I’ve been working ever since I was 12. I’d love to claim that I was a child-star-turned-serious-adult-actor-a-la-Neil-Patrick-Harris, but “work” means something different here. Since age 12, I’ve held down a day job (oftentimes it was multiple day jobs). Here are a few ways that I’ve scraped together an income over the years: receptionist, dog walker, realtor (very very briefly), server, personal assistant, personal trainer, group fitness instructor, funeral singer, bus boy, wedding singer, retail employee, tour guide, and one editing job. I’m a jack of no trades and I’ve mastered fewer than that. One of my favorite jobs, though, was that of ice cream slinger. 

When we moved to Atlanta, I was without work for a while. It was one of about 3 times since age 12 where I was unemployed. Times were hard for a 14-year-old in those days. My entire freshman year of high school, I didn’t make a dime. I was completely dependent on my parents. I was disgusted with myself. It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years that I was out in the streets, hitting the pavement, searching desperately for work. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I wanted to work at Publix. It was right down the street from us and, in my brain, working at Pulix meant free groceries. I’ve since learned that is false.

One afternoon, my mom came home excitedly telling me about some woman she met at this place down the street where all the construction is happening, blah blah blah. My teenage ears were selectively hard of hearing. As can happen with my mom sometimes, it took about 13 minutes for me to comprehend what she was talking about. Down the street from us, across from the Publix that wouldn’t have me, there was a store front with some construction. A new business was going in there and my mother, being my mother, walked right in to see what was going on. That’s when she met Rhoda. 

Rhoda was in her 70’s but had the energy of someone much younger. She was one of those women who would stay sharp her entire life. In addition to being physically strong, she had sass to spare. She seemed like a combination of all four Golden Girls. Back in the day, they would have called her a “tough ol’ broad.” In fact, they’d still call her that. What made Rhoda remarkable was that, at her age, she was starting a brand-new business with a partner. My guess is that Rhoda was on her 9^th or 10^th life at the time. The new business was going to be an ice cream shop. 

My mom shoved a piece of paper in my hand with a number scribbled on it. She told me to call Rhoda because they were going to open soon, and I needed a job. She had all but sealed the deal with Rhoda and it was my responsibility to follow up. My mom dusted off her hands as she turned and walked out of my bedroom, her mission thus complete. 

Working in an ice cream shoppe sounded like the diabetic dream I had been waiting for my whole life. I couldn’t think of anything better, other than free groceries. So after a brief conversation with Rhoda (we still had a landline back then), I had instructions to stop by the store the next day.

I was a little nervous walking up but was quickly at ease when we met. Rhoda was, in fact, a tough ol’ broad which meant we were instantly best friends. The older generations love me because I’m respectful and remind them of a young Bob Hope (whoever that is). Rhoda was funny, charming, and took zero bullshit from anyone. During our conversation, I found out that that Rhoda and her business partner, a big ol’ queen named Robin, were opening a franchise. It was a very popular local ice cream franchise. At the time, there were about 5 locations in Atlanta and the Decatur store would make 6. By the end of the conversation, Rhoda and I were in love and I was employed. It would be another week or two before the store was fully up and running but I had the job if I wanted it. I was going to make 7 dollars an hour plus tips and all the ice cream I wanted (my words). Rhoda was excited. I was excited. 

A few short weeks later I was helping them open the store. I can’t recall if I was there for the grand opening but let’s say yes. It was like actual heaven. The place was charming. Rhoda and Robin went for a classic ice cream shoppe vibe with checkered table clothes, an old school gum ball machine, and vintage décor. And there my fat ass stood, behind the counter, proudly donning a bright blue apron and teenage acne. I had found my place. 

Unsurprisingly, having me work at an ice cream shoppe (and yes I will keep spelling it that way) was the very definition of the fox watching the henhouse. When I first started there, everyone said I would eventually get sick of the ice cream. Clearly everyone I know is an idiot because we’re talking about freaking ice cream. I never once got sick of that stuff. Technically we were allowed one “shift scoop” when we worked. What they neglected to tell us was how big of a scoop, what toppings were allowed, and what constituted a “shift.” Every time I went to the bathroom, my return indicated a new shift as far as I was concerned. Many an afternoon would I sit there on the back counter eating ice cream out of a literal bucket (it was almost gone anyway) with whipped creamed piled up toward the ceiling. Now who in their right mind would get sick of that?! 

