First Day

With Trickle Down pretty much in the crapper, I, too, have had to take a shit job. No, not that I think any job is below me, but with certain physical limitations, I have the double dilemma of not having a lot of options while also not being able to be picky.

Fifteen miles further up the canyon is a small town that could very well be considered the edge of civilization for the next seventy miles. Except for the summer vacation town a bit further on filled with hundreds of campers each season before it dies back to a skeleton population after Labor Day, Grist City is pretty much the last place to fill the tank and get a bite of food.

Grist City has three gas stations, four restaurants, five bars and three convenience stores. Of those, only two of each are not boarded up. The two-lane highway constitutes the main drag through town, but my place of employment is not on it, Instead, it sits on the edge of town on the back road the locals take between Grist City and the town I live in. The place I work at is a combination of all four of the above-mentioned businesses, plus a section they call the "Pet Store."

I am told the building used to be a mechanic's shed in which vehicles were serviced for a now-defunct lumber company (two remain, out of twelve). As such, it is not all that surprising to find that the two gas pumps are inside: one for diesel (taxed grade) and one for 87 octane gas. The lane to the pumps are blocked by saw horses until a customer pulls in, at which time the blockades are moved to create a lane through the restaurant seating area so the cars can exit through another bay door.

That's right.

The restaurant, as one might glean, is a rather casual affair, and is combined with the convenience store. The food, for the most part, is fried or pre-wrapped and stored in a glass-front cooler. While one has to point to the hot stuff one would like to eat, the refrigerated foodstuffs are self-serve. There are three laminated wood booths along a bank of windows looking out onto the road and parking, and two "deuces" a little deeper into the room and on the other side of the traffic lane. The chairs for this seating are white plastic, and between them is a 14-inch square box painted with a off-white enamel. All show their age, with cigarette burns in both the seats and table tops.

The restaurant, and therefore the gas station, permits smoking.

The pet store is in the next room. Access to it is either through the restaurant or the bar. Yet, to say that it is a room is a bit inaccurate. It is more a bay, no doubt used earlier for vehicle repair. There are no shelves, per se, as most of what is sold is large bags of cat and dog food, and cat litter. The bags of what the pet store/restaurant/gas station/bar manager (more on her in a sec) call the "cheap stuff" are left on the skids on which they arrive. The fancier brands, as there are fewer of these, are displayed in old, unplugged produce coolers. Dog biscuits, animal toys and the like are put on a wire structure that looks like it might have at one time displayed videos.

I have not ventured into the bar, yet I understand that I am eligible to work as a bartender after two months, and until then, I might be called on to carry cases of beer in on busy days, and certainly required to clean the adjacent bathrooms. You see, when hired, one is expected to work in all four sections and perform all aspects of those jobs, none of which require any more brain power than to do the simplest arithmetic.

No doubt, there are many who could fill the position I have taken, and I must say I'm a bit surprised that I was hired at all. Yet, I will admit to altering my diction during the interview. No resume was required, and my sole reference was a guy I know from my monthly poker game who is occasionally visits the bar on his way home from work.

Orientation was minimal and completed fairly fast, as I am familiar with the operation of a gas pump. deep fryer and cash register, I was not shown into the bar, and in the two hours it took to be show me the ropes, there was not a single customer. When completed, the manager, Delia, told me to get myself a soda from the fountain (heavy water glasses instead of paper cups, although I had not seen a restaurant-style dishwasher and the food was served on foam plates), have a seat in a booth and she'd be back to get me in a bit.

There were four of us on duty: Delia handled the food; Josh, a younger guy with a perpetual smirk about my height but sixty pounds heavier, manned the pumps; I did see a guy with a beard behind the bar from the hallway that led into that room; and, for my first day, I was to work the pet store. Yet, as I mentioned, there was a rotation of duties depending on the situation, so I expected to be called to pump or serve at some point as well.

"Except Josh," Delia said. "He works the pumps and that's it."

So, I sat and waited. I had a smoke, poured myself another coke, and eventually had to use the john.

I will not go into detail about the maintenance or cleanliness of the facilities. I can tell you, however, that there was hot water, a bottle of dish soap (mystery solved!), a roll of paper towels, and Delia's name had been scratched through a number of places.

Delia was waiting for me when I came out. She appeared to have been in a hurry to place herself "just so," which did give me pause, but I'd prefer not to go there.

"I have your schedule for this month."

Although I am often loathe to describe a person's physical attributes when relating something about their character, I suppose I can do so as long as there is an understanding that I do not, as a rule, equate the two. Delia appeared to be in her late twenties, although she may have been no more than twenty-one years of age. She had dirty blonde hair cut in what might be described as a long shag, not quite a mullet. She was slender in build, dressed in jeans with silver designs on the back pockets and those bleached-out stress marks one sees on a lot of new jeans these days. Her beige t-shirt had a small hole on the left shoulder but was otherwise clean. For shoes, she wore Romeos, the shoe of choice out here for folks who are engaged in heavier forms of labor. She was not unattractive but her demeanor seemed to lack any trace of a sense of humor, which worked to her disadvantage. She did not wear a ring.

"You'll be working Saturdays from eight to five. And then I'll need you an hour on Tuesdays and Fridays."

"That's it?"

"That's all I can give ya right now. Maybe more later. We'll see."

"Heck, driving back and forth is gonna eat up most of that in gas. $87 ain't much worth it."

"$87? How ya figure?"

"Well, ten hours of work, give or take, at $8.70, the minimum wage."

"Three-sixty."

"What?"

"Three dollars and sixty cents. You have to make the rest in tips. We're a restaurant."

"That's not what the ad said."

"I didn't place the ad, so I can't help ya there. The boss says three-sixty."

"I don't know... I'm gonna to have to think on this a bit."

"Well, take your time. We ain't busy, so go on and finish your soda and then meet me in the pet store."

I was in shock. I needed a job. I needed some additional income, but how the hell was this going to help? I walked back toward the restaurant area.

My soda and cigarettes were not in the booth where I had left them.

"Josh, seen my soda and smokes?"

"Over there." He pointed to one of the deuces.

On the box sat a broken glass, still wet, a glass half-full of Coke with very melted ice in it, and my pack of smokes, now emptied of most of its contents.

"What the hell, Josh?"

He walked over. "I broke your glass moving it so I poured you a new one?" 

"You mean you poured it into a new glass. There glass shards in that Coke?"

He smiled big, picked up the glass of soda and tossed it over his shoulder, the glass shattering on the concrete floor. "Well, then, we'll just get you another one!"