I’m seventeen. I had worked as a box boy at a supermarket in Los Angeles. People came to the counter and you put things in their bags for them and carried things to their cars. It was hard work.

    While working, you wear a plate with your name on it. I once met someone I knew years ago. I remembered his name and said, "Mr. Castle, how are you?" We talked about this and that. As he left, he said, "It was nice talking to you, Brett." I felt great, he remembered me. Then I looked down at my name plate. Oh, no. He didn’t remember me at all. He just read the name plate. I wish I had put "Irving" down on my name plate. If he’d have said, "Oh yes, Irving, how could I forget you?" I’d have been ready for him. There’s nothing personal here.

    The manager and everyone else who were a step above the box boys often shouted orders. One of these was: you couldn’t accept tips. Okay, I’m outside and I put the bags in the car. For a lot of people, the natural reaction is to take a quarter and give it to me. I’d say, "I’m sorry, I can’t." They’d get angry. When you give someone a tip, you’re sort of being polite. You take a quarter and you put it in their hand and you expect them to say, "Oh, thanks a lot." When you say, "I’m sorry, I can’t." they feel a little put down. They say, "No one will know." And they put it in your pocket. You say, "I really can’t."

    It gets to a point where you almost have to hurt a person physically to prevent him from tipping you. It was not in agreement with the store’s belief in being friendly. Accepting tips was a friendly thing and made the customer feel good. I just couldn’t understand the strangeness of some people’s ideas. One lady actually put it in my pocket, got in the car, and drove away. I would have had to throw the quarter at her or eaten it or something.

    I had decided that one year was enough. Some people needed the job to stay alive and fed. I guess I had the means and could afford to hate it and give it up.