This blue card allowed you to hold down a real, taxable job, contingent on a number of child-labor discouraging regulations, such as not running belt sanders after midnight. You know, stuff like that.
I don't remember exactly what my rush was: my parents didn't pressure me to get a job at 14, and it didn't seem like many of my friends were running out to get 'real' jobs. I think I just wanted some dough coming in on a regular basis - I never received an allowance because my parents are Italian and Italians just don't do that. Most of the cash I came into consisted of the occasional $20 my grandpa slipped me...or later, the occasional $20 I slipped from mom's wallet. Hey, she left her pocketbook on the kitchen counter -- I'm sure she knew. So yes, that was it: I needed to feel the power of having my own cash flow...and, I wanted a leather bomber jacket - I mean, it was 1989 after all.
McDonald's struck me as the easiest and most glamorous job I could get. I am not being cheeky. In my naive 14 year old head, I imagined myself the fresh new face of our local friendly McDonald's counter: headset, visor, and totally adorable. Watch me work this cash register all cute-like. Is that for here or to go, Sir? Have you ever seen someone so effervescent!? I'm having fun, wearing eyeliner, AND making bank. Boom. Except we didn't say "making bank" in 1989.
I never, ever imagined there would be other tasks involved.
My first day was mostly spent watching corporate training videos in the manager's office. I don't remember how long I was (locked?) in there, but it seemed like hours. After, she showed me around a bit, issued me a uniform, and told me I needed to procure black shoes with non-slip bottoms. My first 'real' shift would start the following Saturday.
I chose black hi-top Reeboks. You know, the kind that went with aerobics and leg warmers, or acid wash and hairspray - whatever your poison was in those days. These were probably the most slippery shoes I could choose besides stilettos. What does a 14 year old girl know about non-slip work shoes? Come to think of it, my mom was with me. Why didn't she intervene? Sometimes I think she was just watching this whole thing unfold in amusement.
Saturday came and my mom dropped me off at the McDonald's on Route 6. Grinning from ear to ear, I punched in like I'd been shown, and located the manager. She was not as excited to see me as I thought she would be.
"You'll start on fries."
"OK!" I practically yelled.
Wait. What? Fries?
"Oh, um, but I think I'd like to work at the counter instead?" I added.
"Everyone starts by learning the fries" she said, not even smiling. She was a meanie. A meanie with a bad perm.
If you've worked in a fast food restaurant, you know that fries duty is hard, physical work. It's not just dropping the fry baskets and flinging around the salt. Oh, no no - that's the glitzy part. The part they showcase out front. There's this whole other dance that happens...you see, because the fries have to come from somewhere. That somewhere is the walk-in freezer, stacked with cardboard boxes containing bags of frozen fries. As the french fry lackey (my term, not theirs), you wield this teetering vertical cart, which is about 6 feet tall, with hooks for at least a dozen fry baskets. You roll it to the freezer, open a box, and as I recall, each bag in the box filled one fry basket. You keep opening boxes and ripping open bags until you fill up all the baskets, hook each basket back on to the cart, and you roll this monster back to the fryer. Where it's hot. And slippery. The floor is slick with grease and your hi-top Reeboks will be the death of you. You keep on frying, dropping in full baskets, hanging the empty ones, until the cart runs out of fries, then you refill the whole thing, over, and over again.
As I learned the functions of all the buttons, what the different beeps meant, and how much to salt each batch, I grew increasingly upset. This was nothing like what I'd imagined. I was sweating, my hands hurt from handling the stainless steel baskets for hours, I was thirsty, and hungry. I never sat once. I never even thought of asking for a break, and no one offered me one. I just worked continuously until my shift was over. I was scheduled to work again the next day, and I showed up, reluctantly.
I was on fries again. On this day, a gentleman working in the back was friendly to me on my way to the freezer. Or maybe I'm just remembering Louie Anderson washing the lettuce in Coming to America. Honestly, the details of that day are hazy.
At some point, someone sent me out to clean up a spill. I managed to figure out the mop bucket and rolled it over to the table. Milkshake everywhere. EVERYWHERE. As if someone spilled the largest milkshake available for sale in America at this very table. It started on the table, pooled onto the seat, and finished on the floor, and was still spreading. I wiped and mopped and wiped and mopped and the more I wiped and mopped, the more milkshake I found. The manager was telling me to hurry and get back to my station. My french fries station. MY station? Oh no. This is not working out.
As I ended the shift, the manager told me she'd be calling me to give me my next hours, as she set up a more regular schedule for me. A couple of days later, the call came.
"OK, so I'll need you here at 6am next Saturday."
"6 am?"
"Yes, 6am."
What the? Who does she think I am? Some sort of old person who gets up early? This won't do.
I protested.
"Um, I'm sorry, but I just can't come to work at 6 am!!" Ah-ha! Now I've got her! She will now realize that maybe she's been mistreating me, keeping me at the fries...she will realize that I should be at the counter after all - she'll realize how mean she's being!
"OK, then we don't need you here. You can come and turn in your uniform this week."
"I..uh....ok, thanks?"
Click.
I was stunned. Then, relieved. I cried a little bit and then I laughed. And I told my parents. And they laughed at me. Or with me. I still don't know for sure. I think they thought all the same things you are probably thinking.
Later that week, my mother drove me to return my uniform and pick up my paycheck: $58. I'll never forget because it's the first line right on my social security statement - $58 earned in all of 1989, and I earned every damned penny of it.
The laws are still the same for your Working Papers and are generally obtained as you describe except our Guidance Office secretary was only 100 and worked part time and left early so it was hard to catch up with her. I spent many years working in fast food restaurants since age 14. Mostly making ice cream but then I moved on to a larger establishment, Arby's, and my boss, Frank, who was extremely young, attractive, and drove a Mercedes 450 SLC, told me "Keep in mind you are always replaceable." I just smiled, I knew I was a better employee than he was accustomed to! I remained there for four years. Frank, moved on and after that it was just a job...no more eyecandy...just grease, fryers, slicers, and hot ovens but it was not in my hometown so the perk was I made friends with kids from other schools! I have always carried on those words of wisdom to any job I took. In the end, after 33 years of teaching I was forced into retirement and replaced by some clay on the baseball field! Frank knew what he was talking about!
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