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A MUG SHOT

Although it was a tea room, I was sure that wasn't tea in her half-cracked faded ceramic mug. Whatever it was, it seemed to sour the caf owner's mood, the more sips she took.

And, although the liquid looked clear, it also somehow changed Mrs. Doris Dunmore's complexion from pink to scarlet, as the mug emptied.

A CRUMBY JOB?

At 15, I was probably supposed to be overwhelmed with gratitude that the cranky cookie maker had even offered me a job. Perhaps I was. Still, I think my curiosity was a greater motivation, as I biked eight miles to and from the tiny shop that summer.

Certainly, it wasn't about the money. I worked in a tea room for peanuts.

Every noon, as my summer school driver education class dismissed, I would pedal to the Confection Corner. There, in a tiny powder room, papered in pastel posies, I would change into the ruffled uniform and don the eyelet apron.

I would spend my shifts serving teas and coffees to tourists and shoppers. Clearing each table, I would collect my coins and dollar bills and toss them into an iced tea glass, tucked just inside the kitchen window. Each waitress had her own glass, personalized with masking tape. On a good day, I might make five dollars in tips.

Of course, during these hectic afternoons, within the little caf, I sprinted laps between the kitchen and service floor, racing to and fro to meet penny-pinching patrons' beverage and pastry desires.

PIQUING OUT

Maybe she did it because I was younger than the other waitresses. Perhaps she thought I wasn't ready for restaurant responsibilities. I would hate to think that Mrs. Dunmore was just plain mean.

But she was, at least to me.

Here's how it worked. I would visit a table to greet customers and take their refreshment orders. Then I would turn in my order slip at the kitchen peekhole window.

Mrs. Dunmore worked the window. Between swigs from her mug, she created finger sandwiches, cream puffs, chocolate clairs, fruit turnovers and fancy cookies. Plating each order, she clinked the items onto the window ledge and tapped her tinny little bell.

If I did not pick up an order fast enough, she would tap her mug on the kitchen counter. (I always thought that was how it cracked in the first place, but I was afraid to ask.)

OUT OF ORDER

After several weeks of passing out cookies and crumpets for miniature tips, I grew somewhat suspicious. At the end of a shift, it always seemed my tip glass contained much less than the others.

One afternoon, I decided to count every cent, as I tossed my tips into my glass. By the time I punched the time clock, I had tallied nearly twenty dollars. Surely that shift had not been busier than any other day. How could that be?

By now, I was suspicious. Was one of the other waitresses snitching my tips?

I found extra excuses, the following day, to step into the kitchen area suddenly. As I rounded the corner to pick up a plateful of pastries, I saw it myself. Mrs. Doris Dunmore had her bony little hand in my tip glass. My cranky boss was stealing my cash!

"What are you doing?" I confronted her.

She fired me, on the spot, but not before I quit.

Learn more about this author, Linda Ann Nickerson.
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