Adventures in Adulthood
A series of memoir essays by award-winning writer John Sheirer (www.johnsheirer.com). Whether you're just beginning the journey as a young adult, enjoying your golden years, or middle-aged (like John), you'll find something to enjoy in these unique looks at the one wild adventure everyone from 18 to 118 has in common: adulthood. (Updates will come online roughly once a week.)
Wrong Number
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While in graduate school, I paid the bills for a year by working part-time at a weird little fast-food restaurant at the local mall. They specialized in French fries, so the place was called the "French Fry Factory." For uniforms, we wore bright yellow t-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the glowing orange words, "French Fry Factory." (Just for fun, the "o" in "factory" was shaped like a cog.) In the florescent mall lighting, that yellow and orange combination was almost enough to cook the fries by itself.
The place had a small dining area with six tables and an open food-prep area so that anybody walking by could stare at us while we worked. And many people did just that--gawked away as grease slowly sizzled its way into our pores. Back in my tiny grad-school apartment each night, even after an hour-long shower and half a bar of soap, I never felt truly clean. Some days I even worked alone, taking orders and operating the cash register with my right hand and frantically reaching back to run the fryers and the grill with my left. I must have put on quite a show for the gawkers on those days.
The job paid minimum wage, but I got one free sandwich and all the fries and drinks I wanted during each shift. All in all, it wasn't a bad deal. Each day, I skipped breakfast and lunch, then snacked on fries and iced tea while I worked. When my shift ended, I would settle down for a leisurely burger and do some reading for my classes. I hardly ever bought groceries that year, even stopping in for free fries on my occasional days off, and I actually lost fifteen pounds because the hard work kept me too busy to eat much.
Within a couple of weeks, I got "promoted" to "opener." There was no extra pay, but I got to come in at 9 a.m. and open the place--a much better job than "closer" at 10 p.m. when I was ready to collapse into bed. Mornings were quiet at the mall, and I was able to develop a routine that made the job enjoyable. I liked having a couple of calm hours of preparation duty before the lunch rush began.
When I'd been there for about three months, my morning calm was interrupted by a phone call at precisely at 9:30.
"Hello, French Fry Factory!" I sang out in my cheeriest voice.
An elderly sounding woman on the other end of the line said, "I would like to speak to Marion, please."
"I'm sorry ma'am," I replied. "There's no one here by that name. I think you might have the wrong number."
The woman recited the phone number and again asked for Marion.
"That's the right number," I said, "but this is the French Fry Factory. We're a restaurant in the mall, not a residence."
"Marion said I should call her at this number," the woman continued, beginning to sound frustrated.
"I'm really sorry," I said, "but there's no Marion here."
With that, she abruptly hung up. I shrugged, sent a silent wish that she would find her Marion, and then got back to work.
The next morning, the phone rang at 9:30 once again.
"Hello, French Fry Factory!"
"I would like to speak with Marion, please." The same voice.
"I'm sorry, but this is the French Fry Factory again."
"Marion said she'd be there." This time, I heard what sounded like a hint of panic.
"I'm really sorry, ma'am. Do you have a last name for Marion? Maybe I could help you look up her number."
"She said she would be there," the woman snapped and hung up.
For months, these calls continued--not every day, sometimes not even every week, but always at 9:30. Each time, the woman seemed reluctant to believe that Marion wasn't waiting expectantly for her call. And each time, she hung up before I could say anything helpful.
This was back before caller-ID, so I investigated. I asked the other "openers" if they ever got any wrong-number calls. Most of them said they didn't, but one annoying guy said he refused to answer the phone before 10:30 when we officially opened for business. He eventually admitted that he may have heard the phone ring a few times in the morning, but he stuck to his philosophy that if they weren't open, he shouldn't have to answer the phone.
As the months went along, I tried several strategies. I started answering the 9:30 calls by saying "Hello?" in a pleasant voice, as if I were a retiree in the middle of morning coffee. That didn't help. Sometimes I picked up the phone and didn't say anything, but the woman would just hang up after a few seconds. I even answered a few times with, "Please don't hang up. I want to help you find Marion." But the woman would repeat, "Marion should be there," then hang up. Once I even answered, "Hello, information ... could I please have the last name of the party you are trying to reach?" No luck--all I heard was a click.
I don't remember exactly when the calls stopped, but one day I realized that the woman hadn't called in a month. In the meantime, I had transferred to another graduate program and was about to leave the French Fry Factory and move out of the area.
During my last week, the manager held a surprise going-away party. Most of my coworkers were there, and several of the pretty young women who worked at the clothing stores in the mall (and whom I had often treated to free coffee) stopped by to kiss my greasy cheek and give me their best wishes. The unexpected pleasure of this party nearly brought me to tears as I realized how much this silly little job had meant to me for the past year.
The owner even showed up. He was a lawyer who hardly ever came to the store. I heard that he operated the restaurant as a tax write-off and was upset when we actually started turning a profit. But he seemed like a nice enough guy, and I was glad he came to say good-bye.
With the owner was a very tiny old woman. She had bright, happy eyes, and I could tell she had once been young and active. She still maintained an energy and a glow that made her very appealing.
"This is my grandmother," the owner said after shaking my hand and wishing me luck, "Mrs. Candelaria."
"Oh, Glen, don't be so formal," the woman scolded her grandson. Then she turned to me and smiled, extending her hand.
"Please call me Marion."
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Posted by John Sheirer at 3:49 PM | MAKE A COMMENT
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John Sheirer
John Sheirer (pronounced Shy-er) is the author of the new memoir Loop Year: 365 Days on the Trail, which received the Connecticut Green Circle Award for environmental activism, as well as the 2005 memoir Growing Up Mostly Normal in the Middle of Nowhere, a finalist for the Sante Fe Writers Project Literary Award.
He teaches English and Communications at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he has been honored multiple times by Who's Who Among America's Teachers and recently received the Distinguished Service and Educational Excellence Award.
John lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy Barone, terrific stepkids Danielle and Daryl, and Daisy the amazing hiking dog. John's website is www.johnsheirer.com, and he can be reached at jsheirer@acc.commnet.edu or (860) 253-3138.
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