"I think about running to the back to call 911, but my older, always stoned male co-worker stays up front and watches. So I freeze. A few punches and a broken chair later, red shirt guy runs off and leaves scrawny guy covering his face. Defeated, he glances at us, walks to the bathroom, then rushes out the back door, dripping blood along the way.
"But it isn't over yet. Shortly after, two women enter in hysterics with the blare of police sirens behind them. 'Why didn't you DO something!?' one shrieks at me. 'Uh, I dunno lady, probably because I'm a short teen girl who barely weighs 100lbs holding a bag of lettuce,' I think.
"Co-worker simply grabs the mop to take care of the carnage, and I go back to work. We never told the boss what happened or how the chair broke." -- Heather Martinson
It's a sign
"I worked at a chain 'roadhouse' in college -- the kind of place where you could throw peanuts on the floor -- and was forever running afoul of management, as smoked-out student-servers do.
"Early one evening, a co-worker and I were in the building's glass-enclosed vestibule, cracking open peanuts that were available for waiting customers. A few hundred yards from the restaurant, towering over the nearby boulevard, was a billboard for a plastic surgery practice. The sign featured, quite literally, a giant rack.