But not a very good one. After quitting my job at the Dairy Queen, I was hired as a waitress at the Hen House, a truck stop on the highway not far from where I grew up. Technically, the Hen House was a "family restaurant" but I mostly remember the truckers. I worked there for three months during the summer before my senior year in high school.

My best friend was already working at the Hen House as a hostess, and she encouraged me to apply for a job there. When I interviewed, the manager asked me why I quit my job at the Dairy Queen. I told her I was unhappy with the direction the owners were taking the restaurant. I was 17 years old. She hired me anyway.

The Hen House uniform was so hideous, it's difficult to describe. The dress was chocolate brown, covered with tiny yellow, orange and white flowers. Its sleeves were white and puffy. The dress came with a white apron and a headband and a plastic name tag topped with a chicken in a barn or something like that. I was also told I had to wear white orthopedic shoes and pantyhose. When I saw the entire ensemble for the first time, I mourned the loss of my brown polyester pants from the Dairy Queen. What was I thinking?

My first night of working at the Hen House was terrible. I shadowed a woman who had probably been waiting tables for over 30 years. She was not happy about having a teenager follow her around all evening. I don't remember her name, but she could be pretty mean when she didn't like a person, and she didn't like me that first night. I mostly bussed her tables and tried to stay out of her way. She made me so nervous, I wanted to cry the whole time I was there. Waiting tables required a level of extroversion that I did not possess and was not necessarily prepared to develop.

When I got home, I stormed into the house, feeling miserable and crying. My mom asked me how my first night went, and I started telling her how awful it was and how much I hated waitressing and how I never wanted to go back. This was too much for my dad who was upset that I might quit before I gave the job a chance. I was sure he was about to give me some kind of lecture about sticking it out and understanding the value of hard work and being responsible (blah, blah, blah) so before he could say anything, I started screaming at him: "Don't say anything Dad! I'm not going to quit! I'm not going to quit!" I fled to my bedroom and slammed the door shut. It wasn't often that I raised my voice at my father, and he has never let me forget it. I also knew as soon as I yelled at him, that the deal was sealed. There was no way I could quit now.

Eventually, I befriended most of the waitresses and cooks who had been there for years, including the waitress who I thought hated me from that first night. I learned how to gain their respect by doing what they asked me to do and asking them about their lives. It probably helped that I was genuinely interested. I also got to know the teens hired as hostesses and dishwashers and waitresses who were only there for the summer. In addition to my best friend Julie who started there as a hostess and eventually began picking up shifts as a waitress, another girl from my high school, Shannon, worked there. I got to know her a little better that summer. She probably doesn't remember it, but on one very slow night, we talked for a long time about love and relationships and the stupidity of boys in high school and growing up in a small town where everybody remembers you from Kindergarten. I can't remember the specific advice she gave me, but I remember feeling a lot better about a summer night of drinking at the drive-in, the details of which I was still recovering.

That summer at the Hen House, I also loved talking to one of our cooks, Tony. He was cute and funny and not from our high school, although he may have attended Valley schools at one time. I can't remember his entire story. I just remember laughing and flirting with him as he passed me full plates through the window from the kitchen. Plus, he was usually in a better mood than most of the full-time cooks at the Hen House. Go figure. They were full-time cooks at a restaurant called the Hen House.

Despite the connections I made with my co-workers, I continued to hate my job. My typical shift was from 2:00 to 10:00 PM, and each morning when I woke up, I would start thinking about work, dreading the moment I had to put on that uniform. As soon as I got to the Hen House, I fixed myself a large glass of ice water to settle my nervous stomach. I nursed that water all night. My anxiety about waiting tables never really diminished, and I made lots of mistakes.

One time, I was serving a family of six. They had waited a long time for their dinner because one of them had ordered the catfish and it wasn't something the cooks made very often. When the meal was finally ready, I carried the tray to a booth just behind the table where the family sat, intending to rest the tray there so I could deliver each plate to the family one or two at a time. Only I miscalculated how far I had to slide the tray onto the table, and as soon as I turned away, the entire tray of food crashed to the floor. I could hear the gasps coming from the family as they saw their long-awaited dinner made inedible by my clumsiness. I was horrified and apologized again and again, somehow managing to keep them from walking out of the restaurant. I don't know why they stayed. I think I made them feel sorry for me. That's how I earned most of my tips. Pity.

