if even one grain of salt was missing, his ass would
be grass, and, by God, the boss would do some serious mowing.
He
watched the tables and booths like a hawk, and when the customers stood up to
leave, even before they could put on their coats, he’d rush on over to check
and fill the salt, even if the customer had only inadvertently brushed the
shaker with a careless elbow.
He
kept the job for years, kept the shakers filled, kept the boss happy and the
customers salted to within an inch of their lives. No one ever complained. Most
people never even noticed; no one except the boss, who frequently conducted
random weigh-ins but never found even a single crystal missing.
When
he finally retired, decades later, his diligence was duly noted: corporate
executives decreed that a memorial plaque bearing his name and photo and
extolling his contribution to their success be mounted in the employee’s
lounge, though (to be honest) no one ever really lounged there much.