My Worst Job Ever

On my 16th birthday, I encountered the usual rites of passage: my first car (a 1979 Chevy Chevette) and my first job (Wendy's). The deal I made with my father was the same most teenagers strike with their parents: He would buy me a car as long as I got a steady gig to pay for the gas and part of the insurance. Seemed fair enough—at least until he sprung the Three-Mile Radius rule on me. I wasn't allowed to drive beyond three miles in any direction from our house. He even went so far as to procure a compass and a map of the neighborhood to circle the area in red.

Daddy wasn't ready to let go of his little girl, and since he was the one who taught me to drive he probably had good reason to hang on. But try getting a job that still makes you look cool in 1986 living near Chaparral High School. I could forget about the mall.

So, with limited options, I walked into the Wendy's a few blocks from my house. How bad could it be making French fries or running the drive-through? Thus began the worst three days of my young life. We should all be so blessed.

Day 1

Aside from the shoes (sensible ones from Kinney's), I looked like pretty hot shit in that uniform. The blue-and-white striped shirt with Wendy's smiling face stitched above the front right pocket was tucked effortlessly into slimming navy blue pants. The ensemble was topped off with a cap (also striped blue and white with a solid navy bill), which, funny enough, looked a lot like the one Roots designed for the 28th Olympiad. I added my own special touches—layers of flaming red lipstick, hundreds of jelly bracelets crammed from my wrists to my elbows and aviators, a la Madonna and Kelly McGillis in Top Gun.

After removing my adornments per my twentysomething male manager's request (the first bad sign; he was stifling my individuality), I underwent orientation, which I don't really remember because I was too busy fiddling with the angle at which my cap looked best perched atop my head. I vaguely recall something about the location of the plastic containers from which I was to refill the condiment bar. Little did I know (probably because I wasn't listening), I was hired as a dining room attendant, whatever that meant. After filling out all the paperwork and listening to Wendy's rules, it was time for me to go.

Day 2

At 3 p.m. the following afternoon I arrived 15 minutes late for my first shift (it took me that long to remove all of the jelly bracelets and wipe off the layers of lipstick in the car). For the next three hours and 45 minutes, I was expected to stand in the dining room, clearing tables, picking up garbage and refilling the condiment bar. This definitely wasn't the drive-through. But I figured, once again, how bad it could it be? And then it happened.

When I came back from my 10-minute bathroom break, there he was, seated in the dining room with another boy I recognized from the hallways at school. A senior to my sophomore, Eric Stratton was my third serious high-school crush. I don't know if it was his blond tips or the Jeep he drove, but I had it bad. I stood quietly in the corner, praying he wouldn't see me or need any more ketchup for his Big Classic and fries. After an agonizing 10 minutes, he stood up, looked directly at me, tossed a quarter and three pennies onto the table, whispered something to his friend, who laughed, and walked out. It was my first and last tip.

Day 3

Too mortified to attend school the next day, I ditched with my best friend, Allison. When it came time for me to go to work, Allison drove me to Wendy's. We both knew what I had to do. When we reached the parking lot, I handed her my blue-and-white striped shirt and cap, and she walked in and quit for me.

When I got home, obviously earlier than expected, I launched into a speech about self-respect and trust and how I wasn't a little girl any more and that I should be able to drive outside my three-mile radius, and when that didn't work, I cried. My dad never could handle it when I turned on the tears. The next day, I was happily employed at Magleby Muffins in the Fashion Show mall, where I ran the register and eventually learned how to make a muffin. There was nothing but trendy clothing and record stores in my future, which eventually prepared me for my career as a writer.

Junior year in high school was almost the death of me. Football destroyed body (ankles, knees and back) and soul (we went 4 and 5; 1991 was supposed to be our year). Basketball didn't look promising, either—returning much of the team that went 5 and 7,000 the prior year. Rather than undergo four more months of ranting coaches, relentless conditioning drills and win-one-for-the-Gipper speeches (besides, coach wasn't going to let me start), I became a taxpayer.

Yep, your boy got a job.

Not my first job. I'd worked summers but never held a gig during school. Initially, Mom was leery—would I be tired? would my grades fall?—but unambiguous about who was going to buy all the stuff I wanted: the car to transport the young ladies I was courting, the clothes to wear while I was transporting and courting, the money to pay for the dinner and/or movies. Me. So to work I went, accepted a job at the first place I applied, Century 12 Theaters on Sahara and Lamb (later renamed Century 16, it's now closed).

