Dear God, I thought. America, as I knew it, is finished. Aren’t you supposed to have a shitty job when you’re a teenager? It’s how you develop a sense of compassion. The three oldest kids in my family worked in cafeterias, while Amy was a supermarket cashier. Tiffany worked in kitchens; Paul too. We made $1.60 an hour and, dammit, we were happy to get it. That’s the way this country ran. If, at age sixteen, you wanted a bong, you went out there and worked for it. Now I guess your parents just buy it for you and probably give you the pot as well.
