Another Autobiographical Snippet ...

from another one of my blog sites: Purple Prose

The Soda Jerk

The McCrory’s Five and Dime in the Cameron section of Alexandria, Virginia was in a gradual economic decline. Even in the early 1950’s it was becoming anachronistic. Its sales-atolls of fabrics, notions, candies, hardware, toys, and such .... with a clerk centered in each lagoon ... were lapsing due to changing business economics -- to be replaced in the years ahead by shopping carts and check-out counters. Even its high, tinned ceiling and its rotating wooden fans would soon succumb to air conditioning. Along its entire left wall stood an old-fashioned soda fountain with chrome and red-plastic-covered stools and a long burnished-brown Formica counter.

Into this merchandising museum stepping Gregory Tyro to interview for an advertised job as a soda-fountain server. He was a sophomore at nearby George Washington High School and, since he was the only person to apply for this position in three days, was immediately hired. He was to work Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from 3:00 until 6:00 and all day Saturday ... for 75 cents an hour (from which he had to pay for his lunch on Saturdays.) Gregory’s customers tended to be gray, mousy saleswomen from McCrory’s and the other modest emporia of this small village. They would invariably order the daily special, such as a grilled cheese sandwich, a small drink, and Campbell’s tomato soup (with a sweet pickle) for 70¢. They generally were a very persnickety sort. A smudged plate, a dirty knife (which they probably wouldn’t use anyway), or unevenly-toasted bread would send them into spasms of grousing. Once satisfied, they would then nibble at the corners of their sandwich and slowly sip their soup until their half-hour break was consumed. Then they would leave three quarters on the counter, netting Gregory a whole nickel for the abuse.

Sometimes, his customers would be a local banker or a gas station owner who would eat fast and leave a bigger tip ... or retirees who would come in for a cherry or a vanilla Coke and then douse it with ammoniate and phosphate from a cruet on the counter (indicated to be "for their nerves"). In his six months there, Gregory did get pretty adept at this job.  He could fry a burger or make a malted milk with ease.  The one hitch was that the malted milk machine invariable gave him a small shock when he pushed the steel contained into its harness.  And the half-hour cleaning-up of his workspace at the end of the day wasn't his favorite either.  Only rarely did someone of Gregory’s own age penetrate the blue-veined veil of this eatery and give him someone to talk to. But, because he was young and usually shy, and because such novelty almost always swamped his vocal synapses; Gregory would generally open by saying something stupid like, “Ghat can I wet you?”

This was the first of many customer-service jobs that Gregory had during his salad years. And he learned from these experiences that working almost always tends to be work. (If you haven’t figured it out by now, Gregory was yours truly.)

© Copyright,   George W. Potts