As the basketball team racked up victories, on the way to the first winning season in years, I worked weekends in a black sequined vest apparently lifted from MC Hammer's closet and slacks so tight you could look at my backside and tell when I was talking.

About the job's only perk—downsides: you can only eat so much popcorn and candy before getting a cholesterol-infused, butter-tasting sugar rush; girls don't take you seriously when you look like one of the Pips; standing on your feet for hours on end—was seeing previews and movies for free and playing a ghetto Roger Ebert.

Of all the shifts, weekend swing was the worst, three thumbs down. If there was a decline in movie-going in '90s, you couldn't tell on Friday and Saturday nights, as every Tom, Dick, Harry and Barack Obama brought their problems, foul moods, unreasonable expectations, psychoses and bad-ass children to the cinema.

There was the lady who wanted her popcorn drenched, no, Hurricane Andrewed, in butter, in violation of our unwritten, four-squirts rule. I was on squirt No. 7 when a dollop—OK, a torrent—of butter landed on her fur coat. I got the business about its cost (thousands) and how many hours I'd have to work paying it off (a lot). Or the time I happened upon some young hotbodies enjoying a quickie in men's room. Or the nightly ritual of shooing away broke kids wanting candy. Or the nightly ritual of being asked by friends to hook them up with free stuff, even as my manager, whose badge clearly read, Snack Bar Manager, stood within earshot. Or the nightly ritual of vacuuming the cavernous floor of half-chewed licorice, pesky Skittles, mushed M & Ms, errant popcorn, dried-up (or drying) loogies and the occasional condom wrapper (that couple in the bathroom?). Or being called upon to do security whenever crowds of young, mostly minority boys loitered.

Nowhere in the snack-bar attendant job description did I see anything about rent-a-cop duties. So when all hell broke loose during opening weekend off John Singleton's Boyz N the Hood, I ducked behind the snack bar.

I saw the trouble coming. Friday night. Crowds of young folks in red and blue, gang colors, entering on opposite sides to see the 'hood flick about gang violence in South Central LA. Midway through, a crew in red bursts out. A Blood has a busted lip, his friends clutch their faces, their girlfriends scream. They promise to be back. Sixty minutes later, they are. With guns.

Now, I've been within 10 feet of friends getting shot and have had a .22 pulled on me, but that night remains the wildest thing I'd ever seen. Shots fired inside the lobby, about 10, at five-second intervals. People scurrying into bathrooms (including some of the instigators). Children lost and crying. Parents pushing strollers at sprint speed. My bosses fleeing to the break room. After the shots, fighting. More blood than a prizefight. Even the cops had trouble separating combatants. A Blood stealing a Crip's shoe and gloating, "I spit in the n---a's shoe." When I told my mom, she said that was it.

Thirty-three people were wounded and two killed in violence that erupted at 20 theaters around the country in the movie's opening week. No one was killed at Century 12. But largely because of Boyz N the Hood—similar violence afflicted the opening of drug flick New Jack City—theaters began premiering black-themed movies on Wednesday nights to avoid violence. And largely because of Boyz N the Hood, I never worked in a movie theater again.

The worst job I ever had was working at McDonald's one summer in high school. I worked for some distant relative of Der Fuhrer.

He seemed to get inordinately upset that before I put the lettuce and pickles on hamburgers, I tended to have my fingers in my mouth. But that's not what got me fired—although I prefer to say I quit.

One day, the guy who did the grill didn't show up. And even though I had only attained the "putting the accoutrements on the hamburger" pay grade, I was thrown in to grill duty by my Nazi boss.

It was ugly. Whatever disaster occurred, he told me to go home early.

I came in for my shift the next day, and he asked snidely, "Are you ready to work today?"

I decided I wasn't. So I left.

I did not put my fingers in my mouth before leaving. Nor did I shake his hand.

Suffering, like so many other states of being, is a matter of perspective. I know my worst job experience doesn't compare to the horror of, say, working in a slaughterhouse.

