My Shy Boyfriend was a Vietnam Veteran.

The summer between my Junior and Senior year in high school, I got a job. I had finally turned old enough for my father to agree that I could apply for work. Work that paid, not the volunteer positions I had done for the past year. In my mind, it was a real job. There was a burger restaurant down the block from my house. It was a slightly upscale diner common in the 1970s. Open from 7 AM to midnight seven days a week and served simple American-type fare. Eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns were served for breakfast, hamburgers, and steaks from lunch to dinner. And homemade pie, lots of homemade pies, lemon meringue, pecan, apple, cherry, chocolate cream, and banana cream pies. The pies were displayed in glass cases along the front windows.

I got the idea to apply for a job one afternoon and showed up at 3 PM, having taken the bus to the Broiler. (It was named the St. Clair Broiler, as it was on St. Clair Avenue, and served broiled burgers and steaks.) I strolled in as any seventeen-year-old would, spoke to an older woman (She was probably in her early fifties), and asked for a job.

Having never been to the St. Clair Broiler, it reminded me of the Denny’s on the other side of town. A simple cashier station at the front, a line of six stools along a counter, and four seated red leather booths along the wall side. The kitchen and waitress station was in the back and I could hear the sizzle and smell the meat cooking on the grill. The woman handed me a ticket from her pad and told me to write my name and number and she’d get back to me.

That was it. I left, got back on the bus, and rode the four miles home. By the time I arrived home, the phone rang and the woman I had met at the Broiler asked me to come back and work tonight. I was a bit taken aback and probably said something super mature like, “T-T-T-Tonight?” She said, “If you want the job you’ll be here.”

I got back on the bus and walked into my first night of waitressing. It was a trial by fire. I was given a uniform, which I was told would cost me $10.00. (A king’s ransom I thought, remember it’s 1970 and that would be about $95.00 today.) So I put on the uniform and was handed an apron a ticket book and a menu and that was it. I worked that night from 4:30-9:00 PM. By the end of the night, I was given my schedule for the next two weeks and had a job.

There were three different managers I worked with at the Broiler. The one I worked with the most was named George. He spoke five languages (English, Greek, Italian, French, Spanish, and in the process of learning Russian.) He was a hard taskmaster, but when he worked the restaurant ran like a top. His wife would come in and have dinner with him after the dinner rush. I remember watching her. She was a pretty woman, quiet and intelligent, but in my mind passive. She acquiesced to whatever George wanted.

I didn’t think much of her until I saw a Star Trek episode in which Kahn appeared. This was the original appearance of Kahn, long before the movie The Wrath of Kahn. Here's the blurb: While patrolling deep space, Captain Kirk and his crew discover and revive a group of genetically engineered conquerors from Earth's 20th century.

Kahn was played by Ricardo Montauban, a dark-haired Latin actor with a sexy accent. In the episode, Kahn meets a woman crew member, a historian, and proceeds to tell her how she should change to look more pleasing to the male. He tells her to soften her hairstyle and wear more figure-flattering clothes. AND SHE DOES!

I remember being surprised at how much this woman scientist, a specialized historian on a spaceship gave it up to him. And then I remembered my manager George’s wife. The actress and the wife could have been doppelgangers. I wondered why a woman would be so willing to give up her personality for a guy.

I know I’ve taken a bit of a turn in my story but stick with me.

Throughout that summer, I worked Thursday. Friday and Saturday nights. On nights that I got off early, at 9:30 PM I took the bus home. But the bus stopped running by 10 PM and that meant if I worked to closing time, which was midnight, I walked the four miles home. One night I got scared that someone was following me and instantly decided against doing that ever again.

I dug out my old bike from grade school and rode it to work. One balmy summer night someone stole it from the back of the restaurant. Luckily, one of the regulars, Mike, who sometimes stayed to talk with George, felt sorry for me and gave me a lift home. We developed a friendship and often he’d drive me home after my shift.

I learned he worked as a mechanic at the nearby gas station. He knew George from Vietnam. George had risen to Second Lieutenant during his time there. Mike was a Private First Class. They served together in the Marine Corps and returned to America in 1968. This would have been two years before President Nixon pulled the troops out.

It seems I’m going on and on. Next post I’ll write about my bashful Vietnam Veteran friend.