This was my first taste of the service industry (and God knows it wouldn’t be my last). We had a tip jar and it was there that I discovered my love of cold, hard cash. I’ve been hooked on the stuff ever since. That weekly paycheck plus tips was enough for a high schooler to have a good time. I always had money for gas and food and, as such, I thought I was a king. I spent many an afternoon and weekend at work plotting how to spend every last penny I made.

Within a matter of months, they promoted me to shift manager. I had proven myself to not be the dumbest person they hired. As it turns out, it’s a strange breed of human that applies to work at an ice cream shoppe. With my newly appointed powers, I told Rhoda and Robin that they needed to hire my best friend, Victoria. Throughout high school, the two of us shared an umbilical cord. It only made sense that we work together seeing as we already took all the same classes and spent the better part of our waking hours together. Pretty soon, my wish came true and Victoria and I were slinging that cream side by side. 

Once that happened, the whole thing became a sitcom. Victoria and I were (and are) lunatics when we get together. We constantly try to one-up each other with a joke and literally everything is a joke. It never mattered to us that we were the only people laughing. Clearly everyone else is a dummy. Lazy afternoons were spent laughing to the point of tears, talking shit about school and everyone at it, crafting letters to Oprah asking her to save us from our shitty lives, and occasionally scooping some ice cream. Eventually Victoria became a shift manager too. Rhoda gave us keys to the place and trusted us to not burn it down. How that place never burned down is a marvel. 

Robin and Rhoda eventually bought another franchise in Midtown. This was a far busier location and required more of their attention. The Decatur store quickly became the lame stepchild of the ice cream family. Victoria and I didn’t mind because we were then left almost entirely to our own devices. 

Big. Mistake. 

Things slowly started going downhill from a business standpoint. One poor decision led to another. At one point, the owners announced that we’d now be selling food, not just ice cream. They did a little buildout and made half of the counter space a food prep station. It would be mostly soup and sandwiches. They scraped together recipes for things like gazpacho and turkey-brie-apricot paninis. They got a George Forman-sized grill and wished us luck. 

First of all, what the fuck? Second of all, who in their right mind orders food from an ice cream shoppe? Third of all, who decides it’s a good idea to serve food at an ice cream shoppe? As was to be expected, it was both pathetic and disastrous. The panini press could only handle one sandwich at a time. So, let’s say a group of 4 idiots walk in and order sandwiches. That shit is going to take a while. Also, if everything comes out at one time, only one sandwich will actually be hot. The others will be lukewarm at best. And one will be almost as cold as the ice cream. 

It was a bad idea all around. People ordered food so infrequently that, when they did, you’d find yourself asking the following questions:

“Should I just cut the mold off this bread?”

“Why is this brie so damn hard?”

“Is gazpacho supposed to be this color?”

“How does one revive apricot jam?”

Eventually, Victoria and I gave an ever-decreasing number of shits. It appeared everyone else was doing the same, so why not. One night it was particularly slow (a phenomenon that was becoming more frequent). As bored teenagers will often do, we got into a play fight. It started innocently enough. At one point she grabbed a tomato and threw it at me. The tomato was probably happy because it knew it wasn’t supposed to be in an ice cream shoppe in the first place. I hurled some melted ice cream at her (my “shift scoop”). She hit me with moldy bread, and I launched an empty tub of bourbon raisin at her. The fight escalated to the point where we both ran outside and around the building. It was a game of cat-and-mouse whereby the cat wielded a can of whipped cream and the mouse defended with a canister of sprinkles. 

I distinctly remember I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t breathe. This was a common occurrence with me and Victoria (still is). When the fight was over, we walk back into the shoppe via the front door, laughing, sweating, and covered in expired food. We suddenly stopped in the middle of the floor. There at the counter were two people waiting for ice cream. Had we not been wearing our aprons we probably would have turned around and left. Unfortunately, our outfits and the toppings caked on them made it obvious that we worked there. Most people would be embarrassed that they were caught goofing around and generally being bad at their jobs. Not me and Victoria. We got pissed. How dare these people walk into this ice cream shoppe wanting ice cream?! Begrudgingly we got behind the counter, scooped them their shit, and then locked the door when they left. We had zero shame. None whatsoever. 