You can always tell yourself, "Hey, at least I'm not stunning cows with a high-voltage electric club." But that argument carries little weight when it's 92 degrees and 75 percent humidity, you're wearing 18 pounds of Victorian costume and children are fleeing from you in terror or charging full-force into your defenseless lower legs.

For 14 hot, sweaty Virginia weeks, this was my hell.

It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. I went to work as an actress at a family theme park. Six shows a day, six days a week, I portrayed a nutty botanist who believed it was the late 19th century England. I wore a heavy linen skirt that brushed the tips of my white leather boots, a lacy, high-necked blouse with long sleeves and puffy shoulders. Under the skirt were two petticoats and white tights. There were daily inspections by my supervisors to ensure I hadn't replaced the tights with something cooler.

My task was simple—to convince the park guests to spend a few minutes of me instead of the roller coasters.

But they were like lemmings, surging toward the magnetic pull of the Super Spinner.

As I hurried toward people they would avoid eye contact and pick up the pace, lest I try to delay them from the promised land of high-speed thrill rides and fried dough.

Here's a typical exchange:

Me (mediocre British accent): Good afternoon! I seem to have misplaced my rare grasshopper collection. Would you help me look for it?

Woman: Huh?

Me: My grasshoppers have gone missing, may I impose ...

Woman: Whatever you're selling, we don't need any. Run, kids, run!

The park I worked at was spread out over many lovely, sloping acres. On days when thunderstorm warnings were in effect, the park's train and sky gondola were shut down, forcing guests to actually walk from the snack bar to the gift shop. For many of our guests this was an unfamiliar demand. People staggered up the hill, clutching their jumbo-size souvenir Frosty Freeze cups. By the time they reached me, they were walking illustrations for a Reader's Digest article: "So You Think You're Having a Heart Attack! Ten Way to Know for Sure!" There were times during my shows when I feared a guest was actually going to die in front of me.

As the summer progressed so did the humidity, setting new records for the region. My box of cornstarch was depleted every three days. Between performances I would hurry to the dressing room to change my tights and squeegee off my back and legs. My pleas to management for a short-sleeved blouse went unheeded. I was able to broker one concession—the kidskin gloves came off.

When I managed to corner an audience, fresh occupational hazards arose. The sailors from the nearby shipyard liked to pick me up and twirl me in circles. There were hordes of Virginian preteens for whom the theme park was their summer camp. Dropped off in the morning and collected again at dusk, they spent the intervening eight hours terrorizing the property. I made little children cry when I had to inform them that I was not—despite my navy and white-striped outfit and straw hat—Mary Poppins.

When the end came, I gladly surrendered my photo ID and parking pass. I was uniformly praised for having a "good attitude" and "team spirit," which meant I was a much better actress than I had ever believed.

Management graciously invited me to return the following summer, but I declined. I have an interview at the slaughterhouse, I told them, and it looks promising.

My sympathies rest with the rats.

The people are already dead. Waxy. Disemboweled. Bloated. A few corpses, eyes-open, eyeballs frozen into startled, unsettling stares, as if they'd just gazed down to examine the remains of their mortal coils. Pulpy, purplish lumps of ex-flesh with AWOL organs, like human meatloaf slowly vanishing, slice by gooey, yellowing slice, from a dinner table of famished cannibals, crowded by macabre side dishes.

Is that a pancreas over there? A kidney over here? A gall bladder, maybe? A liver? Anyone got a nice chianti?

Let the poor saps rest in pieces until I pass through again an hour from now.

But the rats still stand a chance if they can gnaw through the mesh-and-cardboard carrying cage and sink a fang into their new jailer's exposed digits as I ferry their fat, hairy, diseased asses toward Rat Armageddon.

Let's go boys, OVER THE WALL!

I'd be tempted to oblige if I didn't value my fingers so highly.

Poor, vile beasties, soon to be sacrificed to find out if NutraSweet causes armpit cancer, or some such nonsense. But as I tote the portable Rodent Hilton—its frantic guests flip-flopping and slip-sliding as the cage swings side to side, scrambling to regain their furry footing, their icky, bristly bodies tumbling tush-over-teakettle, slamming and bulging into the mesh, brushing against my palm, puffs of rat breath from their whiskered snouts against my knuckles, sending me screaming toward the shower in my mind—my allegiances shift.

