It's pretty miserable stuff. You're young and can only work so many hours. Plus you're young and making dirt for money.
*Mildly Related Tangent* One winter at college in Boston I was wheeling my enormous and delicate instrument down the slushy streets towards my lessons, and found myself waiting in the Mass Ave. crosswalk next to heavy hitting jazz guitar monster Bruce Bartlett. I smiled and nodded in recognition and he said, "You gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues" and instantly my feet got warmer and the bass got lighter and I felt like a million bucks for the remainder of the winter.
Where were we? Ah yes, paying your dues. I've determined the "Young Man's Work Formula" to be:
Limited hours (multiplied by) Dirt Pay = Misery
It wasn't all bad. Every once and again the line of customers would offer an enjoyably crazy stranger. Someone venting about their day, gushing about their kids, ranting about the news, making small talk about sports, or even discussing the meals they were about to prepare. These people made moments of misery morph to memorable. Time travels faster when ideas are being exchanged. The slow, solemn, steady processing of payment is nearly unbearable in silence.
And thus a new Rule was created that I have followed to this day. I try to learn the names of the clerks in my life. If I meet them more than twice. For example, I were getting gas in Pennsylvania on my way to Baltimore I would not feel bad making a quick, silent transaction. I don't need to know that guy's name.
However, if I purchase fresh eggs every Tuesday at the farm stand on Route 1A and every Tuesday see the same woman processing my order, by the second or third time I will introduce myself and ask her name. And that usually leads to good things.
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