** I wrote this note in May; it’s the last bit of leftovers at the back of the fridge. I hope you enjoy. **
The armoire in my room smelled like old milkshakes and sweaty money.
At seventeen, I branched out from the family businesses and got a job as a Sonic carhop.
I’d end my shifts covered in dried ice cream and strawberries from the 99 cent banana splits, with an apron full of grubby cash tips. I spilled my dollar bills out onto the floor—thirty for the whole night—and felt like a rich woman. Consider: it was 2007, I was seventeen with few obligations, and I made a base pay of nearly six dollars an hour.
The job did not ultimately make me rich, but it paid me in experiences I never had elsewhere. An adrenaline-seeking manager who drank Monster energy, challenged us to food-bagging races, and pushed her bright blue Nissan 360 upwards of 100mph. Employees accusing each other of breaking into each others’ houses to steal TVs. The girl I trained who held a silver coin up, asked me if it was a dime, and when I told her it was a nickel, asked how many cents a nickel was.
The boy with the red Vespa who I thought was the love of my life; the boys who drove in from Ohio that I thought were the loves of my life; the freedom of my own finances being the real love of my life. I didn’t understand anything, but I loved everything.
During my fourth year there, I worked the 5AM shift handing out fast-food coffee to sparse morning commuters. After the rush, I’d scour behind grills, peel moldy bread from long-forgotten crevices, restock styrofoam cups, and then lace up my rollerskates and practice circles in the empty drive-through. Linda, the morning cook, would take a pause from battering the onion rings and make me a breakfast burrito with extra jalapeños. As I ate, she’d update me on who was in jail, who was out, weave rich stories of her own offenses, and I’d soak up her presence like she was wringing out liquid gold. I wonder where she is now.
The tips dwindled as years went on, but I still came home and flattened out each dollar bill individually. I stacked them facing the same way, and fastened them with a small pink binder clip. There was something so orderly about it, after the chaos of ringing order boxes, beeping fryers, and yelling managers.
Like all of life could be clipped away neatly, and tucked quietly into an armoire next to my blue jeans.
Today’s Reminder:
In the midst of all the cleaning that must be done, I am grateful for a breath of quiet.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, resist the urge to check in on your old coworkers online, and contemplate the future of cash—will covid change the world’s currency?
Four summers working at a fast food joint