I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.  

Way, way, way back in the dark ages.  

Before electricity, and the internet.  

I turned 16.  

And I was super, super, super excited to turn 16.  Not because I wanted to drive, which I did, but mostly because I wanted a job.  

Back in 1902, in the town I lived in you had to be 16 to work.  Not like these spoiled kids today who can get a job at 14 working in an ice cream shop.  

I wanted to work, because I wanted stuff.  

My family was relatively poor.  Not dirt poor.  We had running water, and were fed, and had the basics.  

There was however, no money for luxuries.  No name brand clothes, or shoes.  Or the latest video games.   Or records. Or especially a walk-man or an Atari, which I wanted a lot.    

I needed a job if I was going to have these things.  

Two weeks after my 16^th birthday, I started my first job.  

I was hired to wash dishes at the Day’s Inn Restaurant, on Delaplain Road in Georgetown, Kentucky.  

I applied and worked there, because my parents knew the managers and my aunt worked there as a cook. 

I started on a Friday night. 

I arrived at 3:30 as I’d been told to do, and for the first time, in what would become thousands of times, I filled out new hire paperwork.  

It probably took me an hour to fill out the tax forms. 

After my paperwork was finished, I was taken to dry storage to find a uniform.  

The uniform was a lovely shade of white.  White white. 

White pants.  A white shirt.  100% polyester.  With a dash of yellow on the pocket.  

Lets not forget the brass name plate, with Robert spelled out nicely.  

I don’t think I ever had a name tag with Jeff on it the whole time I worked there.  

It’s approaching 4:30, I’m dressed and ready to go.  

I punch the time clock with the long beige card.  Hear the clunk, clunk sound and I’m off. 

I was given a quick tour of the restaurant.  Dry storage.  The break room with it’s ash tray over flowing with butts.  

The restroom, that I’d be responsible for cleaning later that night.  

I got a run down on the kitchen with a quick explanation of things I might need to help with if we got busy later during dinner service.  

I was shown the dishwasher, had a 45 second explanation on how to use it and I was turned loose.  

The next five hours lasted longer than I could have imagined.    

My aunt who was cooking that night, would come in and check on me every so often.  

I worked and worked, and the dishes piled higher and higher.  There was no keeping up.  

And then we closed, and the pile got even bigger as the pans from the kitchen started to appear.  

I’d wash one and turn around to see five more.  

The pans had to be scrubbed in the 3 bay sink and the water was a few degrees hotter than the surface of the sun.  

Scrub.  Scrub.  

Empty the dishwasher.  Reload the dishwasher.  Hit the button.  

And then turn to scrub, scrub, scrub.  

On and on I went.  

I hadn’t even cleaned the bathrooms or the breakroom yet.  

Scrub.

Scrub.  

Finally, as we neared 11:00 I was done.

I was wet from head to toe. 

I was exhausted.  

My shoes squished as I walked.  

I clocked out and walked into the dining room to find my mom, my aunt and the manager of the restaurant smoking and drinking coffee.  

I was very casually informed that I was the worst dishwasher they’d ever hired.  

Hands down.

The worst.  

What does a 16 -year-old kid say to that?  

I was embarrassed, but this did not deter me.  

I’d worked 7 hours.  

At $3.35 an hour. 

That was $23.45.  

That was a lot of money. 

I came back the next night.  And the next.  

And after about a month I was the best dishwasher, they’d ever hired.  

I was fast.  Thorough.  

And soon, I was backing up my aunt in the kitchen.  

And then after about 6 months, I was told, I was being replaced, so that they could move me into the kitchen.  

And for almost 2 years after that, I was the dinner cook 4 nights a week.  

And was I good.  

I was a short order cook, with hand written tickets, and a bell, and I was in there all alone.  

Flipping burgers, frying chicken, baking scrod, making a mean prime rib.

And I’d yell for the dishwasher to come set plates for me.  Something I’d been doing a month ago.    

All the plates were decorated with a canned peach and a maraschino cherry.  Or a candied apple.  

And for the love of god don’t forget the parsley.  Everything came with parsley.  

And the dishwasher set the plates, so that I could add fried chicken and mashed potatoes. 

And a burger with fries. 

And the prime rib with a baked potato.  

My personal favorite was the turkey, over dressing, with. Mashed potatoes and carrots.  (We added about a cup of sugar to the carrots when we dumped them out of the can).  

I spent my first paycheck at McAlpin’s, in the men’s clothing department.  I bought an Izod shirt, a pair of khaki pants and an Izod belt.  It cost $84, and I was really, really happy to have a job. 

And I plugged along.  

And then. 

One night the owner’s daughter came in to the restaurant to borrow bread.  And I asked her to take it from dry storage, not the bread drawer in the kitchen as I’d already stocked.  

And this upset her.  

And the next day I was called into the office for a meeting.  

And I was told I’d been rude to the owner’s daughter.  

And I was let go.    

The funny part of this story was I was sitting across my manager eating a chocolate sundae for dinner, and when I finally realized what was happening, the sundae slipped out of my hand. 

Later, it was reported that I’d thrown the sundae at her.  

I still don’t know what I did.  

But I’ll die knowing that for a brief moment in time, I was the best dishwasher, and one of the best short order cooks to everwork at the Day’s Inn Restaurant on Delaplain Road, in Georgetown, KY.