“Here’s another stack!” My manager handed me a pile of fliers and waved me out the door. I hoisted my bag onto my back and headed out. I was 13 and my summer job could not have been less thrilling; going from neighborhood to neighborhood putting fliers in mailboxes.
It was an easy, if monotonous job, but it paid pretty well, at least my 13 year old self thought so. Every day I would pick a new neighborhood and head out, walking each and every street in a certain radius before calling it a day and heading home. They trusted me to be honest about the hours I worked and it never occurred to me to dump the fliers and lie about how long I’d worked. I was proud to be earning money doing something other than watching children, I was thrilled to be out and about on my own every day. (Or maybe that’s the mom of two young kids speaking… what I wouldn’t give to have hours to spend each day just walking around…)
The minutes melted into each other, the hours becoming one long blur. To keep myself amused I studied the names on the mailboxes, laughing at the silly ones, making note of the ones that would make great novel character names. Years later, now that those names would come in handy, I don’t remember any of them.
The summer ended and I went back to school, leaving my city meanderings behind me. The next summer I had enough babysitting jobs lined up to keep myself busy and my wallet nicely filled. I’ve never walked the streets of any city the way I walked them that summer, and I’ve never again had a job that offered that kind of freedom.
This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt “First Job, Worst Job, Dream Job.” Click here for more great entries. And please cross your fingers for me, I’m waiting to hear if I got my dream job, if I do, you’ll all be the first to hear about it.