Throughout most of high school, I worked in a supermarket as a cashier. That was actually a pretty terrific time because I worked with a bunch of cool people and we had some good times. Lots of hanging out after work in the parking lot, talking nonsense. But before that, I had the worst job ever.
I worked at the airport.
That’s right, the airport, at a restaurant/buffet/bar in terminal B (I think that was it’s name actually—Restaurant/Buffet/Bar). At the time, I was kind of scared of driving on the expressway (a la Clueless), so I took the local roads which meant a half hour drive. Then, I had to park in the employee parking lot and take a bus to the airport—about a fifteen-minute ride. Then, I had to go through security (not as bad then, but still) and then hop on the shuttle to terminal B, where I finally had to take an elevator downstairs to the locker room and put on my uniform (we weren’t allowed to wear them to work). Then go back upstairs and finally, finally, clock in. I usually had to leave about an hour and fifteen minutes before my shift even started. But, oh well, it was a job.
I was fortunate enough to secure the much sought after position of line server, so basically I got to stand over steaming trays of food and scoop food onto people’s plates. This is loads of fun at the airport where most people that came to Restaurant/Buffet/Bar were usually “in a mood” because their flight was delayed and they had time to kill. I would plop a small scoop of lasagna on their plate and when they insisted I pile it on because they were paying five hundred dollars for it, I had to explain that I had to use this measurement and they would be charged double if I scooped more on their plate. This is when their eyeballs would pop out and they would yell at me.
“Honey, have you seen the size of this lasagna” —Yes, sir, I saw it. I scooped it. And please don’t call me honey. It’s creepy.
“How can you charge that much for this!” –I don’t set the prices, but if I did, I’d charge you more on account that you’re yelling at me.
“Are you serious?”—Quite.
“Don’t you think that’s a little insane?”—Quite.
“I bet you get yelled at a lot.”—Yes, yes I do. Thanks for realizing this is out of my control. Here’s a quarter of a teaspoon of extra lasagna just for you! Wink, wink.
Honestly, I wouldn’t have cared to plop more on to their heart’s content, but Eagle Eyes that rung up the order would have none of that. She once reamed me out for giving someone an extra shriveled up chicken nugget that had been under the warming lamps for five hours.
Also, did I mention my uniform consisted of black and white checkered pants, an ugly oversized chef’s jacket, and a huge Chef Boyardee type hat. But still, this wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that I usually had an eight or nine hour shift on the weekend. And during that eight or nine hour shift, all I could do was envy everyone who was coming through the line. They were all going somewhere. They weren’t pushing mushy bland lasagna. They were going places. They were going to other countries. They were traveling the world . . . or maybe even Daluth, but the point is they were going. While I was stuck here at a minimum wage paying job, getting yelled at, and wearing funny clothes. It kind of sucked.
Anyway, that was my worst high school job. Did you love your job or hate your job in high school? Did it require a funny outfit? Is it weird that I hope it does and it would make the me of then feel better?
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