"Give me one of them dicks on a stick..."

         
      Every summer as a kid, we spent time at The Lake. Growing up it was paradise; we hung with the cousins, fished off our dock, hunted weird bugs and stuff in the woods, grilled out every night, and even though there was on-again/off-again plumbing, we scratched chigger bites non-stop and the temp hovered around 104, I’d count the days until we could go.
 


           Until I turned 16. That was the year I decided I’d rather work than get stuck with the family at the lake. Work was the only thing that got you off the hook from the annual family pilgrimage but the vacation the year before was a scorched earth experience with non-stop squabbling, no toilet and very little to do.  Back then, in 1976, teens could actually get summer jobs.

            So I got a job at a dive called Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips. It was up on U.S. 1 at the shopping strip on top of Marlin, walking distance from our place on Bel Aire Drive.  The plan was to work until the family split for Georgia and the lake, then bag the work thing and flounce around with strange older guys who owned vans.

             I meant to be more of a slacker, but I’m my father’s daughter and hyper to boot, so I turned out to be the best worker there.  It says more about the other numbskulls on the staff, really.

             After a while, the chance to bolt presented itself when Crazy Katy invited me to see Blue Oyster Cult in her MG Midget convertible at the Sport-a-Torium.  Berneatha, the manager, told me no, so when I took out the trash, I just kept going.  Turns out it was a dead night and half the workers got sent home so she never brought it up.

          A few days later, a guy came in with his aunt.  We were selling corn dogs, and when it was his turn to order he said, “Yeah, and gimme one of them dicks on a stick.”  I turned to the microphone and said, “…and one dick on a stick, two hushpuppies….” and so on.  Berneatha waddled out and fired me on the spot!       

        Finally. 
       
       But when I came Thursday to give her my uniform and get the last check she said, “Go get dressed. What are you standing around with your face hanging out for?” So I sucked it up and went back to work.

           Only a better job at the Dairy Queen saved me from a teen career in fried food planks.