Life Lessons at the Lunch Counter

I’m still traumatized by getting fired without cause at age eighteen going on nineteen.

I was thrilled to work for the summer at the five and dime lunch counter in downtown Elizabeth, New Jersey. I proudly wore my starched yellow uniform with the white apron, designating me as part of something important, in this case the great American variety store with the orange block letters known as W.T. Grant and Company.

My previous jobs were volunteer, a helper at the summer playground program, a candy-striper at the Catholic hospital, a summer in Chicago building a barn at a day-camp for inner city kids.

I learned how to make malted milkshakes, ice cream sodas, sundaes, and banana splits. Now I was a pro, a grown-up, privy to the mysteries of soda fountain drinks. I took my responsibilities seriously—when I wiped down the counter, it was spotless to welcome my next customer.

I acquired several regulars. An older man, a fatherly type with horn-rimmed glasses, ordered an apple pie with a scoop of vanilla and his coffee with one sugar and two little cream holders everyday. When he situated himself on the swivel seat, we nodded in recognition.

Soon, I just brought over his pie and coffee without asking. He always left me a nickel for a tip under the thick diner-grade cup and saucer. We never conversed, just carried out the daily ritual with wordless consent.

I enjoyed my new community of co-workers and loyal customers, and the ebb and flow of the day—breakfast rush hour, slow mid-morning, quick turnover of office and retail employees at their thirty minute lunch, kids and their mothers ordering soda fountain concoctions in the afternoon, closing down at four, the rest of the summer evening free to enjoy with my friends.

The counter help had to turn in tips to the accounting office. I didn’t know if tips were shared, or if the lady at the window skimmed change off the top before I received my little sealed brown envelope on Fridays.

Another girl, Diane, was hired but she wasn’t as conscientious in her duties as I was. She was a permanent hire whereas I was there temporarily, the college girl passing through on her way to future success.

One afternoon, she prepared a strawberry malted and I saw her insert the canister into the spinner—but apparently not far enough. The steel container flew off the spike and hurtled into the air like a missile. Fortunately, the canister landed on the floor, but not before ejecting its contents all over the place, including on my yellow uniform.

My boss, Mr. Dennis, walked up to me, enraged, and shouted, “Miss Weiner, did you do that?” Of course I denied it and tried to explain. But he didn’t listen to me, much less believe me. Didn’t my perfect attendance and proficiency make a difference?

The strawberry malted dripping off my uniform must have convinced him of my guilt. The new girl—whose uniform was spotless because she was behind the line of fire—kept her mouth shut.

My boss reacted quickly, “Turn in your uniform and name tag and don’t come back.”
I stammered, “But, but, I wore my uniform to work today.…”
He commanded, “Bring it back first thing tomorrow morning if you want your paycheck, Miss Weiner.”

The culprit stood silent while I took the fall.

The entire incident—from disaster to dismissal—happened within all of five minutes.

I waited at the bus stop in my yellow outfit dampened with pink streaks, stunned at the injustice meted out to me. The stains didn’t come out in the wash and I assumed Mr. Dennis would dock my pay for the damage. I don’t remember if I got my last paycheck or my tips for the week, whether pooled or skimmed or not.

But I kept the name tag—really, who else named Barrie would they need it for?

It crossed my mind later that maybe they both felt some kind of satisfaction that the uppity (in their eyes) college girl got her due.

I felt depressed for the rest of the summer. The public humiliation I experienced at the lunch counter burned for weeks. By then, it was too late for me to find another summer job.

In September, I returned to Douglass College (sophomore year) and moved on with my life, armed with a tougher shell and slightly more prepared for the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” I continued my food service employment working in the college dining hall to reduce my tuition.

But nothing—not even the life lesson at the lunch counter—prepared me for the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in November.

Still, I’ve always wondered if Apple Pie Guy cared enough to ask anyone why I was suddenly gone.