I got my first job the summer I turned 15. I worked bar rush for a greasy spoon in a nearby town. I had an awful schedule — 4:00 p.m. until 4:00 a.m. every Friday and Saturday night for $2.00 per hour plus tips. I remember how my step-father would take me to work every afternoon and come back in the morning to pick me up. It was gruelling for him and for me.

The owners–a husband and wife team–were a little unpredicatable, but I remember her as being really considerate that first night when I broke a coffee pot and spilled hot coffee on my legs. She dragged me into the ladies room and put cold rags on my legs even though the place was filled with people. The customers weren’t as bad as you might suspect — the bar rush crowd was a bunch of mellow drunks who tipped really well and didn’t give me too much trouble.

At the end of the summer, I remember how happy I was to buy new school clothes for my sophormore year in high school with all my tip money. Even though I got most of my new clothes at K-mart, I was so proud of having stuck with it long enough to be able to go on a shopping spree with my Mom. My parents told me later that they wouldn’t have been able to do it for me, so that first job of mine made things easier for them, even though I didn’t realize it then.

When I finally quit, I think my step-father was secretly pleased, although I remember him being concerned at the time. My quitting meant that he wouldn’t have to get up at 3:30 in the morning to come get me anymore. I missed the money, but I was really glad to not smell like grease and smoke anymore.