I used to work at the beach when I was a kid. Inside at the beach. But still the beach. Jones Beach. Jones Beach State Park, Wantagh, New York. Field 4. In the space of my first summer, I worked my way up from cashier to Head Cashier. The older girls--who had all arrived before me--hated me. Big time.
I was good at math. Always good at math. And I counted fast. To this day, I have never had more money fall through my fingers than I did as Head Cashier at Field 4. We're talking $50,000. $75,000. All in ONE DAY. Lucky for them, they had hired a guilt-ridden Catholic, so it was impossible for me to steal anything even in a cash-ridden environment with poor inventory controls. I couldn't even steal a FRENCH FRY, be it golden or curly.
I quickly learned how to size-up a customer. College boys? Assholes, drinking beer all day long in the suburban sun, squawking at you to pour their beers faster. Faster! And any woman with long fingernails, wearing a bikini? Total bitch. She only ate fruit salad, kept her Parliament Lights tucked into the strings of her high-cut suit, and spent hours walking up and down the boardwalk, looking for a light.
Hells Angels dudes? Sweethearts. They might look tough, but they went heavy on the "Miss" and always asked for the lemonade. (Arnold Palmers for the gentlemen from the south. And me being part-Floridian, I understood their language.) Vietnam vets, many of them, with that sort of lumbering heavy gait that only got heavier on a Saturday in July, when the mercury soared past 90 degrees. Denim and black leather. Not a good look in the heat.
In the ice cream room, you had to watch the momey. A family of ten would arrive and buy ten ice cream cones with a one dollar bill with the corners from four separate twenties pasted to the front. Genius, really. Genius! But tricky, very tricky.
It would, however, give me an excuse to call the State Troopers. Counterfeiting was State Trooper territory--my kind of men-in-uniform territory--and they would arrive at Field 4 all suited and booted, calling me "ma'am," not "miss," and turning down any and all of my kind offers of turkey burgers or garden salads. (State Troopers...much healthier eaters than the Nassau County police.) Holding my fake twenties up to the light, walkie-talkie chirping with strange numbers and locations, they'd leave me there in the fading light of the ice cream room , the bug zapper quietly zapping, without a backwards glance in any direction.
I was good at math. Always good at math. And I counted fast. To this day, I have never had more money fall through my fingers than I did as Head Cashier at Field 4. We're talking $50,000. $75,000. All in ONE DAY. Lucky for them, they had hired a guilt-ridden Catholic, so it was impossible for me to steal anything even in a cash-ridden environment with poor inventory controls. I couldn't even steal a FRENCH FRY, be it golden or curly.
I quickly learned how to size-up a customer. College boys? Assholes, drinking beer all day long in the suburban sun, squawking at you to pour their beers faster. Faster! And any woman with long fingernails, wearing a bikini? Total bitch. She only ate fruit salad, kept her Parliament Lights tucked into the strings of her high-cut suit, and spent hours walking up and down the boardwalk, looking for a light.
Hells Angels dudes? Sweethearts. They might look tough, but they went heavy on the "Miss" and always asked for the lemonade. (Arnold Palmers for the gentlemen from the south. And me being part-Floridian, I understood their language.) Vietnam vets, many of them, with that sort of lumbering heavy gait that only got heavier on a Saturday in July, when the mercury soared past 90 degrees. Denim and black leather. Not a good look in the heat.
In the ice cream room, you had to watch the momey. A family of ten would arrive and buy ten ice cream cones with a one dollar bill with the corners from four separate twenties pasted to the front. Genius, really. Genius! But tricky, very tricky.
It would, however, give me an excuse to call the State Troopers. Counterfeiting was State Trooper territory--my kind of men-in-uniform territory--and they would arrive at Field 4 all suited and booted, calling me "ma'am," not "miss," and turning down any and all of my kind offers of turkey burgers or garden salads. (State Troopers...much healthier eaters than the Nassau County police.) Holding my fake twenties up to the light, walkie-talkie chirping with strange numbers and locations, they'd leave me there in the fading light of the ice cream room , the bug zapper quietly zapping, without a backwards glance in any direction.
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