All I Really Need to Know I Learned in the Coffee Shop

            Back in the day – my day that is – the most important thing about summer was getting a summer job. 

            My parents were the children of subsistence fishermen, day laborers, shop owners, foragers; that is to say, people who worked hard to scrape together enough resources to survive. A work ethic deeply engrained by example and expectation.

            The summer of 1966 I was fifteen years old – old enough to secure a work permit. I was seeing dollar signs. Now a card-carrying member of our great capitalist society, I sought and secured employment at the bakery-coffee shop on the corner of Pleasant Avenue in Onset earning $17 per week.

            I had been hanging around the backdoor of this seasonal pastry shop for a couple of years. The owner’s children were my age and many afternoons found me in the company of Tom and Karen after the shop had closed for the day. These kids were conscripted at an early age to clear away dirty coffee mugs and pastry plates, but there was always at least one hired girl to help out during the morning rush.

            The lady of the establishment was the boss, her husband the baker. I’ve long since forgotten her name, but it was exotic compared to the names of the neighborhood ladies – Edith, Mary, or Edna. The bakery lady wore a bit of make-up, which also separated her from the women whose roots ran deep in the village. Every week, she would visit the local beauty salon for a wash and set. She was a modern working woman.  I loved her.

            To say the bakery lady was all business is not an understatement. After hiring me, she told me how she expected me to dress, wear my long hair, and comport myself with the customers. I took in every requirement like an assignment. 

            After purchasing two rayon waitress uniforms, one white and one pink, and matching aprons from the 5 and Dime Store a couple doors down from the bakery, I went home where I spent the rest of the day hemming the uniforms and thinking about my hair. A hairnet was mandatory, but how to wear one with style, now that was the burning question.

            My mother was fully against any make-up worn before the age of 18 and certainly didn’t approve of the short skirts that were all the rage. But when she saw me kitted out with my hair pulled back in a tight chignon with a beaded hairnet holding it together, she smiled and said, “You look nice.”

            The next morning, I got up at 5:30, dressed, and quietly left the house as my father was just getting up. He came to the door and said, “Good girl.” I was ready for the start of my real life.

            The bakery lady was already putting hot donuts on cooling racks. Like a drill instructor she told me to check the napkin holder, salt and pepper shakers, wipe down the counters, and clean the glass display cases. I was loving her a bit less.

            The doors would open each day at 6:45 am and it was not unlike the curtain rising above a stage – we would dance through the morning singing out orders for the short order cook, and cleaning up crumbs and coffee drips in synchronized motion. That first day I was exhausted when I returned home at 2 pm. But my apron was full of small change and my hair was still in place.

            Everything relating to food preparation and delivery came rather naturally to me having worked in my mother’s kitchen for years. I knew how to clean up spills, pour coffee, and set a plate of food on a table. But I would learn the importance of customer service.

            One customer, an older gentleman and local business owner said to me, “Smile! You look so angry.” So I smiled and said I was sorry. I wasn’t angry; I was just taking my job seriously. But the customers wanted more than just their order of eggs over easy with a Danish roll and coffee. I learned the customer wanted to be recognized and appreciated. So I began to smile and say good morning, told the customers to have a good day and asked if everything was to their satisfaction. Over time my nickel and dime tips turned into quarters.

            Another important lesson was to keep busy at all times when someone is paying for your labor. Intuitively, I found myself cleaning, sweeping floors, and filling condiment bottles. But on those occasions when I was found standing still behind the counter the bakery lady would bark, “Clean the glass girl!”

            She had taught me how to wash the glass cases inside and out with straight ammonia and old newspapers. Cleaning the outside of the case wasn’t so bad, but cleaning the inside was murder. One had to contort the body, nearly climbing inside the display case to get all the corners cleaned. On hot summer days the effort and the fumes from the ammonia would almost knock me out. I learned that sometimes the boss was really bossy, maybe even mean-spirited, but I was getting paid so I grinned and bore it as well as a teenager could.

            I also learned a great deal about people.

            There were people who would appear down on their luck, maybe order just a cup of coffee and nothing more. I’d greet them with my smile and make sure their cup remained full as long as they sat there. These people never ceased to surprise me by leaving me a quarter or two, sharing with me what meager funds they had. Years later when their obituaries were printed in the daily newspaper, I’d remember their generosity – a lasting memory of kindness. Conversely, there were people who everyone knew as money-bags, but who bore the heart of a cheapskate leaving only pennies behind on the counter for my efforts to please them.

            I learned that the bakery kids, the children of the owners, were really entitled brats. And even though they too had to work in the bakery, once I was hired I was no longer their friend. They would order me about and try to make me look bad in front of their mother and the customers. I didn’t grasp what had changed other than my being an employee. I became so sad over this change of status that when that summer ended I never returned to the bakery to work nor to buy pastry. The bakery kids never spoke to me again.

            It didn’t matter, I had moved on to better opportunities than being asphyxiated by ammonia fumes. I landed year-round, part-time employment at the Copper Kettle, a full-service restaurant, where I honed my customer service skills and continued my education in human nature.

By Marilou Newell