The answer to this question would be so much shorter if it were, “What jobs haven’t you had?” 😂 From fast food joints to hostessing to bartending in a bunny outfit to cleaning up the equivalent of “nudie booths” to retail management to bookkeeping to teaching — you name the working cookie and I’ve probably had my hand in the jar; and all of them contain their own unique stories and anecdotes. So, let’s get started, shall we?
The Fast Food Years
I turned fifteen in 1993 and shortly thereafter got my first job at McDonald’s working for $4.25/hour. Because I wasn’t yet sixteen there were certain duties I wasn’t allowed to perform: I couldn’t pour coffee, drop baskets in or take them out of the fryer, nor work the line. I could work the register and clean the lobby. The problem with this is that customers don’t understand labor laws; and, when they have to wait for someone else to pour their shitty cup of coffee while you stand there doing jack-all you get yelled at quite a lot. Long story short: That first year was a bitch but it taught me much about having patience with impatient people.
By the time I turned sixteen, I knew the ins and outs of the restaurant by heart. I started working the line and went from fifteen hours each week to nearly twenty-five. Within six months, I was made shift manager and received a raise of $0.15. I also worked nearly forty hours each week. For $4.40/hour I was responsible for an entire crew and every customer complaint that came across the counter; and, I was good at my job — mostly.
Two of the guys on my crew — Zippy and Grant — were young men in their twenties who lived in a half-way house in Flagstaff. Neither were given full-time hours because they had a curfew and couldn’t work past eight o’clock in the evening. Working part-time for $4.25/hour meant they had no hope of finding independent housing and that some days they literally went hungry.
McDonald’s allowed their employees one meal per shift if an employee worked more than six hours; and, Grant and Zippy were rarely scheduled for more than four hours at a time. So, when their shifts ended I gave them all of the food we had that was “expired” (i.e. had been under the lamps or in heated drawers for too long) and was going to be thrown out. This, of course, was against company policy; and, when my store manager found out I was immediately terminated — along with Grant and Zippy.
For the next two years I bounced from one fast food restaurant to the next: Burger King, Taco Bell, Subway… but their policies about throwing away food in a community that had so many folks who were going hungry never sat well with me. I stopped giving away food in the establishments but still got in trouble for things like wrapping it in bags and leaving it outside of the dumpster instead of just tossing it all in so that starving people had to pick through trash to find something to eat. Eventually though, I had to suck it up and follow the rules because I needed a steady job.
When I moved to Tucson, I returned to McDonald’s as an assistant manager and stayed with them for several years. I worked at what is known locally as the “Dinosaur McDonald’s” because the restaurant has a giant T-rex guarding the drive-thru lane. Little did I know that the damn tyrannosaurus would end my fast food career.
My Tucson crew was very tight-knit and hard working. They showed up and they got shit done; but, we also had a serious collective marijuana habit. We smoked before work, during work, and partied hard together after work.
One night after closing shop, hot-boxing the lobby and drinking ourselves into silly oblivion, we got the brilliant idea to “ride” Rexie (our nickname for the dinosaur). We danced out into the darkness and took turns climbing up the eighteen foot statue. Many of us fell on our asses attempting the feat. Wanting to get a picture of the whole crew on the tyrannosaurus, seven or so of us started the climb while several of the bigger guys started swinging from his arms; and, all of a sudden Rexie started to tilt.
The concrete monstrosity became unmoored and fell towards the restaurant, partially blocking the drive-thru lane. In a panic, we fled; but, like the reliable pothead troopers we’d always been, we all showed up for work the next day and acted baffled by the situation. When the store manager said, “You’re sure none of you know anything about this?” we all shrugged and played dumb. Of course, we’d forgotten about the exterior security cameras. He played us the footage and summarily fired us all; and that was the end of my fast food career.
The Bartending Bunny and Other Porn-Like Horrors
My first bartending gig was at Tens, a local strip club. The uniform requirements were simple: skirts had to be short, tops had to show cleavage, and heels had to be one inch or higher. The nights I had to work the floor for eight hours I went home with feet that hurt so bad I could barely walk across the parking lot to my car. Thankfully, that phase didn’t last long and I secured a position behind the bar (where I could take my shoes off and no one noticed).
Seven months in I was familiar with all of the dancers (and their personal lives) and the bouncers (who never lasted more than a couple of weeks). The managers liked me because, unlike the other bartenders, I knew how to handle belligerent customers and I rarely called for back-up. Ironically though, that would be my undoing.
