Guest Check

Writing is rewriting—a version of this appeared in a piece titled Three's the Charm.  

Before swiping became the path to love, I bumbled into the dating world by waiting tables. How to save a turkey sandwich from an accidental finger bleed is one tale I tell, but it wasn't the most revolting thing that happened at my first job. 

My family spent summers in New Hampshire at our lakeside cottage in the woods. One particular year, maybe I was 14, my two sisters and I replaced the bathing suits of childhood with pink-checkered two-pieces. Like magic, sun-tanned boys from around the lake boated over to our docks, all gassed up, with motors running. This was a switch from childhood summers when our only friends were each other. Elvis's hip-swerving throbs competed with the Wah-Watusi back then, and lucky us, we sped off from the shelter of our family dock riding in boats with boys. All this outside attention nudged Mom's nose out from under her pile of books. She'd never admit she was jumpy, but she started drawing circles around summer jobs for teens the following summer. 

Job hunting was a slap-dash family affair. With my two little brothers licking popsicles in the backseat, Mom idled in a parking lot while I dashed in to see if the no-name dinette in Merrimac was still hiring. I don't think the owner, a man with a round, protruding belly, sneered at me, but I see his greasy, brown-stained apron pooching out, and I remember how my breath caught when he grunted "Yes," he could use me. My memory of his mother is more precise. On cue, she darted out from behind the breakfast counter, squinty eyes needling me, and pronounced six a.m. as the start time for my shift. 

She was wiry and shorter than the petite 15-year-old me.  She didn't have a tail but whipped around the kitchen like a squirrel. Strands from her grey bun flew. I chased behind her, scampering in and out of the walk-in freezer, and swooshed through the swinging doors while listening to her bark directives: Only two slices of tomatoes on the BLT! Fifty cents more for extra cheese! One scoop of tuna on the melt! The sandwich knife goes only HERE. This many fries with the burger—no exceptions! Always ask what else can I get you.

Srappy me, I wasn't intimidated by her at all. I was, however, horrified and still shudder when I remember how I watched blood drip from her finger onto the turkey she was cutting and the way she unabashedly rinsed the meat off under cold water, patted the slices dry, and slipped them back between toasted slices of bread. Except for that, I remained undaunted by the challenges of my job. I cut a mean slice of pie, left the sandwich knife where it belonged, and kept that pot of coffee steaming. 

I also learned to fraternize with the town boys. One day, after the breakfast crowd cleared, a kid I'd served coffee to ambled back in. The place was otherwise empty, so why wouldn't I slip into the shadows of one of our cozy booths for the fun of a friendly visit? I was as oblivious as a fawn at a salt lick when I heard my boss shove open the swinging kitchen door and jab his pointed finger at me to get up and follow him inside. My heart leaped! I'd obeyed an unspoken contract not to bother him. He reigned behind the grill, and I was the scullery maid who read his glares. For a dumb-bunny minute, I thought he'd finally deemed me worthy of conversation.  Was this a breakthrough? Not so. "I don't want you talking with the boys," he gruffed, "No sitting down with them in the booths." 

I don't know how many more days later; it could have been two weeks after my first warning. The morning rush was over, and the counter was still open, and, as usual, we'd dimmed the lights in the booth area out in front. I was thinking about refilling the ketchup bottles when I looked up from the coke spill on the counter to see the length of Macky White's torso walking a decidedly straight line that was headed right towards me. It might have been his blond shock of hair; more likely, it was the lapis glint in his eyes. Like a lemming, I let this 17-year-old dreamboat lead me to the booth by the plate glass window out front to admire the white T bird his father had just bought for his birthday. I quit my ooohing and ahhing when, unexpectedly, my boss walked in, and I shrank into what I hoped was invisibility as he walked past us, breathing out when he didn't utter a word.

These days, neuroscientists tell us that teenage brains don't fully mature until we are in our 20s. Back then, the simple explanation? I was stupid. I didn't realize how stupid until, sitting shotgun next to my mother on the way home from work, I opened my pay envelope and found the terse note stating they no longer needed my help and I'd been fired. While my brothers rolled around in the backseat, whipping each other with Twizzlers, I crumpled the incriminating message and fumbled with the radio dial. If I were a finger, I'd have been bleeding all over the front seat. Poor scrappy me; I was clueless as to what I might say.

Can I Get You Anything Else?