First Jobs

Daughter Two got hired for her first real job today. Oh, she’s worked in a zillion volunteer slots, but this one pays money. And it’s a big deal for her.

I remember my first real job. I mean, I had several paper routes and mowed lawns and swept hair for the local barber who by the bye, is the father of my current barbers, brother and sister.  But my first real job at fifteen was as a busboy in a restaurant. I went there after school and bussed tables in the coffee shop and then waited around until two in the morning so I could clean up the hors d’ouvre trays and steam table in the bar after the alcohol was all sealed up.

Between high school and waiting to go into the Navy and about the first year post-Navy while I made my first attempt at college, I worked in a lot of non-career positions: slinging burgers, hooking (not the kind you just thought), running a silk-screen machine and a donkey press, driving a forklift, driving an ambulance before ambulance drivers had to actually know anything more sophisticated than scoop-and-run.  I’ve sung for my supper, performed for weddings and put glue into bottles. I even printed the bottles and tubes for naughty sexual lubricants. Now, that was a high point.

I don’t recall all that much about many of the filler jobs I’ve had, but I do recall the faces of the people I worked with on that first one. Lonnie the sous chef taught me to make good stock pot. Barbara the aging waitress showed me the ropes and made sure I didn’t get shorted on my share of the tips. The owner, a big guy with the huge nose and florid face of a regular drinker was an unapproachable presence, constantly talking soto voce with the prissy sommelier, a slimy guy with way too much hair grease who I suspected was shtumping the main dining room hostess.

I remember the pride I took in clearing, cleaning and setting up a table efficiently so my waitresses would have a good turn rate and thus make more money. Making my own shakes for my dinner break and being treated to Lonnie’s special concoction of the day. I remember the times I had to fill in at scullery and wondering how any human being could cycle pots and dishes and silverware from dirty to clean fast enough to avoid a wall of mess forming on the breakdown table.

I recall the night I came home at 3:00am after cleaning the bar setup and was pulled over by a cop who decided I fit the description of the child molester / murderer they were looking for and how warm the pavement was under my scraped cheek after he decided he didn’t like my answer to his first question. I felt bad and certainly less cheeky when I found out why they’d stopped me and even today, whenever I pass Harwood Road, I wonder about that little girl.

My first real job. It wasn’t anything special; in fact I suppose it was menial. But it meant I was part of the world, known to someone other than my family and friends and my biology teacher. It meant I was part of the world.

Daughter Two will be selling shoes and I suppose that’s not so exalted, either. But it’s a real, honest-to-George job and she’s thrilled and we’re proud of her.

I don’t guess she’ll be expected to scrub pots. But then, I didn’t have to handle people’s feet.