Pamela Tracy here, and gasp did you knowthat writing wasn't my first job? Nope, it wasn't. This morning, thanks to my birth mother, I took a little walk down memory lane courtesy of a blog centered in Omaha, Nebraska, where I'm from. The blog was called Forgotten Cuisene, and yup, it was all about food. A marker from my past was there among the pictures.
Picture me at age fifteen (same hairstyle but much, much, much longer and skinnier, too). I didn't have a car yet but I was saving my babysitting money. My friend Sandy was older; she had a car. One day after school I hopped in her car and she said, "I have to stop by Mr. C's." This was a big family owned Italian restaurant. I'm not sure I'd even been there. "Why?" I asked. She uttered a word I hadn't even thought of yet: job.
She parked, she existed, I followed. The hostess, for some reason, handed me an application, too. I filled it out (and I had to lie about my age). One week later, I had a job and for some reason, Sandy did not.
I worked at Mr. C's from the time I was 15 until I went off to college. I started as a coffee girl. Yup, that was my only duty. I walked around the restaurant and made sure that everyone had a full cup of coffee. I progressed to water girl, meaning when people newly arrived, I'm the one who gave them their water. From there, I went to settings (rolling silverware, arranging plates, coffee cups, and saucers, on a tray) to bus girl, to finally cook.
I met my best friends at that job (waving at Patty, Robin, Julie, and Sammi). I have burns from the pizza oven and still blame at least five of my pounds on Mr. C's pizza.
Up until five years ago, every time I went home (I still think of Omaha as home), my girlfriends and I (sometimes with kids and hubbies along) would meet at Mr. C's and eat.
I often write waitress heroines, btw.
It closed down five years ago. A nail in the coffin of favorite memory.
So, what was your first job?