Summer of 1980

The plump brunette woman leaned forward over the table. Through a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, she scanned over the job application.Her name was Bonnie. She was attractive, 40ish, and wore too much makeup. I was 17 and dripping wet behind the ears. Behind her, people stood at the counter, placing orders. I could smell ground beef cooking and French fries.Bonnie continued looking over my impressive job application. She told me some guy had applied for a job, but didn’t make the cut because his hair was too long. Perhaps sensing my nervousness, she added, “Your hair is OK.”It was June 1980.A few weeks before, I’d spotted a sign outside the restaurant:NOW HIRING SMILING FACESI didn’t have the glowing pearly whites of John Stamos or Rob Lowe, but I could manage a few grins. I stopped in one afternoon and picked up a job application.Which led to my meeting with Bonnie.A week later, I was officially a member of the crew. The uniforms they wore then were not flattering. A pale blue-and-white striped (polyester!) short-sleeved shirt, a matching 1920s-style driving cap with the restaurant name stitched in red on the front, and dark slacks.  Oh, and we got to wear aprons. Stylish.I don’t remember much about the people who worked there, except for one guy. He was stocky, with short, curly hair, and he had a quick wit. He’d sing, “There is a tavern in the town, in the town/And there my true love sits him down, sits him down,” and then make hilarious comments about something a customer had said. He was quite entertaining.During my three weeks there, I learned some new things—and not just about making burgers. One afternoon I noticed an odd aroma in the air. Through the drive-thru window I spotted a young man sitting behind the wheel of a car. He was holding something small in his hand, obscured by a folded $20 bill. Tiny plumes of bluish smoke rose from the small something behind the bill. I hadn’t yet been around the block, but my 17-year-old brain did the math in a nanosecond. I knew exactly what the aroma was.Getting to work was a hassle because I didn’t yet have a car. Even worse, they always scheduled me to work two hours a day. I had to get up early and catch a ride with my dad, who worked 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. at Jasper Community Hospital. I’d wait around at the hospital until 11 am or so, then take a cab to my job. After my shift I’d sit around in the dining area and wait for my dad to pick me up.All that waiting around and spending money for cabs so I could work two hours a day got old fast. One Sunday, I persuaded management to let me work an eight-hour shift. That afternoon they had me outside digging in a flower bed beneath the restaurant sign. I don’t know if you’ve been to Alabama in the summer, but the humidity is quite brutal. If that wasn’t enough, something odd started to happen after I’d been digging for a while. I’d bring the pick back to swing, and my arm would lock at the elbow. I still don’t know why it happened, but it was unnerving.At the end of my shift, the supervisor that day (Let’s call him “Jim.” I had so many supervisors, I couldn’t tell them apart) told me that starting next week, I’d go back to working two hours a day. I felt my face flush red with anger, but I bit my lip and just nodded.I sat in the dining area until I saw my dad’s car pull up, then walked outside and told him I’d be right back. His expression indicated he knew something was up, but I went back inside and down the hall to Jim’s office. He looked up from reading How to Be A Colossal Jerk and Alienate Everyone on Earth."I’m leaving,” I said.“OK,” he said through his 1970s-era moustache.“I won’t be back,” I said tersely, half expecting him to show some sign of apoplexy, some indication that he was offended or annoyed. You’re quitting? How dare you, sir!  How will we ever stay in business now? Jim didn’t flinch.“OK,” he shrugged. He may have even smirked a little.I tossed him his silly little uniform, turned, and walked out of his office.Flashing pearly whites like John Stamos. 78