Club

Posted to Work on 10 October 2007.

by Robyn—Age 24—Arlington, VA

The snack bar at the country club was always hot, always sticky. The bubbly deep-fryer grease created a shimmering wave of heat, and the thick, sugary goo that dripped out of the Slush Puppy machine attracted so many bees we all suffered stings. I hated the job, hated burning my fingers with the fryer tongs picking up chicken fingers, hated the 250-pound co-worker who liked locking me in the walk-in meat freezer, hated seeing the luckier ones lounging by the pool. But that summer, I pinned on a ROBYN nametag and went in anyway.

It wasn’t even my only job, but I needed more paychecks because I was starting at a big-name, private university that fall. The full-timers at the club teased me and the other part-timers making college money when we messed up. “So smart, huh?” they’d rib. But I still wore my college t-shirt under my uniform, to remind myself that just because members thought employees stupid, I knew more than how to run a fryer.

Actually, all employees knew much more than the members would ever realize. We were like Nelly Dean of Wuthering Heights, privy to secrets because of our servile invisibility. From overhead conversations, we knew who was cheating on whom. We knew that it was policy, not accident, that the only black family allowed to join was that of a Pittsburgh Steelers’ player. We knew Kay, a local realtor of mansions, drank vodka tonics disguised in a Slush Puppy cup at 10 a.m. We knew that when Christine, a classmate of mine, snottily demanded a milkshake with frozen yogurt and skim milk to preserve her figure, I made the whole damn thing with full-fat ice cream and half ‘n’ half instead.

I celebrated my last punch-out by dancing around and calling good riddance over my shoulder. Then, in September, two full-timers sent me a package at my new dorm. It was filled with candy and pre-wrapped Rice Krispie treats they filched from the club. There was also the old fryer tongs, with a note.

“Put these by your desk so you remember to study hard so you don’t have to come back here.”

My roommate—a New Englander, a private-school girl—laughed. I did, too. Until she left. Then I cried. Because I realized that, maybe I hated that job, but I got to walk away. Because I realized I was one of the luckier ones.

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