charlie: cupcakes

I used to work at a burger place in San Antonio called, Chester’s Hamburgers. Within 6 weeks of being there I began looking for a new job. I worked there for 2 years, which, to date, is still my longest time of employment at any of my jobs.

At Chester’s there was 3 managers, and towards the end, a manager trainee. The managers there were Madeline (who had hair that resembled that of an 80’s hair metal band, lots of hairspray), Michelle (who was pretty cool. Very strange, but still my favorite manager to work with), and Les (complete tool bag. Jerk. Tool bag.) The trainee that started towards the end of my long stay at Chester’s was Mitch. He was a big black man that had a car with hydraulics. He would never make it bounce, but I saw the gear, and I believe that it did.

Now, next door to the burger place was a store called, The Bottle Shop, or, at least that’s what we called it. She sold bottle. The old lady that is. And, by sold bottles, I mean, she had shelved and shelves of bottles of all types, for sale I imagine, but I never saw a single customer go in there. It was a place full of dank (I got that word off the Simpson’s. Means, dirty, sleazy place). Every day this old lady would bring over to Chester’s some home made cupcakes to sell. Simple cupcakes. Small in size with simple white frosting on top. There were in a separate case, being that we didn’t normally specialize in pastries. We would sell them for 50 cents a piece.

Dang, they were good, but I had no idea what I was eating. I knew they weren’t chocolate. The only vanilla I tasted was the frosting. And yellow cake, is, well, yellow, not brown, as these were. Often while I was working, I would throw my 50 cents into the jar she provided, and grab a cupcake. Sometimes, if I didn’t have 50 cents on me, I would help myself to one anyway, justifying that the manager I was working with was a tool, and I didn’t care if I broke a rule or two. It was Les.

The taste of the cupcakes always surprised me. It was so unfamiliar, yet so delicious. I never could figure it out.

I wound up finally getting a new job, after my senior year of high school ended. Quitting Chester’s was such a freeing experience that I couldn’t wait to tell my Algebra II teacher, Mr. Rathburn, who often went in to visit me while I was working. When I went in to pick up my last paycheck, Les asked me if I had my name tag to turn in. I said, no, I didn’t know I needed to bring it back. Being it was a simple, no-more-than-a-dollar piece of plastic with my name printed off of a label maker. He said since I didn’t have it, then I couldn’t have my check. So I drove the thirty minutes home and thirty minutes back to trade my name tag for my paycheck.

I’ve been back to Chester’s maybe a time or two since quitting. Later in life I went to a birthday celebration that had an unusual looking cake. Hesitantly, I tasted it. It was the same kind of cake as the old lady’s cupcakes: Carrot.