The job interview was a crapshoot. For every 30 women who auditioned, only one would make it. We stood arranged in groups of 25, wearing bathing suits and high heels. In what felt like a preview of Trump’s future Miss Universe pageant franchise, we met individually on the World’s Fair stage with a panel of interviewers who instructed us to strut, smile, and pretend to serve drinks.
On stage, there was an empty table, a tray, several empty glasses, and some napkins. It isn't brain surgery, I told myself. I grabbed the tray, loaded it up with the tools of the trade, and with my biggest smile and peacock strut, mock-served the men in front of me. The top interview question I was asked was: "Why do you want a job at the Trump Taj Mahal?" My response was simple, and well received in the ego-driven Trump world. "Because I want to work for Donald Trump, who promises this will be the greatest casino in the world," I replied with a smile.
I nailed the interview. I landed the job. A Mailgram arrived, telling me my base salary would be $3.54 an hour. But everyone knew the tips would be how we made our money. Life was great. Now, at 21, I had health care, an employer who contributed to my pension, and the ability to live on my own and pay my college expenses in cash. Money was everywhere back then.