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Friday, August 7, 2009

ice-cream cult

Oh the innocence of a young, fresh-off-the-farm girl moving to Penticton, BC and becoming entrapped and awestruck by the local ice cream heaven. It was only two blocks from my house, although since we lived at 324 Penticton Avenue, there were a lot of things only two blocks from my house. My mom didn’t have a lot of money for us to spend on “things” and so I got a job. And I’m not saying that as though it was easy. Ohhhh no. The Penticton Dairy Queen family is a cult-like organization. Owned by the same woman who runs the local theatre club and dance hall and even the I-cant-believe-this-tradition-still-exists Miss Penticton Pageant. I printed out a resume embellished as hell and came back over and over again. I flirted with the cute boy behind the grill (and by flirted I mean awkwardly tried to get his attention while waiting for my fries or repeatedly wandering back to the counter to ask for extra liners, or forks, or gravy). I finally arrived one day when the owner was there and she gave me a chance based on sheer persistence. As it turns out, the DQ family was a cult I turned out to love. I had a crush on Marty the grill guy for years and perfected the art of a chocolate dipped cone. I had a strawberry milkshake thrown on me by a withered old woman paying by debit card who was furiously enraged at the 25-cent charge. I resisted the overwhelming urge to throw quarters at her. My first boyfriend lived almost exactly in between my house and the Dairy Queen. Our first fight was when he got drunk and forgot to come walk me home. My shift ended at midnight… which in the mind of a newly urbanized 15 year-old girl, is the perfect time for drug pushers and axe murderers to lurk around fast food parking lots. I still maintain the anger was justified. After closing we would set up a stereo next to the PA system and blast ABBA or NOFX or Jack Johnson. I hid behind the dumpster to scare Robin one night and made her cry. Not the most considerate thing to do I’ll admit, but she laughed about it once she realized I was neither a drug pusher nor an axe murderer. I became frustrated with ignorant demanding customers easily and learned the grill too so I could escape once in a while. All in all... I’d say Dairy Queen was the perfect first job for me, and I loved it even when I hated it.

3 comments:

achigurh said...

25 cents to use a debit card is just plain wrong..but even worse is using a debit card in the first place..AT A DAIRY QUEEN FOR FUCKS SAKE . listen, if that old hag can't cough up a couple of bucks cash then she needs to stick to gumming canned cat chow sitting on her plastic lined sofa leafing through the sunday newpaper for velcro shoes.

Michael said...

You got to work until midnight at age 15? Is that legal in Canada? You'd have to be 16 here (as if that makes that much difference, but governments can get pretty fanatical about enforcing child-labour laws).

ben said...

sounds like the perfect dis-functional, functional first job! better than the first i had, when i was 14 i sat in a car reading out the house numbers for the paper delivery, at the local news agents-5am starts!-boy that sucked!

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