Orange Julius

My first job when I was 15 was working at Orange Julius, one block away from the beach in Newport Beach, California. Orange Julius was a greasy, unsanitary fast food chain specializing in hamburgers, hot dogs with all kinds of glutinous "fixins'" and Orange Julius, a sweet fruity drink made of ice, yogurt, various combinations of fruit and a secret ingredient. The branch I reported to every day was in a part of the beach called "the Fun Zone," a carnivalesque hangout for stoned surfers, over-tanned, fake breasted beach bunnies, and zombified junky street punks.

After about two weeks of working behind the counter in my orange and brown polyester outfit serving the impatient tourists their slop, I started to befriend the other mostly Mexican boys who worked there for their $4.75 an hour (minimum wage in 1985.) One day I was fixing myself a custom-made Orange Julius when I noticed two of the employees looking at me and giggling. I blended the ice, yogurt, orange juice, and crushed raspberries into a cup, and was about to put in the "secret ingredient." This was nothing more than sugar water, which was stored in a huge 50 gallon vat in the back of the store. It had to be refilled and mixed with bags of sugar about every three days when it ran out. This was part of the closing duties.

"Don't use the sugar water," one of them warned me.

"I like the sugar water, it makes it sweet," I replied.

"I wouldn't use it if I were you. It's for the tourists."

I had already made myself dozens of Orange Juliuses by this time, but I took his advice, fearing the worst.

That night at closing time the two employees let me in on their little secret. As I was sweeping the sandy floor of the restaurant, one of the boys called me into the back. I walked around the corner and saw him with his pants unzipped, a yellow arc of hot piss streaming into the sugar water.