Christmas in a Suburban Mall
‘Tis the damn season.
My first job was at an iconic Australian ice cream parlour franchise named Wendy’s, owned and operated by a lovely Italian family in my neighbourhood. I’m always drinking a milkshake in all of my happiest childhood memories, so getting a job at an ice cream parlour was a natural progression into my teenage years. I can still hear Jewel playing throughout the mall. I remember the fluorescent lighting, the school uniforms, the mosaic tiles I would skip over. The smell of cinnamon donuts, strawberry syrup and fresh bread.
Walking into my first shift, locking the door behind me, I remember meeting one of the employees: “I’m a model” she told me. I didn’t think to ask for her credentials, her face was all the proof I needed. “How old are you? Like twelve?” she asked while chewing gum, taping her French tip acrylics on the counter. “I’m fifteen” she said with pride. I watched her adjust her Santa hat in the small mirror hanging in the back room, her hair falling perfectly like dominos. I tried to copy her, but without a layered haircut, I looked like a bald elf. I remember the sticky floors, the dirty mop, the old-school cash register. I was forever getting distracted by the mall playlist, the glittery Christmas decorations and sugary temptations. I was literally a kid in a candy store.
It took me a while to get the hang of it. I would give customers the wrong change, ruin people’s birthday cakes, spill soft serve mix all over the floor. “Why won’t the manager trust me with a store key?” I wondered. Pointing to the menu hanging above us, lit up by fluorescent lights, the owner suggested I follow the pictures to remember how to make each special Supashake. “A picture paints a thousand words“ he told me. “Woah, that’s deep” I thought. A customer once noted I was still wearing the trainee badge that I had on during their last visit. “Shouldn’t you not be a trainee anymore?” she said, gaining satisfaction from bullying a minor. I didn’t have the skills to speak up for myself, instead my hands were shaking while buttering her hotdog bun. “She’s doing really well” the owner stepped in.
We were allowed one “healthy” drink per shift, so naturally I made a chocolate thickshake with skim milk (I was on a diet!). We were allowed to take home any leftover hotdogs so I would always prepare one or two extras for good measure. “Did you eat whipped cream from the machine?” I was asked by the manager. “No” I replied. “You have whipped cream on your face, Kayla” they said. One time, I even participated in the 40 Hour Famine while on shift. No one can ever tell me I haven’t been through hard shit.
I spent my weekends working with the owner’s eldest son and we would blare Piece of Me by Britney Spears through the speakers while I sauced hotdogs, pausing only for dance breaks. We listened to that song for eight hours straight, never growing tired of it, occasionally changing the track to Gimmie More or Radar (in which I thought she was singing “I’m Maria” and not “on my radar”). He had won a trip to LA after making a video about how much he loved Lindsay Lohan, which he had filmed on his family’s camcorder. I can still remember the pixelated picture and the awkward jump cuts. “I don’t really like Lindsay Lohan that much, I just wanted to go to LA” he told me. I didn’t buy it because that video was a labour of love. I thought he was the coolest.
His Aunty was our manager and I remember her celebrating her 50th birthday on shift. “You’re so young” I told her, you know, speaking from life experience. We gossiped in the car as I smoked an invisible cigarette out the window. “Girls these days” I would say as we talked about our coworkers, “they just have no class” I went on, as we sat in a parked car in a suburban mall carpark, eating leftover hotdogs slathered in butter and cheese mix. I loved hanging out with her because she listened to me and made me feel wise beyond my years. I was still very much thirteen, only ever regurgitating the wisdom I had learned from Dolly magazine and Hilary Duff songs, but I liked feeling special and grown up.
Our competition was Donut King. They were fresher, newer, sexier. They had cleaner uniforms with a more vibrant hot pink shirt. Our uniforms were faded and passed down from previous employees. My Converse shoes were covered in chocolate sauce. They had warm cinnamon donuts, we had raisin toast. They would walk through the shopping centre in what felt like slow motion. “I hate them” I thought, for no reason whatsoever. We thought they were evil and putting all of our valuable jobs at risk. We weren’t allowed to shop there as it wouldn’t be a good look. I pretended their warm cinnamon donuts didn’t smell like literal heaven. I had to drink our inferior frozen drinks and pretend I wasn’t tempted by their forbidden fruit (concentrate).
I worked there for the entirety of my high school experience. “Can’t go, gotta work” I texted my friend one Christmas Eve, at the ripe old age of fifteen. Far too young to be that jaded, too old to be scooping ice cream cones. I was a few years into the workforce and more than ready for retirement. With that said, I can’t discount the laughter and fun times I had working there. I don’t think I have ever laughed as hard as I did than with the owner’s youngest son, who would do impressions of our coworkers as we prepared stock for the festive season. My favourite impression was of our coworker with an online boyfriend we were convinced was fake. We were putting sleeves on each cup, crying from laughter, stopping only when his Dad came to check in on our progress. A whole shift later, we finished the fifteen minute task.
A few years down the line, I was en route to university, the owner sold the business and it was time for me to move on. I remember seeing him after Christmas Mass for the first time since he had left. He was tanned and relaxed, no longer weighed down by the stress of managing a small business. Now that I’m older, I can appreciate the hard work he put in and how kind he, and his whole family, were to a teenage girl who needed their guidance, patience and support. When I left, I walked away with the ability to converse with people of all ages, a few extra kilos, and the pride that comes with being an ice cream connoisseur. I also learned what happens when you accidentally give someone who is lactose intolerant full cream milk. One thing I know for sure is that we weren’t just killing time and eating all the store profits, we were making memories.
I love your stories, Kayla 🎄🍦 always a real treat!!!!! (Pun intended!!!!)