“Quimby’s Diner, Serving Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner, Open 6 AM to 8 PM” is stenciled on the glass door. A bell sounds as I push the door forward, further jangling my already racing heart. I am 16, facing my first job interview, shy, tiny in stature with a confidence level to match. I quickly check my ponytail for neatness, smooth my plaid pleated skirt questioning my choice of attire. Too late. Deep breath.

The diner is quiet after the breakfast rush as Mrs. Maguire predicted during our phone conversation.  Three sets of eyes, with varying degrees of interest, note my arrival.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Maguire” as she appears from a darkened area behind the lunch counter. While still drying her hands on the towel tucked neatly into her apron, she motions toward one of the four booths that line the front windows. As I head toward a booth, she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll be with you in just a few minutes. Since you’ve never been to Quimby’s before, maybe take a look around.”

What first catches my eye are all the shiny napkin holders, ketchup bottles, spice shakers and spotless ashtrays placed in perfect alignment on each table and along the lunch counter. I might be unusual, as a teen, but I notice and appreciate neatness. About ten bright red, backless, stools line the gray, faux marble lunch counter. Matching booth tables with green naugahyde covered benches, though not new, have obviously received much care and attention. A separate dining room has large, white curtained windows on two sides and a wall, with a corridor behind, that ends at a pass-through window from which now bellows steam and the aroma of dish soap. In this dining area, several tables for four are randomly arranged with one long table, placed diagonally in the room, with seats for maybe 12. I try to imagine serving 12 people at once.

When Mrs. Maguire reappears, she comments about the “crazy, busy breakfast hour” and “pile of dirty dishes awaiting” but then quickly turns her full attention to the task at hand – my interview. Mrs. Maguire is an attractive woman, barely 50, full of warmth and smiles. Despite her ‘crazy’ morning, no hair strays from her short bob, her pinkish cheeks and bright blue eyes exude energy to spare.

“Please call me, Anna”, as she proceeds with her questions. Basics: “Junior at Andover High, live about two miles from the diner on Route 11, have a driver’s license but no car.”  Work experience: “Clausen’s Cabin Colony and babysitting.” 

“Are you available for weekends now, from noon to eight, and five or sometimes six days a week in the summer?”  I nod yes to all as I silently watch my lazy summer disappear.

“You’ll be helping Lil serve lunch. Lil’s been with us forever; it’s just amazing what she can manage single-handed.”  Anna motions towards a middle aged, full-figured, blonde woman sitting at the lunch counter, holding a paperback in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.  Her bouffant hairdo is sprayed to perfection, her turquoise nylon uniform…well, maybe just a little snug. “I’ll introduce you when we’re done…so from 2pm through the dinner hour you’ll be on your own”. I flush pink as my stomach flips. Anna takes note. “Of course, Bud, Mr. Maguire, I mean, my husband, the chef working at the grille over there – he can call me to help if you get really busy. We live just behind the restaurant so I’m always on call.”

Yikes, can I do this? I’ve never really done this before. Oh no, my telltale red nervous spots are creeping up my neck. What if Anna notices? I’ll never get hired!

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine when you get the hang of it.”

I want to believe her.

With an encouraging smile, Anna rises saying “Let me introduce you to Lil”. On cue, Lil snuffs out her cigarette and twirls on the stool to face us. Her penciled eyebrows, rosy cheeks and bright red lipstick and nails catch my eye – unusual adornment in our little town. Lil, in turn, gives me a head to foot appraisal.

Do I detect a smirk? She’s likely trained many like me, yet I probably don’t look like I can carry two plates, no less a tray full of dinners.

After probably a limp handshake on my part and an exchange of “nice to meet you”, Anna moves me toward the grille area where the familiar aroma of cooking bacon lifts my spirits. “Mr. Maguire, Bud”, Anna accentuates the latter as she reaches to lower the volume of his radio. Mr. Maguire barely looks up when we’re introduced; he doesn’t seem shy, just not happy to be interrupted. There’s a grille to clean, giant pots to wash and more bacon to fry.

Graying hair pokes out from around his Red Sox cap, worn backwards like some of my friends at school. His chef’s jacket, like what I’ve seen only on television, is starched and bright white yet his cover apron suggests many breakfasts prepared that morning.

As I’m thinking the chef will be Mr. Maguire to me for a long, long time, he asks, “Ever eat fried clams? That’s our specialty, you know. Food you don’t expect in farmland. Our clams have the big bellies, not like those puny, fried rubber bands Howard Johnson serves. Tour buses, heading north to the lakes or mountains, stop here at Quimby’s for our clam dinners. Those city folk will fill that dining room and, mark my words, you’ll make big tips, I mean lots of money those days.”  He turns his back to pull a huge container labeled “cooking oil” off the shelf.  I am dismissed, but “big tips”, well, that sounds promising.

As Anna leads me back toward the front, she asks if I can start this weekend. Wow, I guess I’m hired. Of course, I say “yes”. Little did I know I had just met my first “three” bosses!

My story continues.