First in Flex Time

Copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008



When I think back to my experience as the candy counter girl at the Avon Theatre all those years ago in Chicago, I realize that my persona as the dreamy, creative, writer-type was only partly accurate. While my apparent lack of practicality was considered charming by those who loved me, it obscured another layer of personality, a crafty and shrewd entrepeneur, who at the age of 13 anticipated job-sharing several generations ahead of its time.
It was the forties, and my father had died a few years previously. My family never lacked food or shelter, but money was scarce for clothes other than hand-me-downs or for the frivolous pleasures of that adolescent time such as ice-cream sodas and velveteen hair ribbons. Like many of my friends, I was always looking for ways to earn a little cash so I could buy the “Sloppy Joe” sweaters (cardigans worn buttoned down the back with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows) pleated skirts, and dirty saddle shoes which were as much the uniforms of that time as are the painted-on jeans and breast-hugging tops and thongs of todays teen scene.
If we could pass for 16, we could get part-time jobs other than baby-sitting and running errands. Being tall for my age, I had already worked for Lerner's Dress Store I hated, hated, HATED having to re-fold ladies' lingerie after it had been tried on and rejected, which I did for hour after dismal hour, three evenings a week, and then at night dreamed fitfully of doing it some more. Girdles, bras, panties, half slips, full slips, small sizes, medium sizes, large sizes, pink, white, ecru, rayon, (silk was too expensive for this line, and nylon was not yet available ) rumpled, wrinkled, and sometimes smelly from having been tried on and pulled off dozens of times, fold them up, put them back in stock, then do it again and again...
The "Help Wanted. Candy Counter Girl." sign (“equal opporunity” was further away in the future than nylon; boys ushered, girls sold candy and that’s the way it was) at the neighborhood Avon Theatre was my ticket out of underwear hell. I filled out an application, lying about my age as usual, handed it in, and a couple of days later was called downtown for an interiew by the Personnel Manager, a pleasant, portly man who hired me on the spot : five evenings a week and half-day Saturday.
“You seem like the kind of young person this theater chain likes to encourage,” he said. “ Perhaps eventually you can get a position with us as a cashier. Good luck!”.
My duties included dispensing candy bars (Hershey’s, Three Musketeers, Mars) boxes of Good ‘N Plenty, Ju-Ju Bees, Milk Duds, Cracker Jack, and Necco Wafers, and of course, popcorn. I was also responsible for keeping the popping machine machine clean and full.
Perks included free admission (regular ticket prices: ten cents.) any time, and unlimited flirting with the ushers, handsome as young soldiers in their royal blue uniforms. A vast improvement over Ladies' Lingerie with its puny discount on stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The downside was that working so many hours didn't leave a lot of time for homework, or for what is now called “hanging out.” I don’t think we had a term for it then, we just did it.
Obviously, working half time would be perfect. The solution was at hand: I asked my best buddie Margot if she would like to share the job with me. After all, we shared school lunches, homework answers, deep confidences, so why not employment? She'd gotten a look at the cute ushers; her family had even less money than mine; we cut a deal. The paycheck was mailed to me weekly, I cashed it, we divided it. No problem.
Oh, the adventures we had! Entertaining the customers with jokes and conversation;, seeing for free movies like “Now Voyager,” “Fugitive of the Plains,” “Hollywood Canteen,” “The Contender,” and “Mildred Pierce,” with stars like Bette Davis, Sidney Greenstreet, Joan Crawford, John Garfield, and Buster Crabbe; comparing notes on our mutual time off on the perceived excellence of cinema art and boys.
A highlight was when the tub of viscous yellow flavoring, labeled “butter” (like “equal opportunity,” we didn’t know from “truth in advertising” back then) had to be refilled. One of the ushers would accompany the candy girl of the moment to the dark store room behind the screen and gallantly help lug the heavy metal container out to the candy counter. And a nice opportunity it was for them to display their strength, shouldering the tub as though it were no heavier than the Jumbo size box of the popcorn it would soon more or less flavor.
Ah yes, behind the screen. In that dim cavern redolent of artificial butter going rancid, and ancient dust and mouse droppings, I was given, and lost, my big chance with the usher of my dreams, the one with licorice black hair and knowing blue eyes. He asked if he could kiss me. I wanted him to; it would have been my first “real” kiss. But infected by the teen magazine morality of those old days, (which believe me were not as good as you may have heard) I refused. Steadfastly. Stupidly.
Finally he gave up, with a disdainful “I thought you knew the score.” We emerged from the den of prudery to the hoots and laughter of all the other ushers who of course assumed that we had been passionately “necking.” My pursuer, who did know the score, let them think exactly what they thought; he smirked, winked, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief as though trying to erase smudges of the Ponds Lips (guaranteed to “not only get their man but stay on and on and on”) I sparingly applied. Now I knew what my mother meant by “having the name but not the game." My reputation was smirched, though I had not smooched, nor had one moment’s pleasure.
I determined to play my cards differently the next time, but while I was trying to figure out exactly what the rules and strategies were, I received a letter from the downtown Personnel Manager, tersely instructing me to appear at his office immediately
Perhaps I was getting a raise! Silly, naïve me. What I got was dressing down To the effect that I was not allowed to "sub-contract" on my own authority. What "subcontract?" I was just sharing with a friend.
It didn’t occur to me to wonder then, as I do now, how he learned of the unorthodox arrangement. The usher of my dreams had been working at the Avon for several years – perhaps he realized something was out of order, and – could he have been so low? – retaliated for my rebuff by turning me in for a working arrangement I considered sensible, not criminal.
However I had been brought to this reading of the riot act, it was a short performance. As I braced myself for the line “You’re fired! Clean out the candy counter and leave!” the Personnel Managed leaned his considerable bulk back into the leather swivel chair, replaced the punitve frown with a friendly, avuncular grin, and said,
“O.K. Ruth, you get the point. Now I don’t mind telling you that you are a very enterprising young lady, and I like that. I’ll also tell you that the manager at the Avon says you and your friend are both cheerful, efficient, friendly counter girls. Maybe a little too friendly with the ushers, but we’ll let that pass. I’m willing to fix it so you and your friend are each hired on a part-time basis. Just don’t take matters in your own hands again, or you'll both be fired, without references.” (The Chicago version of Hollywood’s “You’ll never work in this town again.”)

Had I realized that young people kissing in the dark is not necessarily the first step to wanton degradation, my first real kiss could have been to the accompaniement of dialog between stars of the silver screen, maybe even Kathryn Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
So much for what we now recognize as “thinking outside the box.”
As they say, “too soon old, too late smart.”
I didn’t get rich. I did get kissed, eventually.