Ode to the summer job

A love letter to our gloriously bad first gigs

There’s something about watching Fast Times at Ridgemont High that hits different when you’re older. Maybe it’s the mall culture. Maybe it’s Ray Walston, whom you always thought was just a Martian, or who played on TV. Maybe it’s the fact that Spicoli had a job, and Damone is even creepier than you recall—a real, clock-in, wear-a-name-tag, maybe-accidentally-burn-something kind of job.

And it got me thinking: Whatever happened to the summer job?

Not the “I’m interning at a VC-backed startup” kind. I mean the real ones. The weird ones. The ones that smelled like fryer grease and freedom.

I had a few.

One summer, I was a telemarketer. I was surprisingly good at it and once had a very flirty conversation with someone claiming to be in Def Leppard. I’m 99% sure he wasn’t. But it made for a good story, and that’s what matters when you’re 17 and wearing frosted pink lipstick.

Then there was retail—folding sweaters in Benetton or dressing women at my mom’s favorite local boutique. But my all-time favorite was working “security” at the Philadelphia Folk Festival. I use the term loosely. My friend Bev and I were stationed at a makeshift footbridge that led to the campgrounds. Our job? Guard it. What we actually did: drink warm beer, chain-smoke Marlboro Reds, and wave everyone in while we nonstop giggled. We were terrible at it. But the reward? A full weekend of music, mud, and low-stakes mayhem. Heaven.

In the 80s and 90s, these jobs weren’t optional. They were expected. Everyone worked. Guys delivered pizzas in rusted-out Celicas. Girls became hostesses at mall restaurants or Salad Alley (remember when salad bars were a huge thing?), complete with shiny name tags and mandatory pantyhose. Camp counselor, snack bar attendant, beach tag checker, even ice cream truck driver—our social lives revolved around whoever could hook us up with free fries or discounted denim.

The money wasn’t the point (though having enough for smokes, Sbarro, and a drugstore makeup haul was a decent perk). The point was purpose. And autonomy. And maybe a little character-building.

So where did those jobs go?

Turns out, they didn’t disappear—but they did take a hit. According to the U.S. Department of Labor, in June 2024, more than 6.6 million youth aged 16 to 19 years old were employed, representing more than a third (37.3%) of youth that age. This is a notable increase from the early 2000s, when youth labor force participation had declined.

But there’s a quiet comeback underway. NPR recently reported that fast food chains like McDonald’s and Taco Bell are turning to Snapchat to recruit younger workers through “Snaplications.” (Yes, that’s a real thing. God help us all.)

And as employers struggle to fill roles, they’re turning back to teen labor—paying more, offering perks, even tossing in free meals. Which is great. Because honestly? There’s something magical about earning your own money for the first time, even if it means smelling like fryer oil or leaving work with gum in your hair.

Those early jobs taught us how to talk to people. How to show up (or fake it). How to make change at the register without an iPad. They gave us stories—good, bad, and gloriously cringey.

Now I want to open a record shop like the one Annie Potts had in “Pretty in Pink”. (Bev’s already hired.) Or maybe, Cool Best Friend is my modern version of that. Come to think of it, I want it to be like the snack bar at the swim club at the height of summer: a place to hang, share, and eat snacks while squinting in the sunshine.

The jobs were weird. The paychecks were small. But the memories? Huge. And in a world obsessed with productivity and prestige, there’s something beautifully human about that first badge, that first tip jar, that first “you’re scheduled for the breakfast shift.” It wasn’t just about work—it was about becoming.

So tell me—what was your best (or worst) summer job?
Did you scoop ice cream? Check beach tags? Work the Scrambler at the Fair?
Reply, comment, DM—I want the whole saga.. XO