One night we had a large bachelor party going on upstairs in the VIP rooms that went horribly awry. All of the bouncers were on deck, management had to intervene, and the Tucson Police Department was called in. That wasn’t enough to stop things on the main floor though. “Business as usual,” we were told. So while most of the staff was dealing with the VIP situation, the girls on the main stage, the wait staff, and I were left on the ground floor with only one bouncer — a new guy, two days in — to keep things in check.
Things were going swimmingly. Candy had just finished her set and sat down at the bar to have her usual post-dance cosmopolitan. We were having a casual chat when one of the customers sat down next to her and asked if he might buy her a drink. She declined politely and moved to the other end of the bar. The drunken patron followed her and insisted on purchasing a drink for her. She refused again and the guy got handsy.
Our bouncer was dealing with a couple of frat boys who had jumped on the stage, so I said to the man, “It’s time for you to go, Bud. Can’t touch the dancers. You’re eighty-sixed.”
He took his hand off of Candy’s wrist, put both palms on the bar, and snarled, “Who’s gon’na throw me out? You, little girl?” Then he turned to Candy, slapped her on the ass and glared at me with a wolfish smirk.
I grabbed the soda gun and hosed the guy, “Time for you to cool off and get the fuck out,” I shouted.
The guy attempted to jump the bar and I decked him across the nose with a Dos Equis bottle.
Since TPD was already on scene, the bastard started screaming that he wanted to press charges for assault. Thankfully, the officers explained that he had attempted assault and I was defending Candy. They escorted him from the premises but also gave me a very stern talking to.
Afraid of legal action, management fired me later that evening.
I am NOT an Aspiring Porn Star
For a very short time — four months — I worked at a local shop that had “Adult Video Booths.” Customers could come in, pay a fee, and watch porn in a “luxury” booth at their leisure. Part of my job was to clean these booths. You might think that was the worst part of the gig, but it wasn’t.
As you can imagine, most of our clientele was a bit sketchy. They definitely enjoyed leering at the employees (who were required to wear colorful bras under see-thru shirts, miniskirts, fishnet tights, and heels) and they weren’t shy about asking us out. We basically spent eight hours a day finding different ways to politely say, “No.”
Often, customers would ask ridiculous questions about the various sex toys we sold or the videos we rented, and pepper the conversation with thinly veiled sexual innuendos. It was like being a mouse in a cage full of hungry cats.
I quit the night a customer eagerly told me about his burgeoning adult film studio here in Tucson. When I told him I wasn’t interested in being a part of it he said, “Give me a break, Baby Girl. Every one of you working here wants to be a porn star.”
Nope. No, no, no… I’d had enough. The money was good, but I wasn’t willing to sell my soul for it.
She Looks Like a Deranged Easter Bunny
After that, I took a position at a local dive bar called The Music Box Lounge. They required their bartenders to wear black miniskirts, white backless tuxedo halter tops, black bow-ties, black and pink silk bunny ears, a white puffy bunny tail, fishnet tights, and stiletto heels (which, again, I kicked off once I was behind the bar).
The clientele was mostly old veterans and management was extremely lax and generous. They allowed bartenders to drink with customers and gave us a cut of the profits at the end of the night.
They enjoyed having me as a bartender because the customer base got shook up a bit. My friends started coming in on the nights I worked and they brought in their buddies from the university. After a while management even started hosting karaoke nights on my suggestion.
The best part about that gig was my favorite customer — Michael. We were acquaintances outside of the bar but I wanted to get to know him better. He came in a couple of times on his own, always ordered top-shelf liquor (which was really just less shitty liquor), tipped well, and offered intelligent conversation.
One night, I got the nerve up to ask him to call me sometime. He wrote his number on a napkin and said, “You call me. You’ve got the digits.” He gave me a charming smile, and swaggered out of the bar.
It irritated the shit out of me but intrigued me just the same.
I’ve now been with the man for more than twenty years — and he still has the same endearing smile and vexing wit that ensnared my heart all those years ago. It’s the only reason I hold no resentment towards that goddam stupid bunny getup. 👯
Retail is the Third Ring of Hell
I worked at Barnes & Noble for seven years. I took the job because I love books. I know a lot about them and talking about them for a living seemed like it would be a dream job; but, it turns out that most people don’t know anything about books and they resent the fact that you do. They ask questions that they don’t really want the answers to and you spend most of your day either frustrated or being ignored. If you have the pleasure of getting a few loyal customers that appreciate your input — and I was fortunate to have a handful — then you hold on to them for dear life and make the most of it.
I’ll Be Goddamed if That Wasn’t a Book!
