All you have to do is manage an ice cream parlor.
When I was in my early 20's and between jobs — a state I must enjoy, since I return to it over and over — I accidentally found myself managing an ice cream parlor. (Maybe like the way some politicians seem to "accidentally" find themselves soliciting sex from a prostitute of the same or the opposite sex.)
The newspaper that enticed me to move from my native New Jersey to Maryland went out of business six weeks after I moved here, so while job hunting during the day I applied for a job at an ice cream parlor down the street from our apartment and worked nights and weekends. The manager and I were the only people over the age of 18 (He was 20, I was 22), so when he quit the owners — three attorneys who lived 20 miles away — made me the manager.
It was easily the most miserable job I ever had. The dishwasher came in drunk and late, I fired him. I caught the cashier stealing from the cash register, so I fired her. The customers complained constantly about the sizes of their sundaes, the amount of whipped cream, the heat of the hot fudge, you name it.
My friends loved it: probably because — and in the absence of a survey I'm guessing here — at night after we closed I'd invite them in to make their own sundaes. I'd set the jukebox and pinball machine for free plays, and we'd have some kind of party.
Pretty soon, everyone in our apartment complex wanted to be my friend. Amazingly, many of them disappeared when the job did.
I'm reminded of a friend of mine, Mike, who works for Frito-Lay servicing area grocery stores. He gets invited to every party in his neighborhood, and is always asked, "Hey, as long as you're coning can you bring some..."
One time a neighbor he didn't know well invited him to a party. When Mike said he couldn't come the neighbor replied, "Well, can you send some bags of chips and pretzels anyway?"
I think that was the end of the friendship.
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