I'm fickle. Especially when the mewling cats and howling, yowling dogs roll within earshot, their cries reduced to hollow echoes of misery banging off their implacable steel holding pens in a shiny, soulless laboratory. It drowns out the crack of my breaking heart.

Or maybe I feel even sorrier for yet another of this hellmouth's Constituency of the Damned. Me.

Mem'ries ... taint the corners of my mind ... creepy, cobweb-covered mem'ries, of the gig from hell.

Oh, it wasn't so bad, I suppose, my 1980-'81 gig baby-sitting doomed lab creatures and dissected, organ-donating stiffs as a security guard at a university medical-science building in White Plains, New York. Just me, ominously empty hallways and a slooooow, stubborn clock on the wall for the weeknight graveyard shift, beginning at the bewitching hour and ticking into the suffocating silence of those dark, lost hours, stillness occasionally shattered by wretched shrieks from the miniature death row downstairs and the demon screams of my overcooked imagination.

Hard? Technically ... well, no. Eight hourly "tours" of the facility, midnight to 8 a.m., turning keys in a bulky, portable clock in select locations throughout the building, the visits electronically recorded (to keep the guards honest) in such garden spots as the morgue, the lab and the basement where the Wolfman lurked. (Don't laugh. I know I'm right.) Then those 3:30 a.m. visits from the rat delivery van and that rodent perp walk from lobby to lab.

Looking back now, it's still as gross and stomach-turning as I remember.

But it prepared me for one inescapable workplace reality no matter where a career may take you: how to handle the rats.

(Present company, of course, excluded ...)

Even though it was the best job I could get with my newly minted B.A. in English, I planned to quit even before I applied. Of course, making telephone calls to collect delinquent credit-card payments was not my first career choice. Forget that nonsense about the value of a liberal arts education in the marketplace; advertising agencies, insurance firms, an investment house, the daily newspaper, radio stations, my old high school and even the chain bookstores at the mall ignored my resume. About all my undergraduate education turned out to be good for was getting into graduate school. This I had achieved, and so it was a relief to know that debt collecting was only a false start at a pretend career: nothing more than a summer job.

I wanted things to be different. The only reason I applied to graduate school was that except for fellowships and student loans, I had no other ideas on how to make a living in the real world. Well, I mean, I had an idea; I wanted to be editor of the New Yorker, screw Tina Brown. But that summer I learned that the question isn't really "what do you want to do when you grow up," the ugly reality is that you can only do in life what you are given an opportunity to try, and I am still waiting to hear from Conde Nast about the New Yorker job.

Actually, I was the first college graduate ever hired by the collection agency. At least that's what Al, our supervisor, regularly told everyone in my training class.

"The average debtor is going to be smarter than you guys—well, maybe not smarter than Richard, since he graduated college."

But being trained in collections was nothing like college, and in this class I was the worst student. We were to have the voice of command on the phone, and I read scripts like I was Minnie Mouse. Mostly, though, we ignored the scripts since they offered only chapter-and-verse conversations that adhered to legal debt collection. To Al, there were no limits, only collection goals that needed to be reached. Al gave us a handout describing what collection tactics were illegal, and we signed a paper acknowledging that we read and understood them. But then Al trained us in ways that in the opinion of this college graduate violated every single regulation. He showed us how to impersonate lawyers, to harass old people with multiple calls and scare children by suggesting that their parents were going to go to jail.

The most important thing was to control the conversation, and at that I was a total disaster. On my first call to a real deadbeat, with Al listening in, I asked: "So, how much money can you send us, and when do you think you can do it?"

But before there was an answer, Al took over, yelling: "How soon before 5 p.m. today are you going to wire me the balance in full?!"

I never collected a single dollar in a job that, after training, paid primarily in commissions. Yet Al took too much pleasure in watching me fail to let me go. After it was clear that I wasn't going to cut it working the phone, Al created a new job he thought would make use of my college education. He assigned me to track down phone numbers and addresses for debtors. But knowing the difference between a Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnet proved to be no help in being able to distinguish the specific John Smith of New York on our list of delinquent accounts.

One day, weeks before the summer was over, I just stopped going to my job at the nondescript office complex adjacent to the King of Prussia Mall. Instead, I finished out the summer getting a head start on the reading lists for my fall courses in graduate school, which—for the first time—I was thrilled to soon be starting.