Seb & Mr B: 'Regular Joe'

Squinting in the afternoon sunlight, young Bjorn pulled into an employee parking spot to the side of 'Pie For the People!', the local brew & pizza joint on McEnroe BLVD. One of the delivery drivers, also a mechanic, had referred to his 1980 T-Bird as the 'Thunder-Chicken,' he recalled as the engine clunked to a halt.
Inside there were a few young couples sipping pop and picking at slices of pie. Other than that, it appeared to be a slow afternoon; a couple of delivery guys were shooting the shit by the side-door.
Bjorn came in at his usual time (about 10minutes late) when the house manager, emerging at the top of the basement-stairs, began his usual diatribe on how 'hard it is to find good help these days,' and, 'goddammit! Somebody's gotta get this compost under control! Can you smell this?! God!' Bjorn could smell it. 'It,' was a busy coupla evenings and the organic matter situation was a bit out of control.
Mick (the manager) wiped his spectacles on his shirt a bit and made his way across the parlour to look up at Bjorn.
"Late again. Shame shame." A good-natured smile on his scheming mug: "The compost needs to be taken out and I've just found myself a volunteer. Feed the goats!"
There were no goats yesterday. Today there were goats? Okay. Was this one of Mick's lame jokes?
Mick pointed at a bucket of partially eaten food with mysterious bits of vegetable matter lumped in, here and there. Bjorn obeyed and grabbed the bucket by its wire handle. A grinning Aubrey, apparently on dough-detail, judging from the flour on her hands and apron, nodded him in the proper direction. "The goats, Bjorn."
Mumbling, he made his way toward their imaginary feeding pen. Everybody around him seemed comfortable with the situation so he just played along. The reel in his head showed him that the contents of the bucket was mere fodder for the dumpster under normal circumstances. Hell; last time there was no 'goat bucket.' The leftovers just ended up in the industrial-size plastic trashcan at the bussing station.
Bjorn remembered another thing as he nervously walked toward the rear exit of the parlour. There couldn't be a feeding pen out there. It didn't make a bit of sense. Out back, there were only a couple dumpsters and a little parking lot. After all, he worked at a restaurant, not a petting-zoo.
As usual, the smell of dough, cheese, and cardboard would be wafting from the dumpster outside of the parlour, maybe somebody having a smoke...
Upon pushing open the metal door that led outside he was presented an entirely contradictory sight.
Green grass and a fenced enclosure.
"That's a feeding trough," he said beneath his breath. "There are goats out here." Even the odor was different than last time...
This was either an elaborate hoax (in which case he was certainly flattered by the attention) or something had been bent terribly askew within the time-space continuum. He waved the absurd idea aside. "Too many comic books, Bjorn."
The hungry animals had begun a commotion in their pen at his appearance and the unbidden thought in his head, "These fool animals are always hungry," made him wonder whether something had been bent terribly askew in his brain-space continuum.
Poor, confused lad...