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How it felt to get my first job

Let's face it. Life is expensive, especially at the old age of 13. Eventually, the cash in Mom’s wallet disappeared, and I needed to fund my gas station snack obsession. So, I did the unthinkable. I got a job. At a pizzeria, no less. 

My plan was to start early so that I’d eventually grow into a mature, responsible adult. Or maybe at the very least, someone who could make a pizza without messing up.

So, off I went, proudly entering the workforce as a kid who still couldn’t legally work past 7 p.m.

The first day

Strolling through the door confidently, I was ready to start making pizzas and brighten everyone's day. I approached my coworkers and said hello. Nobody said it back, and instead snapped at me to get workin’. It was a warm welcome, truly (given I walked past 5 ovens).

I spent the first hour pretending to know what I was doing, the second hour actually learning what I was supposed to be doing and the rest of my shift hoping no one would notice I was still doing it wrong anyway.

I tried my best to keep up with orders, but how could people expect any decent work ethic from a girl who still needed parent signatures on her field trip forms?

Family hatred

You may be wondering why I chose such a job at the ripe age of 13. It surely wasn’t for the aesthetic. I just had to prove I could be the second-best sibling in the family. (There are only two of us). 

My brother worked at this pizza joint for a year before me and, the way people talked about him, he must’ve been the fastest pizza-box folder west of the Alleghenies. I half expected to find a life-sized portrait of him in the back, smiling next to the tomato sauce.

Surely if everyone loved my brother they would extend some of their admiration to his cooler younger sister too, right? Wrong.

I guess pizza-making skills aren't a hereditary thing. Even when I was proud of myself, I’d get hit with the, “OH! You’re Brett’s little sister. He was so much better at this.” Apparently, I wasn’t just his sister, I was his lazier, clumsier shadow too!

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Customer encounters

Customers are their own special ingredient in the restaurant industry. It was pretty difficult for tiny little Carley to answer absurd concerns people had. Here’s some classics:

Question: “Can you make sure my pizza is dairy-free, carb-free, and gluten-free?” 

Answer: “Sure, so… a bowl of air?”

Question: “Where is your mozzarella sourced from?”

Answer: “Uhh. The fridge in the back? I dunno.”

Question: “Could you check if the marinara has tomatoes? I’m allergic.”

Answer: “Are you allergic to common sense too, or no?”

Payday

IT’S HERE. The day I had been dreaming of. I was ready to be referred to as Carley, the katrillionaire. My mind was flooded with dreams far bigger than my paycheck:

Buy that private island now, before the others realize that’s the move.

Should I start brainstorming pet names for my future yacht?

There isn’t enough yeast in the world for how much bread I’m going to make.

Then I opened the envelope. 

Let’s just say I think I had more money in my piggy bank in first grade than on that piece of paper. At that moment, I briefly considered asking Google how much one could sell a kidney for..

I survived

Well. I clocked out still conscious and breathing. That is until I remembered I had another shift the next day, and would be a working member of society for the next fifty years. I wouldn't recommend the whole job gig.

rappcr2@miamioh.edu

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