I was only 16 or 17 when I applied for a spate of “real” jobs – those other than babysitting and cleaning the neighbor’s house (I made $10 for cleaning that pigsty).  I cleaned our house, too, but I didn’t get paid for that.  Our parents figured we owed them.  Now I think they were right.

I tried the very posh (for Ontario) department store downtown, but my rich friend, Jane, got that job because her family did most of their shopping there.  We could not afford it.

I tried the Library, which I would have loved, but they didn’t want me and didn’t care that I loved being there whenever I could.  My friend, Jo, had a job there.  Why wouldn’t they want me?

The first job that came through was as a waitress at the counter in back of Gemmel’s drugstore, also in downtown Ontario.  

The married couple that managed that part of the drugstore were the parents of an only child who was a year ahead of me in high school and who was maybe the most beautiful girl in school.  Apparently, she didn’t have to work.

They ran a tight ship, those two.

First, they introduced me to the uniform I was to wear.  It was a mint-green and white suit of cotton armor that I didn’t even have to hang up since it could stand on its own in the corner of  my bedroom.  I got scratches on my arms and legs whenever I put it on.  It came down to my ankles.  I topped it all off with a really cute hairnet.  You get the picture:  Very Sexy. 

I now knew why their daughter didn’t (wouldn’t) work there.

Secondly, they emphasized the constant cleaning and moving about I was expected to do, even if no one was sitting at the counter; i.e., no customers.

Thirdly, and very, very important was the hot chocolate machine.  If I did not monitor it very, very closely, hot chocolate would boil over onto everything — the counter, the floor, my dignity.

There were a few regulars who came in almost every day:

An elderly woman dressed in a suit and wearing a hat (daily shopper syndrome) ordered a grilled sandwich.  When I presented it to her, she shoved it back at me and said, “I cannot eat this.”  It had grill flakes on the plate.  Instead of agreeing with her and trying to make it good, I said, “Okay with me.”  And with that I picked up her plate and returned it to the back counter.  I feel so badly about that now.  My only excuse is that I was a teen-ager.  I’m sure it was to cover my embarrassment in front of the other patrons.

A man whom I was certain was a serial killer (swarthy and muscular) came in after dark and always ordered only a cup of black coffee. If not a serial killer, he could have come from central casting for a mafioso   He never said a word, except for “coffee.”  After a while, he didn’t even have to say  that.  

He always left me a fifty-cent tip for a twenty-five-cent cup of coffee.  I suspect he was trying to woo me with that extravagant tip because he loved to watch me move about in that scratchy uniform, wearing the attractive hairnet. 

On the other hand, maybe he was happy to have a moment to himself in a place where he could be alone, and the kid that worked there didn’t bother him at all.

One day, my boyfriend came in bringing in with him three or four of his dorky friends. I was so nervous guess what I did?  Yep, I let the hot chocolate machine boil over. Boy oh boy, did they hot-foot it out of there.

My bosses once told me they were impressed with how clean I was keeping the counter and how I was always (fake) busy. 

I realized that they must be watching me, and this was before cameras in retail places.  They must have had spies – maybe the pharmacist? But I was grateful they had missed the Hot Chocolate Machine Incident.  

One day I received a call from San Antonio Hospital, where I had applied for a job as a clerk in the pharmacy – weekends and holidays.  That sounded so much better to me, and I was delighted to quit the counter and start at the pharmacy at the hospital – wearing a soft, white uniform. 

The hospital was so much more interesting than the counter at Gemmel’s.  Sometimes, if the regular girl was out (she was a doctor’s kid and had first priority), I would get to run messages and prescriptions all over the hospital, always stopping in to see the newest humans in the nursery.

Once in a while, the female pharmacist allowed me to refill some prescription bottles.  It made me feel so grown-up and responsible. Of course, she double-checked everything.  I can’t imagine that happening today.  Again, the cameras non-existent.  I wish I could remember her name.  She was one of the best bosses I ever had.

The “weekends and holidays” eventually got tiresome, although sometimes it felt good to be able to avoid festivities and holidays and escape to the small pharmacy at San Antonio Hospital where I could be alone to day dream and occasionally run down to visit the newborns, wear that soft, white nurse’s uniform, but most of all, I never had to operate the hot chocolate machine again.

The End

Footnote:  I recently ran into an old friend who had become a pharmacist and managed Gemmel’s Drugstore and Medical Equipment.  He told me the store had been purchased by the Russian Mafia, who had run it into the ground.  It made me a little sad.