Time to Play?
What was your first real paying job as a teen? Did you work during your summer vacation? Or did you play, watching your days melt away as fast as the soft-serve ice cream cone on a July day?
My mother was certain I would not find a summer job.
First off, summer had started, as defined by the last day of school, which meant all the cushy, decent-paying positions were taken.
In my hometown, unless you knew someone who owned a family business, choices were limited to toiling at the degrading, greasy fast-food chains or relentless waitressing at the truck stop. Apart from babysitting, I was out of luck. I had no farmhand experience and was scared of tractors, which ruled out earning good money bailing hay.
That’s why I walked into Hardee’s, filled out an application, and walked out excited to be employed. I had a minimum-wage job behind the counter. Easy-peasy.
I proved I could find a job. That’s all I wanted. However, my first shift forced me to contend with bossy managers only a few years older than me, work weekend hours until closing, and smile at surly customers. I dealt with nicer, patient people than not. And I learned about Hardee’s unadvertised menu item— cheese sandwiches, ordered by the vegetarian patrons.
Employee perks included discounts on any menu item. My favorite meal was a fish fillet sandwich and fries. (I still like fillet-o-fish with yellow cheese on a soft bun.)
But there weren’t enough fish sandwiches or digits in my paycheck to compensate me for wearing the mandatory ugly uniform. A muddy brown polyester fabric, which always smelled like greasy fries, was the worst. Although every Hardee’s employee looked as drab as their uniform.
As miserable as I was, I worked weekends through the fall. I suppose I needed to prove to myself (and my parents) that I could keep this lousy job. An experience that taught me I had to start my job search earlier next time.
The following year, I was wiser in my quest to find summer work. My best friend and I got a gig serving three meals to rowdy campers at the college. No weekends! Afternoons off! Only hairnets, no goofy uniforms.
Funny, I can’t remember a supervisor. Perhaps she was out of sight doing important stuff while I was lifting heavy trays, weaving in-between long tables. Back and forth from the steamy kitchen to the dining hall and back. It was hard, sweaty labor.
The day started at 6 a.m. and I didn’t mind because working alongside my best friend made every hour fly by. The joy and misery of a summer job forged our friendship deeper.
***
My retired girl friends, and I were enjoying a gelato in a coffee shop this summer afternoon when in walked a smartly dressed teenager. He wore black pants, a white button-down shirt, and clean black shoes. Our table was close enough to eavesdrop on his job interview.
“What experience do you have?” she asked.
He told her he worked in food service, grocery stores, and restaurants. I didn’t hear her response, only his.
“I’m a hard worker. I understand your loyalty to the people who worked here last summer,” he said.
He didn’t sound upset, and I thought he had likely faced rejection a few times because it was already summer and job-hunting season had begun.
