So, I went to official job training last month, or as Panera likes to call it, "Breaducation." My favorite part was when we all had to stand up and shout the company motto: "Bread is our heart, soul and expertise." This was not the manager's favorite part. In fact, she preemptively apologized, admitting that she hated making us do it-but company policy required it. The first time, we five trainees together failed even to approach the volume of the manager on her own. Our second try, predictably, was better-isn't that the essence of training? We were so much better, in fact, that the manager declared, "OK, you're all brainwashed. You can sit down."

Despite my Breaducation, I showed up for my first day of work without any knowledge of how to work a cash register. And after less than a full week, the manager, Crystal, called me into her office. "We haven't had someone like you here in a long time," she said-I mean, I was the only white employee besides herself-and offered me a promotion on the spot; the pay would be better, and the only change in my hours would be working eight to three instead of nine to four.

I thought immediately of an economics class I took in my first year. As wages increase, Professor Steven Rivkin told us, people want to work more and play less. "Aren't there some situations in which an increase in pay would make someone want to work less," I asked.

Yes, in fact there were. Professor Rivkin described, to quote, a "surfer dude" who just needed $100 a week to survive in his little beach bungalow, and had no interest in cutting into his surfing time to earn more. Never did I think Professor Rivkin's surfer dude would describe me. But, three years down the line, I turned the promotion down, citing my penchant for surfing before work.

That same day, a very elderly couple came to the counter in search of soup. Ignoring the sign, they asked, "What kinds of soup do you have?" After I ran down the list three times, the husband ran down the same list once more, asking if each soup was spicy-they couldn't eat spicy food. Nope, none of our soups are spicy, I told him, and offered up samples.

Apparently, he didn't believe me, because as I went to fetch said samples, I heard him turn to Armando, the other cashier, and ask if the soup was spicy. While Armando took at least 15 other orders, this old couple sampled, and then ordered, literally every soup we had, only to change their minds as soon as I'd punched it into the register. Eventually, they settled on Fiesta Con Queso, the spiciest soup we had.

"Such an ordeal," said the old man, accusingly, as I handed him change. Immediately, I ran down to the food production line (feeling very much like Brian Griffin) to tell them to make this a Spit Pea soup. On my way back, Crystal tapped me on the shoulder and complimented my patience. Surfer Dude, despite his lack of ambition, had remained in the boss' good graces.

There's only one thing more obnoxious than the customers-the company's policy on feeding employees, which is to say they don't. This stinginess leaves us with three options for lunch every day: pay Panera more than an hour's wages for a meal, bring a homemade lunch to work, or steal the food they won't give us free. Like all other employees, I have pursued the third option.

I started small, taking only the apples and chips that are "free sides" for the customers. But each day I grew bolder. If I wanted a bagel, for instance? I just waited until someone ordered one. Then I would mutilate it. Can't sell it now. Guess I might as well eat it myself.

I soon moved on to pilfering sandwiches, which required a little more of the team spirit they tried to Breaducate us in, but was still easily done. By my second week, I was ready to tackle the holy grail of employee thievery: the French baguettes. Because they are kept in a particularly visible place, it's a risky endeavor. But after an hour of planning, I pulled it off, unnoticed even by Armando.

That night I sat at my kitchen table, and, in lieu of a real dinner, gorged myself on the whole baguette, dipped in milk. Of course, I felt sick the rest of the night. But at a job whose greatest challenge lay in not berating the customers, I had to keep it interesting. The baguette I pilfered the next day went directly to one of Santa Monica's many homeless. I felt like Robin Hood (even though I knew excess bread was donated to a shelter every night).

Meanwhile, Crystal was increasingly resentful that whitey didn't want to move up in the company. In a voice you might use to teach a pre-school class the ABCs: "You have to greet the customer verbally." Apparently, despite my Breaducation, I hadn't yet been brainwashed into perfection.

By my third week at Panera, I realized that perfection at this job, no matter how easily achieved (very easily), could offer me no real satisfaction. I put more care towards each comma in this column than towards anything at Panera. Excellence be damned, I decided. I'd do enough to not get fired. And for the first time in my life, I actively committed myself to mediocrity.

That commitment began with calling in sick on a sunny Friday. And it continued that Sunday night: Scott (a friend of Dan's from high school) had people over to dinner while his sister was in town. Around 11 p.m., with work the next morning, Dan and Ashley went home. I made a feeble attempt to follow suit, but was quickly persuaded to stay when Scott's sister, a Stanford undergrad, challenged me to a drink off.

The results were predictable: the 105 lb girl was quickly dispatched, and spent the latter part of the night vomiting; I fared much better, but didn't wake up until Crystal called at 9:45 a.m. to ask where the hell I was. When I showed (in flip-flops and reeking of beer) at 10:45, I was met with predictable hostility. Yet by the end of the day, it seemed most was forgiven. "You must really have been sick this weekend," Crystal said, mistaking paleness and a dry mouth (i.e. hangover) for the remnants of a stomach virus. Getting fired from Panera clearly poses a greater challenge than working there does.

Whenever I've been benched in soccer, or my chronic aversion to due dates has lost me the favor of a professor (or an editor), I've redoubled my efforts to regain the lost respect. But when Crystal stopped giving me that patronizing smile of hers every morning? I didn't bat an eyelash. Armando is her chosen one now, and that's cool with me. He sells drugs to other employees right behind the store, but always clocks in on time, and I just can't compete with that. Surfer Dude has other things to worry about-like skiing and surfing in the same day (yes, you can do that here).

Check in next week to see if Ian's moved onto Armando's turf. He welcomes comments, questions and customers at iglovett@amherst.edu.