Come and join the party
Dress to Kill
Won’t you come and join the party
Dress to kill
Dress to kill
~ The Who
My junior year in high school was memorable for several reasons. First and foremost, I got my driver’s license, followed closely by discovering the wonderful world of alcohol. Please keep in mind that is a combination that is never good.
The next significant happening was being hired at the local Burger King. Although it was many years ago, it still brings back many memories, some good and others not so good. One of those recollections was of Lynette’s panties.
Even though Burger King was your basic fast-food restaurant, it still had some corporate aspects. Like the management team. When I first started there, the people calling the shots were the manager, George, his assistant, Mike and swing managers, Tony and Lynette. I’m not quite sure why they were called swing managers. Maybe Lynette’s panties had something to do with it.
George was a high-energy type, running around the restaurant worrying about everything. Passionate about his job, he lived and breathed Burger King to the point of being almost neurotic. George often confided in me. I liked George.
Mike was just the opposite of George and nothing seemed to rattle him. He certainly cared about his job; it just wasn’t the most important thing in his life. It took a while to get to know Mike, but once you did he was very cool and had a very dry sense of humor. I liked Mike.
Tony was one year older than me, a senior at Tremper High. The most important thing to him about his job was acting suave while flirting with the female employees. He also loved to sit in the manager’s office and make sure the paper money didn’t have any corners that were folded over. Despite this rather peculiar idiosyncrasy, I liked Tony.
Then there was Lynette. She was easily the bossiest of the management team. Maybe it was because she was the only female manager and was trying to make a point. All I know is that more than a few people didn’t look forward to being assigned to working on her shift. I can’t say I liked Lynette, but I did like the challenge of working with her.
Back in 1973 the uniforms at Burger King consisted of a bright orange shirt with an even brighter yellow panel in the front. Girls had matching orange pants and guys were required to wear black trousers. Add to the equation that everything was made of double-knit polyester. I think you get the picture. It was classic garb for the era.
Being somewhat corpulent, the uniform tops were usually a bit snug for me, so I always made sure to wear an undershirt. This gave me a barrier between the polyester and prevented any nasty chafing. I didn’t like chafing. Most people of size do not.
* * * * *
One Saturday night I was assigned to work from four to eight with Lynette. On that particular evening, my undershirt of choice was a teal t-shirt with the number 39 printed on the front and back. I think it was a Larry Csonka shirt. That shirt proved to be the springboard for quite an interesting series of events.
Lynette was in rare form that night, nitpicking at everyone’s performance, trying to find someone doing anything the least bit wrong. It was her nature. Despite her tenacious efforts, she came up empty; everyone was doing his or her job properly.
She was frustrated and just about ready to give up when she spotted me filling drinks. A devilish grin came across her face as she called out my name.
Loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, she bellowed, “Hey Paul, I can see that 39 through your uniform top! Don’t you know any better than that?” She then enthusiastically admonished me, letting me know that in no uncertain terms that I was never to wear anything under my uniform that would show through.
She turned away with a satisfied smile on her face, proud that she had successfully emasculated me in front of the rest of the crew and any customers within earshot. Her night was now a triumph. Or was it?
While she still had her back to me, I said, being as humble as possible, “You are right, I shouldn’t have worn this shirt and I will never do it again. I apologize.” Then it happened. Based on what I next said, apparently my humbleness had left me.
I added, rather boisterously, “Oh, by the way, Lynette, you better not wear those panties anymore. Those flowers are real cute, but everyone can see them.” It was true; you could see a lovely pattern of bright whimsical flowers through the orange uniform material that was stretched across her ample derriere.
Just like that Lynette’s moment of glory was destroyed. Her jaw dropped as her face turned a lovely shade of red, as the rest of the crew burst into laughter. Embarrassed, she had no choice but to feign a giggle and tell us all to get back to work.
That wouldn’t be the last of the confrontations between the feisty Lynette and me. There were several more, to be sure. Nevertheless, to this day, I can’t get the memory of Lynette’s panties out of my mind. I’m just not sure if it’s a good or a not so good memory.
