Here’s a story about my first job.
I remember my first day. It was a crisp March afternoon in 1971. Mom dropped me off, because I didn’t have my driver’s license yet. I had on my black pants and black shoes as instructed, and was freshly showered. I took a deep breath, and knocked on the side door. It opened after a few long seconds. The smell of frying beef and toasted buns and ketchup flowed over me.
“Are you James?” the man asked. He was a pudgy man of about 35, wearing a shirt and tie, with brown slacks. He had a paper hat with the company logo on his head. The hat made him look goofy.
“Yes,” I said, extending my hand, which the man shook. “You can call me Jim.”
“Alright, Jim. I’m Dick, the assistant manager,” he said. “Good to have you aboard. Sit.” He pointed to a chair next to a messy…
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