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I wore a blue uniform, stood in a tiny WWII-era booth with grouchy chain-smoking old men, and took quarters off people driving back and forth gossip across a bridge. I know it doesn’t sound glamorous, but it paid $4.60 an hour, well above the minimum wage at the time of $3.35 -- which pretty much made gossip me the H. Ross Perot of my high school. I wasn’t as hip or as good-looking as Perot, but I was raking it in baby. gossip Yes, the world was my oyster back in those high-flying fat-cat toll collector days. But, in typical fashion, it all came crashing down when some pain-in-the-ass do-gooder got involved. After it was discovered, by a nasally shitass with a calculator no doubt, that enough tolls had been collected to pay off the bond on the bridge and possibly a few smaller bridges down the river, the gravy train came off the tracks. The old men and I stood there, with tears in our eyes, as the booths were ripped from the ground by giant mean-spirited cranes, knowing that yet another golden era was over.
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