04.27.23
Anytime my feet hurt from standing, it reminds me of the summer I had four jobs.
Two of those jobs were shorter term — a six-week gig as a teacher’s aide for a summer school, and a four-week engagement terribly teaching theater in the afternoon at a day camp. They intermingled with my other two jobs — a bagel shop, and Stewart’s.
When I wasn’t assistant teaching just fine or lead teaching horribly, I would generally be at the bagel shop from 6am to 2 or 3pm. It was a very cute place, on River Street in Troy, called Psychedelicatessen. My boss was an awesome Navy veteran/hippie lady who I loved. She very graciously took a chance on me, in the sense that she hired me when I had no food service experience. She stood with me at the flat top and taught me how to make each sandwich, along with how to, you know, use a flat top; she’d buy me lunch from other small businesses in Troy when it was just the two of us in the shop; she hooked me up with great tie-dye shirts to work in, very on-theme with the eclectic and colorful decor. It was a very fun, chill place to work, and I learned how to Do food service. I always had to work the cash register when it was busy on Saturdays (there was a poppin’ farmers’ market just outside the door, so the place would be mobbed all morning and afternoon), because I was the only one who could keep a smile on my face the whole day while I talked to customers. To this day, I want to quit my job and go back into short-order food service. I would do it if I could afford to do that and stay in my apartment. I did want to be a chef when I was a kid (just check my elementary school yearbooks), but I don’t think I really have the skill set for that (I definitely do not have the skill set for that). Short order, though. That I can do. Everyone who has stood over a dozen eggs for a dozen different sandwiches on a flat top in a 115 degree kitchen deserves a certain amount of respect. Certainly more than I am owed for sending my little emails and sitting on my little Zooms.
After I left the bagel shop, I would go get my car from the lot and drive twenty-five minutes back to my parents’ house. I would have either 75 or 15 minutes before I needed to go to Stewart’s. Stewart’s taught me how to sell lottery tickets, ring up gas, and scoop ice cream. I was told by a District Manager in my second interview for the job (can you imagine — two interviews to work at Stewart’s!) that I needed to make sure that I didn’t show any discontent if a customer ordered ice cream — even if I felt annoyed for this reason or that, if it felt like a hassle. Stewart’s is first a dairy company, then a gas station, he told me. I thought his worry that I would be so upset that someone was ordering ice cream was silly until I discovered that some of the ice creams are so hard that they are impossible to scoop. Anyone who currently or has ever worked at Stewart’s will tell you that the Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup, a very popular flavor, is an absolute wrist breaker. If you ordered a Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup milkshake, extra thick, you’d be standing there for 40 minutes while I try to scoop 10 ounces of that rock hard shit out of the dip counter. It was a relief when someone ordered one of the softer ones. Ask your clerk the next time you’re blessed with an opportunity to get Stewart’s ice cream, I can nearly guarantee they will corroborate this claim.
I worked at Stewart’s for the closing shift, starting at 4pm. We closed at 11pm, and I would generally be able to leave around 12. Around 10:30pm, a revolving door of men who worked on the highway overnight would come in for coffee, taking a few minutes to hang out and chat while I restocked half gallons of ice cream and threw out unpurchased hamburgers. They were nice. I had firmer regulars at Stewart’s than I did at the bagel shop: my three coffee highway guys, a woman who ordered a mint chip milkshake every afternoon, a man who came in and bought M&Ms and a Snapple each day. I knew their names and they would ask me questions. I worked in what I believe was the final un-renovated Stewart’s, and it felt homey and unpretentious.
All of this amounted to twelve to seventeen hours on my feet a day, which I had never had to do. The first few weeks of this schedule were excruciating. I was fine to chat with people, I was fine to be active all day, but standing? Simply standing for that long? Oh my God, I thought my feet would fall off. I would lay on the ground with my feet propped up on the ottoman when I got home. I haven’t had to do anything like that since. I sit basically all the time now.
This instance of foot pain, though, is not due to long hours in the service industry. I went as far east on 23rd Street as you can go, to meet my friends to go on a Taylor Swift boat. Overpriced drinks (after you already paid for the ticket itself) and an environment that could be considered a little low rent are a small price to pay for an opportunity to scream-sing and dance on the East River. I love to be outside, I love to be on a boat, I love Taylor Swift. We had the best time, but it was long — we were on the boat for over three hours. Counting the walk to and from the boat, along with having to stand on the crowded L and A Trains on my way home, I was on my feet for probably four and a half hours. Coupled with a less-than-practical pair of booties, I was truly suffering and considering sitting on the floor by the time a seat opened up to me at 145th Street.
My feet pulsed in my Kohl’s booties as I rode the rest of the way home. I’ve gotten soft.