One of my favorite co-workers was Paul, a gentlemen in his seventies who knew a lot about books and had absolutely no patience for customers. He was infamous for calling them “stupid” under his breath and walking away. He’d been at the store for so long that no one could remember when he was hired and though the clientele wasn’t fond of him many of the staff were.
I was working the customer service desk with him one afternoon when an older lady walked up and said to him, “I just finished the most wonderful book and I was wondering if you had anything new by this author.”
She pulled a book from her bag and sat it on the counter. It was a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Paul sighed deeply, rubbed his nose beneath his glasses, and said, “What do you mean by new?”
“Well,” said the lady, “I was wondering if he’s written a new novel.”
Paul turned to me and said, “I just can’t. You take this idiot.”
The woman said, “Excuse me? What did you call me?”
I bounced to the counter and said, “Please forgive him. His blood sugar is low. How can I help?”
The lady repeated her request and I said, “Ma’am, Charles Dickens has been dead for many, many years. He has other novels, but I’m afraid none of them are ‘new’.”
She looked at me perplexed and said, “But this was published just a few years ago. Look.” She turned to the publication information and pointed out the date which, to her credit, was recent.
I explained how publication dates worked and showed her the many years that proceeded the most recent. Then I told her that while Great Expectations was my personal Dickens favorite he also had many other titles that were worth reading.
She then asked, “Well, what’s his most popular?”
I replied, “His most well-known work is probably A Christmas Carol.”
“Like the movie?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “the films are based on his novel.”
She looked at me in awe for a moment and said, “Well I’ll be goddamed if A Christmas Carol isn’t a book!”
We laughed together and then talked some more about Dickens. She left with a copy of A Christmas Carol and A Tale of Two Cities.
When I returned to the customer service counter Paul said, “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to read.”
Loretta became one of my most beloved customers.
You’re Gon’na Have to Do Better Than That
During the Christmas season any retail outlet is a madhouse and Barnes & Noble is no exception. Customers wait till the last minute to buy gifts — some due to procrastination, others out of financial necessity — and then take their frustration out on customer service representatives. It’s just a part of the job.
Two days before Christmas (I don’t remember the year) I was working the customer service desk. Part of the gig is gathering online orders and placing them at the registers for pick-up; so, I was upstairs gathering books when I heard a man bellowing below on the first floor.
“I don’t give a good goddam! I want to talk to the same f*cking manager I spoke to before!”
I glanced over the landing and saw a large gentleman verbally accosting one of the seasonal employees at the foot of the escalator. The poor girl looked as if she were going to burst into tears. The customer continued screaming as other patrons stopped to watch the ensuing drama.
I dropped what I was doing and walked down the escalator stairs as quickly as I could.
I stepped in front of the man — who was still hollering unintelligibly — and said, “Sir, can I help you?”
“I don’t know,” he shouted, spittle hitting my face, “can you?”
“I believe I can,” I said, “what seems to be the problem?”
“I want to talk to the same manager that I spoke to the other day about this,” he said loudly, chest heaving.
“Well,” I said calmly, “we have more than eight managers here at the store. Could you describe the person you were speaking with?”
“Yeah, he’s a f*cking fairy!” the man exclaimed at the top of his lungs. Dozens of customers now stopped and turned to look at us.
I took a deep breath and said, “Sir, to the best of my knowledge none of my employees have wings; so, you’re gon’na have to do better than that.”
The man’s face turned seven different shades of red. He tore up the receipt he was holding in his first, roared like a lion, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the store, shouting, “I will never shop here again!”
Several of the customers clapped and cheered.
Accidentally Finding My Calling
I was out of work when a friend asked me if I might do her a favor and apply as a teacher’s aide in the classroom of a good friend of hers. I explained that I had no experience in that area, and she said, “You have kids, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Can you read?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Can you do basic math?” she asked.
“Yep,” I replied.
“Then you’re qualified. Apply,” she said.
So I did. I applied with Tucson Unified School District and took a course to become a certified paraeducator.
Over several years, I worked in three different classrooms in three different districts as a teacher’s aide/paraeducator for children with emotional and learning disabilities; and, I learned that we need more teachers.
At forty-three I decided to go back to school and pursue a dual undergraduate degree in English & Creative Writing. I have plans to pursue a master’s degree after that. I am working my way through school as a tutor for university students with emotional and learning disabilities, and I hope to continue working with students who are underserved when I finish school.
I worked many other jobs along the way that I haven’t mentioned here — and they contributed to who I was and who I have become. I have few regrets and many stories to tell due to the decisions I made and I am grateful that I survived the adventure… it isn’t over yet.
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