My first real job was at the Woolworth lunch counter. I was seventeen years old. I wore a white shirt that was starchier than a potato chip
Pouring coffee in a paper hat at the Woolworth counter |
The pay was a dollar sixty an hour plus whatever silver the customers left on the counter. A good day meant I could walk over to the record department and buy a new 45. A bad day meant I just went… |
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News for the America we remember |
My first real job was at the Woolworth lunch counter. I was seventeen years old. I wore a white shirt that was starchier than a potato chip and a little paper hat that never quite sat straight on my head. My job was to pour coffee, flip burgers, and ensure that every person who sat on one of those red vinyl stools felt like they were the most important part of my day. |
The pay was a dollar sixty an hour plus whatever silver the customers left on the counter. A good day meant I could walk over to the record department and buy a new 45. A bad day meant I just went home with grease in my hair. But whether the day was good or bad, my face had to look the same. I had to be pleasant. It was not a suggestion. It was the job. |
Lately, it feels like that part of the job description has been crossed out. I go to the grocery store or the hardware store, and the person behind the counter acts like my presence is a personal insult. They do not look up from the register. They do not say hello. If I ask where the galvanized nails are |
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