1982

By the summer of '82 my parents had split up, and my mom was living in Virginia Beach. My college's summer term requirement left me free of school from February to August of that year, and after a brief stay with my dad in Jeddah, where it became clear that there was literally nothing for me to do there except sit around his apartment, I came back to the States to sit around my mom's house. 

Well, that's what it seemed like until she informed me in no uncertain terms that I had to get a job. Living overseas since the age of 13 had precluded any kind of formal employment for me, and I was kind of at a loss about where to start. Turned out, it was the want ads, which my mother handed to me every day before she went to work. Residing in a resort town expanded the number, if not the type, of opportunities. After interviewing for a lot of waitressing jobs, I finally got one, despite my lack of experience.

The Lighthouse Restaurant was one of the pricier establishments that catered to tourists. Located all the way down the beach at the mouth of Rudee Inlet, the place had several ocean view dining rooms. After two 8-hour days of training, I joined the staff on Thursday lunch shift.

It was not a hip place to work, by any means. Waitresses were required to purchase brown polyester uniforms and white nursing shoes. In addition, we had to wear hair nets. We looked like diner employees, and if the owner ever saw us on the floor without a smile on our faces? We would get a warning from the manager.

Early on, it became clear that there was a system of favoritism in place, both for customers and staff. Any party not dressed appropriately, or with small children, or of color, would be seated on the patio, a glassed-in room overlooking the parking lot. Young couples and people who had clearly been drinking were often seated out on the deck, an open-air space cantilevered over the riprap of the canal. Preferred customers got the main dining room, and their status could be determined by how close they were to the floor-to-ceiling windows with that unobstructed view of the beach and the Atlantic.

As for the staff? Well, tips were always better in the main dining room, not that I would know personally. They caught me without a smile a few too many times to get that assignment. I usually got the patio, and I remember that it seemed like the kitchen was the fun place to work. Whenever I pushed through the right-hand swinging door to pick up my order, besides being met by a blast of heat and rock and roll, there was always hilarious banter among the white snap-shirted guys on the other side of the stainless steel counter as they cooked and plated the tickets.

The shape of that summer was learning what a full-time, below minimum wage job was like: pulling scratchy polyester on over salty skin in the heat of the late afternoon after a day at the beach, driving down the strip in my bright yellow 75 VW Rabbit, punching my time card and carrying trays of over-priced seafood through a kitschy, nautical-themed restaurant, and then meeting friends who were down from the city after work on the weekends. 

I sure was glad to go back to college that fall.