During this time, Robin and Rhoda were all but completely absent. They were in a legal battle with the owner of the company. I don’t remember the specifics, but they painted this guy out to be a monster. Apparently, the owner of the company was the worst human ever. In hindsight, I’m sure the guy had some dicey business practices but, then again, so did Rhoda and Robin (see above story). 

Around the holidays, they planned a party for the two stores. When I say “party,” I mean they planned a “party/meeting.” 

Great.

They were hosting it in Midtown because that location was bigger and had more employees. Victoria and I rode together because our umbilical cord didn’t stretch enough for us to take two cars. I remember being oddly nervous for this party/meeting because I didn’t know the Midtown staff. I had it in my mind that they were a much cooler crowd, as cool as any 23 year-old, full-time, ice cream shoppe employee can be. It made me nervous that the Midtown crew would outnumber the Decatur crew. In my mind it was the Jets and the Sharks. 

As Victoria parked her Ford Explorer (literally the largest car on earth), I surveyed the parking lot. The building did not impress. It was an old house that had little done to it over the years and I noticed we walked downward to get to the store. The shoppe was in the actual basement on the backside of this giant old house with a few businesses up top. The upstairs businesses faced the main road while the ice cream shoppe faced a back parking lot. It was basically a secret speakeasy but with lactose. Again, a brilliant investment.

We arrived at the party-meeting as awkward as always. We chatted some with the Midtown staffers and settled in to the night’s festivities. There were probably a dozen of us there plus Robin and Rhoda. It was just enough people to awkwardly sit in a large circle and have one giant ass conversation.

After awkward introductions, we all sat down to play White Elephant, thus beginning the “party” portion of the night. Have you ever played White Elephant? It’s a painful burden to all who’ve been coerced into it. Here’s how it works. First, you run to the dollar store on your way to the event because you forgot you were playing White Elephant. You pick up some cheap meaningless shit because you don’t care and neither does anybody else, which is sort of the point of the game but not really. You spend more money on the gift bag and tissue paper than on the meaningless shit. Then while your friend is driving you in a space ship toward the event, you rip off the price tag with your teeth, throw that bitch in the bag, stuff some sweet looking tissue paper in there and voila! You have your White Elephant.

Once at the event, everyone throws their cheap shit into a pile. The more aggressively you throw it, the better you feel. One-by-one, everyone grabs and opens a gift. If you hate your piece of shit more than you hate the other pieces of shit, then you can steal the less-hated piece of shit. They have the audacity to call this “fun” “team” “building” and literally everyone hates it. 

It was my turn to pick out a gift. I go for one that ends up being kind of heavy. Interesting, I thought. Most things that are terrible are really light. I open it to find a giant ass old dictionary. Like straight-up, public high school, 1970’s dictionary. It’s the Ford Explorer of library materials. Cool, I thought, whatevs. I’m not going to bother putting this back because I’m too lazy to walk it over to the shit pile.  

Then I notice a note taped to the outside of the dictionary. Like a complete idiot, I start reading it out loud. It said something to the effect of, “Hey, you can start learning words! Also, there’s some cash in here on page 236, don’t read this out loud. Happy Holidays!” As the words were coming out of my mouth, I realized I wasn’t following the instructions. In my defense, though, whoever made that gift kinda buried the lead. Needless to say, the next person took my dictionary gift and the cash that was inside. 

Whatever gift I ended up with, I’m pretty sure I made Victoria run over with the Ford Explorer. 

After that rip-roaring game of White Elephant, Robin and Rhoda pivoted into the meeting portion of our partymeeting. Sidenote: I’m always shocked at how managers/owners/bosses try to slip work into an office party. It’s like, Dude no one cares any other time of year, but we care even less now. I’m just here for the taco bar and free booze. Back off the business talk, okay?

With grave faces and prepared speeches, Robin and Rhoda announced that they were officially parting ways with the demon owner. They claimed they wanted to part with him on civil terms (even though, again, demon). Over and over they reassured us that almost everything was going to remain the same. They would keep the two locations, change the name, and swap out a few patented ice cream flavors. They preemptively comforted us as though we were small children. Somehow, they were unaware that no one gave a single, solitary shit. 