I remember another time when this older couple sat in my section. The woman was shaking and seemed a little upset before I even brought them their water and menus. She asked me for some coffee which I promptly brought out. Only, when I poured the coffee, some of it splashed into the saucer and onto her hands and the table. She freaked out and started crying. I quickly apologized, but she was very distressed and left the table in a hurry, heading to the bathroom. Her husband remained in the booth and told me not to worry about it. "It's not your fault. My wife and I just came from the doctor. She was diagnosed with cancer and is a little upset right now." Of course, I felt terrible for this woman so I was determined to make it up to her. When she came back, she ordered a waffle, but when I brought it out to her, she started crying again. Apparently, she didn't know it would be sprinkled with powdered sugar. I took it back and asked the cook to fix another waffle for the woman but without the powdered sugar. I explained that I was trying to be extra sensitive because the woman had just learned she had cancer. The cook was very accommodating and made the woman another waffle. But when I brought the second waffle out, the woman still wasn't satisfied and gave it back to me. I can't remember why now. I wheedled the cook into giving me another waffle, but when I brought it back a third time, the cook shouted at me: "I don't care if this is the last waffle that woman will ever eat because she's going to die tomorrow, I am NOT making her another fucking waffle!"

I got very good at apologizing to my customers, and for better or worse, most of them were men as old or older than my father. They drove trucks for a living, and like the toothless old carnies I seem to attract, they appreciated my clumsy efforts. I never got swatted on the butt at the Hen House, but there is a certain amount of leering that happens in a truck stop no matter how ugly your orthopedic shoes. A few of the truckers were creepy, asking me old I was and when my shift ended, but most of them were just eager to talk to someone after spending long days alone on the road. They could also be very generous. They may have come in for a cup of coffee, but they welcomed friendly conversation, and they often left me far more money on the table than the coffee was worth. Sometimes they came alone; sometimes they sat with one or two buddies in a booth. I remember being asked about my "accent" a lot by these guys. I don't know why. One time, I argued with three truckers for the better part of my shift, trying to convince them that I grew up not fifteen miles from the restaurant. I gave up when one of them said: "Look sweetheart, I've been on the road a long time, but I've also lived in Kansas all my life, and you ain't from around here. Trust me." Who was I to argue with that?

Working at the Hen House taught me a lot. I learned how to develop positive working relationships with adults who had far more life experience than I had and whose plans didn't include quitting at the end of the summer, finishing their last year of high school and getting the hell out of Valley Center to go to college and become an artist. I also realized pretty quickly that I was never going to be a good enough waitress at a nice enough restaurant to make any real money. My skills were barely suited to the Hen House and its truckers and the families who felt sorry for me. My career in hospitality management ended that August. I was going back to earning money as a babysitter, and I couldn't wait.

One of my last days there, Julie and I shared a rare shift together. We had the night off, and I was feeling very happy, knowing I was almost finished with the Hen House forever. I was driving us home in my Sunbird, and I can remember laughing as we cruised down Broadway with the radio turned up and the windows rolled down, our arms outside the car, hands pushing against the wind. We were exhausted from a long day of waitressing but feeling giddy about the free night ahead. It was one of those moments as a teenager when I felt like I was going to conquer the world. And that's when we heard the siren behind us. Nothing kills the pure joy of driving down an open, empty road in Kansas with your best friend in the whole world like the sound of a police siren. It was my first speeding ticket and it cost me more than I made that day at the Hen House. But what I remember most is a small orange truck slowing down as it passed us. Three guys were crowded inside the cab, yelling and laughing and pointing as they watched me hand my license to the police officer who ignored them. "Hey look! Is that Kathy and Julie?!" My reaction was a strange mix of embarrassment and pride, but mostly, I hoped they hadn't noticed the uniforms.