I got my first real job, other than occasional babysitting, the summer before my junior year of high school. Actually, Mom arranged it. She worked in an office at a shirt-making guild and got me a summer position as cafeteria assistant.

Mom and I rode to work together. She drove and I slept.

Oh no, years later I still have a white uniform and a hair net!

Like me, my boss’s name was Mary. We became Mary C. and Little Mary. I was Little Mary.

Minimum wage was $1.25; just call me Miss Moneybags. I returned to the same position the following summer, and the minimum wage jumped to $1.40. My first pay raise, by default.

My small cafeteria was located in the basement.

I helped prepare mass quantities of food and washed dishes, manually, as lunch was served and eaten. Serving looked like a lot more fun than dish washing. Another cafeteria worker with seniority in experience and age usually helped with the serving and left the washing to me. I had plenty of washing experience from my stint as a milkmaid.

One day, Mary C. pulled a large pan of fruited jello from the upper shelf in the refrigerator. It fell on the cement floor, landing upside down with a shlump.

After Mary C’s initial yelp of ‘Oh shit’, the three of us silently stood looking at the jello pan’s bottom, now facing up.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” said Mary C., while scanning around for other witnesses. “I just mopped the floor this morning, so it’s okay.”

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Never trust messy jello.

Usually, Mary C. served her jello in spatula’d rectangular blocks. Today’s dessert got scooped in messy chunks. I watched to make sure Mom didn’t take any jello, and later warned her never to select messy food.

When offered, I declined the leftover jello even though it was free.