Then came the forced “brainstorming session.” Robin and Rhoda wanted our thoughts and opinions about a new name for the new company. They even busted out a notepad and pen to write these down, clearly they were serious (side note: 98.4% of people are not good enough improvisers to participate in an impromptu brainstorming session). So, there we are, blankly staring at each other and coming up with the worst possible names for an ice cream shoppe. Some of the stand-outs were “Vanilla Parlor,” “Swirlies,” and “Creamtasia.”

Suddenly I came up with a brilliant idea. I said, “What about R&R’s?” The owners were Robin and Rhoda, it made sense. It also stands for rest and relaxation which is perfect for an ice cream store. It’s precisely why people get ice cream, to have some rest while their children get the ‘betes. As I talk, more brilliant ideas hit me. R&R could also apply to the railroad. Maybe we should completely rebrand and have a railroad aesthetic. It makes sense given Atlanta’s history as a railroad town. We could all wear conductor’s hats! We could put model trains all around the store. Who doesn’t love trains?! I get more and more excited as I keep talking. This idea is fucking brilliant and marketable and I should go into advertising because fuck ice cream I’m an idea man okaygreatbyeseeyounever. 

I collapse on a worn-out basement couch, heaving for air. I had worked myself up into a frenzy. I was convinced of my own genius and, boy, was I spent. Everyone was looking at me, as well they should. They just witnessed the beginning of my rise as a marketing mogul. As I slowly come out of my haze, I read the room more carefully. Everyone was, in fact, staring at me. They were slack-jawed though. You could have heard a pin drop in that basement, were not every surface covered in sound-absorbing dried dairy product. I check in with Victoria. She had that look on her face. She often gave me that look in high school. It’s a cross between deer-in-headlights and complete-dismayed-embarrassment. Her eyes said, “You dummy, I was trying to tell you to stop talking a long time ago but you didn’t listen because you never listen and you’ve now tarnished my name because for some reason I associate myself with you and I’m never going anywhere in life because you’re a baboon.” 

After a moment of excruciating silence, Robin speaks up. “I was thinking Muriel & Sebastian’s.” After hearing that, I felt much better about my turd of an idea. We all looked at Robin with total bewilderment. “They’re my dogs’ names,” he said as though it was some kind of legitimate defense of his dumbass suggestion. We spend the next few minutes trying to politely tell our boss that naming anything either Muriel and/or Sebastian was, in fact, stupid. Everyone was in agreement that Muriel and Sebastian’s was terrible and we should forget that it was ever suggested, please pass the room-temperature nachos. 

Guess what the fuck they renamed their company?

Muriel and Sebastian’s. 

Guess when they went out of business?

Not too fucking long after that. 

Now I’m not insinuating that one thing led to the other, however, it’s worth noting the timeline of events. I would, however, like for all bosses/managers/owners out there to note that if your entire team tells you something is a bad idea…maybe listen to them? Just throwing that out there.

It was a shame when they closed down. Victoria and I were a few months away from graduating high school and we really could have used the employment. At that point in time, the two of us had made the decision to move to Chicago in the fall. Money would have been nice. Victoria went on to work at Red Lobster (aka The Crabby Patty) for the few months prior to our move. I tried, again, to get hired at Publix but they weren’t having it. I opted to ride the unemployment train until I got to Chi-town. 

I look back so fondly at that ice cream shoppe. It’s one of those pure nostalgia zones in my mind. I have to resist the urge to say cliché things like “it was a simpler time” and “those were the days.” The fact is, it wasn’t actually simpler. I was a teenager in the midst of a hormonal tsunami trying to figure out who I was and oscillating between fighting the establishment and going with the flow. Shit was actually pretty complicated. And those weren’t “the days” so much as they were “some days.” There were highs and lows, just as there are now. Sure, the stakes weren’t as elevated back then because a major fuck-up probably just meant pissing off my parents. Nowadays, a major fuck-up can lead to homelessness and losing what little money I have to my name. 

In any case, whenever I drive by that building, I smile. I give a little wave to my high-school self and tell him to eat as much goddamm ice cream as he wants. At no point in life will he ever have that much access to free ice cream again. And by “free,” I mean “one shift scoop.” 

Check out the following creators whose pictures are featured in this post!

Min An

Noelle Otto

Lisa Fotios