While I was in graduate school and throughout my twenties, I had a lot of different jobs, sometimes two or three at a time, to pay the bills, keep food on the table, and pay for books and tuition. There was a point when my income was so low that I was even on food stamps for a brief time–because, you know, I’m in that forty-seven percent of people always looking for a handout.
Shockingly, working at a convenience store wasn’t the worst job I ever had, though it was certainly a low-paying one. I did it all one summer, and in spite of the fact that in a one-week period, (1) my apartment was broken into and I lost most of my jewelry and an old stereo, among other things; (2) the guy I was dating who was also employed by that store for the summer was robbed at work at gunpoint; and (3) my purse containing both his and my paychecks and income tax refund checks was stolen when I was on my way to the bank to make a deposit, the customers made that job a constant source of entertainment. The regulars gave me plenty of stories to share with my friends and later to weave into fictitious plots and characters. In fact, even when summer was over and I was back in school, I kept working the early Sunday morning shift for several months because I wanted to.
I missed my regulars when I left. I still remember a lot of them fondly, especially the elderly lady with the white poodle who always reminded me a little of the lonely woman Jimmy Stewart watched in Rear Window. I hope my replacement took good care of her.
Life surely isn’t easy for people who are part of the 47%. I was robbed three different times during the day on the way home from Wash U. Each time was more ridiculous than the time before, and if I ever wrote about them they would sound like fiction.
I think it’s funny how often writers get slammed for things they put in fiction which don’t even begin to compare to real life drama!
Okay, so behind you on the shelves it looks like we have an assortment of gloves — kitchen gloves I’m guessing, and maybe garden gloves — and below that what could be light bulbs. And from the cord dangling behind your head I’m assuming you were sitting under a telephone. But what’s that thing on the wall, over your right shoulder?
A big ass panic button?
Yes, those are various kinds of work gloves you’re seeing, as well as light bulbs. The “panic button” is some kind of industrial power outlet, though I’m not sure what would get plugged into it.
A panic button would have been nice. After that BF was robbed at the store, there were three of us who took turns babysitting each other during our night shifts. Off the clock, but none of us wanted to work solo at night.
Oh, right. Now I can see clearly that it’s an outlet. (It’s like those hidden ship pictures; you can’t see it until you can!)
I worked at a local McDonald’s during high school. We were never robbed while I worked there, but we had several instances of “wilding,” where a pack of kids (almost always boys) would come charging into the store and wreck the place. The police always managed to arrive just after the little bastards bolted back out the doors. You just don’t realize how difficult it is to clean ketchup off ceiling tiles until you’re standing under a big glop of it on a ladder with a bucket and scrub brush.
Little thugs!
I never knew you worked at McDonald’s. Did it cure you of ever eating there again? That happened to my mother after she worked at a donut shop as a girl. The owners let their employees eat all they wanted for free, because it didn’t take long for them to never want donuts again.
And…Cinnabon?!? 😉
Not completely cured. Though I don’t eat them very often, I still love McDonald’s french fries.
It certainly sounds like an adventure!
It’s funny what one remembers and what one doesn’t – isn’t that a paraphrased line from All About Eve..? I wonder what happened to that lady? I guess she’s long since gone?
Yes, probably gone. But she’s got a place in a future novel.