When I graduated from Central, I tried to pretend that a three-year routine wasn’t ending. In spite of poor grades, I had been accepted to the Colorado School of Mines. That acceptance was my excuse for not figuring out what I should do with my life.
I got a job for 64 cents an hour at the BK Drive Inn on Highland and Lake. I was told that was the “break-in rate.” The regular minimum wage was 80 cents an hour. I learned how to make a malted milk, something that seemed anachronistic even then. You could get a malt or a milkshake at A&W, but you could get a malted milk only at BK. By regular testing I found out how many root beer mugs I could hold in one hand. I could fill and order for four, sometimes five, root beers without shutting off the tap. Though the bosses weren’t pleased with me at first, I became a good employee.
Occasionally Mrs. Vickers was the boss when we closed. After we were nearly through cleaning up, she’d play songs from the 40’s and pre-Elvis 50’s on the juke box and some of the crew would dance, often with her. Her husband was an extreme capitalist who would have paid us 40 cents an hour, or nothing, if he could have gotten away with it. He did charge the car hops for broken and stolen mugs, even if they didn’t break them or a customer drove off when the car hop was nowhere near. I don’t know whether he would have been angrier at the idea of paying a few extra cents for his employees to dance, or the fact that his wife was dancing.
Once Mrs. Vickers asked me if I wanted to dance when she noticed that I hadn’t asked anyone else. I declined, though I wanted to very much, but not as much as I’ve wished, in retrospect, that I had accepted. Those moments come in life, and when they pass, they are gone forever. I’m sure I would have enjoyed the dancing once I got over the awkwardness of the situation, but I wonder if I haven’t enjoyed the yearning I’ve relived over the years far more.
Jeff Arnold
