Carhop

Brought to you by a summer job I once had. The one I have now is much better.

The summer following my sophomore year of high school, I worked at a drive-in restaurant called the Penguin — the Grease Garden to those in the know. My best friend Lisa, who worked as a fry cook, got me the job. I was a carhop, taking and delivering orders. I wore a red polo shirt, a visor, and a little changemaker on a belt. No roller skates for us; the lot was gravel.

We Penguinites had a rivalry of sorts with the town's other drive-in, the Tastee Freeze, perched up on the hill. We called it the Tastee Sleaze because the girls who worked there spent too much time giving "treats" to the guys who worked at the gas station across the street. Or so we alleged. I don't remember what they called us. "Penguin" just doesn't lend itself well to innuendo.

The job stank bigtime for many reasons, not least of which was the pay. I made $1.25 an hour in wages and usually about double that in tips. Also, being somewhat prim and shy back in those days — no, seriously! — I hated dealing with the public. I especially hated older redneck guys who thought it great sport to tease younger girls almost to the point of tears, then fishtail away in their rusty pickups without leaving a tip. In case you're wondering, getting sprayed with gravel from the back tires of a four-wheel drive does indeed hurt, and dust makes a lousy topping for ice cream. But the customer, of course, is always right.

The Penguin was owned by a husband-wife team. The wife did most of the managing, if you could call it that, since the husband always managed to be elsewhere. I could see why he wanted to spend time away from his wife, who would have had to take several steps toward "nice" to be considered merely a vituperous shrew. I remember one time she scheduled me to carhop alone during the Sunday dinner rush, always the busiest time of the week, instead of scheduling the usual three girls. (Always girls. No male employees, ever.) She then chewed me out, publicly and with fervor, for serving too slowly. When I remarked that things went much better when there were the usual three of us working, hint hint, she gave me a five-minute lecture about my bad attitude while customers honked and hollered for their food, and in many cases drove away. But the boss, of coruse, is always right.

The Penguin was situated near a small creek that ran through town, so we never had any shortage of mosquitoes. Since there were always bits of food in the gravel and between the cracks in the picnic table tops, we had no shortage of flies, either. I usually went home at night smelling of grease, bug repellent, sunscreen, and sweat. My feet hurt from wearing lousy shoes — but not from hopping amongst the cars, which I never did even once. With visor-mashed hair and a stained shirt, I was hardly the picture of glamour. Nothing pleased me more than saying, "No thanks" when Mrs. Grease called to invite me back the following summer. And I have never failed to tip since then except in cases of extreme disservice.

There was precisely one good thing about the Grease Garden gig. During slow moments, the kitchen staff got creative. I don't remember much of what they came up with, but one concoction of Lisa's that sticks in my mind was adding strawberry shake flavoring to Mountain Dew. Tasted like a red jellybean. I can't stomach Dew any more, but sometimes I wonder if that's what the Code Red Dew tastes like. If so, those weasels at Pepsi stole her idea. Curse them!

Today around the world: May 31 is World No-Tobacco Day. Every day should be such a day.