My Summer Working for the King

Back in the spring of ’88 in Atlanta, I totaled my friend’s brand new moped.  My hand slipped off the brake and instead pulled the accelerator… and the bike went careening into the back of a parked car.  I went flying through the air and hit my head on another car.  I wasn’t wearing a helmet.  In fact, all I was wearing were a muscle shirt, shorts and flip-flops.  As I was flying through the air, all I could think of was that my friend was going to kill me.  So after the smoke cleared and I came to my senses.  I looked around and saw what was left of my friend’s moped.  My clothes were torn and there was a cut from my head bleeding profusely.  My friends were around the corner from where I was, so they had no idea of what had happened.  So what did I do?  Well, I got up, picked up my friend’s bike and hobbled with it down the street and around the corner.

As I came into view, the group of people who were waiting their turn on his bike looked at me as if I had risen from the dead.  They quickly rushed me to the hospital where I underwent several tests to see if I had a concussion.  One test was that the doctor asked me if I knew where I was.  As a joke I said, “I’m in Las Vegas, at Caesar’s Palace fighting for the middleweight title.”

I learned two things at that moment.  Doctors don’t have a great sense of humor, and there is a nice and a mean way to bandage a cut.

After the dust all settled, I had a $495 bill to pay with the Honda repair shop, and I needed a part-time job because my parents weren’t going to foot the bill.  As I was driving by I noticed that the King was hiring… Burger King, that is.  So I walked in and applied.

The manager, a short guy with beady eyes and a Tom Seleck-esque moustache, sat me down and said, “Why should I hire you?  We pay $4.25 an hour here (which was about 75 cents over minimum wage back then) and don’t just hire anybody.”

So I said, with a as much beaming confidence that a 17 year old could muster, “I don’t know… I need the money?”

I guess that was good enough for him because he hired me.  He said he’d use me for the lunch or evening rush.  So I worked about 5-6 hours a day every other day.  At which rate, minus taxes, social security, and so on… it would only take me just a day short of forever to pay off the moped repair bill.

It’s not easy work.  This is why I have a lot of patience with people who work fast food.  It was always unmercifully hot back in the kitchen, and people are testy when they’re hungry.  But actually, I enjoyed it.  What made it enjoyable were the interesting people who were my co-workers.

There was this one woman in her 50’s who had been working there for 15+ years and could put together a whopper while straightening my collar and yelling at the drive-thru cashier.  She kinda looked like a reformed witch because she had this wart on her face and was missing several teeth.

Then there was this other woman who must have been from the Midwest or something because she talked like that female officer from Fargo.  She was neat because she called everyone ‘sweetheart’ and even during the most frantic times, she’d act like she was picking daisies in a meadow… taking her own sweet time… waving and smiling at the regulars.

One of the only guys working there was actually a classmate of mine.  I had wondered what had happened to him because I stopped seeing both him and his girlfriend about midway through senior year.  One day his girlfriend came to pick him up and I discovered the reason for his absence.  Well, actually, I saw her stomach before I actually saw the rest of her because she must have been in her 8th month.

There was also this senior at the local community college who was working two jobs to save up money for school.  Her other job was checking ID’s at the local club called the “Pink Flamingo” or something.  She had auburn hair, green eyes, and freckles.  Even though I was about twice her size, she intimidated me a little.  I guess it didn’t help that she would comment that my butt looked cute in our polyester uniform pants whenever I would walk away from her.  I think she said it more to get a reaction out of me, which I always obliged her with.

Well, I worked hard all summer and my time there was coming to an end.  One day as I was taking the garbage out to the dumpster, my manager, clad in his yellow short-sleeved button down shirt and clip-on polyester tie, stopped me and put his arm around me.  I was a bit taller than him, so I had to lean over a little.  He pointed to his car, which was an early eighties firebird trans-am with one of those huge firebird decals on the hood, and said, “See that car over there?”

I nodded as he continued, “That there is one fine car, believe you me… Nate, you’re a good worker, so I can tell you have a good future ahead of you, and if you play your cards right, someday you can be an assistant manager like me and can get yourself a car like that.”

We stood there for a few more moments looking at his trans-am. I don’t know if he wanted me to thank him or salute him or what, but the garbage bags were getting heavy, so I just said, “Yep…”

The day after I made enough money to pay back my friend, I quit.  I wanted to salvage what was left of my last summer of freedom.  When I handed him the cash, it actually felt good.  I saw his house and he obviously didn’t need the money, but that didn’t matter.  I repaid a debt with the sweat of my brow and took responsibility for my actions.  I felt all grown up.  I think I learned a lot about personal responsibility that summer.  I’m glad my folks didn’t bail me out that time.