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I recently received some second-hand philosophy from a friend: “You never know what the lesson’s going to be.” In school, I asked quite a few questions and argued many a point, but as a student, my academic journey was primarily plotted by powers greater than me. In life, as my quoted friend concurs, we can each actively participate in our existential education, but we must concede that the co-captains of our course through life include luck, chance, fate, and destiny. In his multi-part contribution to Your Voice Here, Zach Lee reviews a few of the lessons he’s learned on the job of life.
Rat Race (Part I)
When I tell people how many jobs I’ve had in my 27 years, I almost always receive the same reaction. It’s an expression that says, “well, that’s impressive, but I’m not sure it’s something to brag about.” Those less verbose usually sum it up with an, “oh…wow.” I do understand the reaction, though. Just like dating, it’s good to have some experience, but only up to a certain point. After that you begin to show the signs of a bicycle, ridden.
For me, however, there is no shame. I don’t wear a scarlet J, and I haven’t contracted the work clap yet. I’ve had more remarkable experiences from sampling the variety pack of employment than I could ever have by staying put at just a few. So while my resume may need a table of contents, I wouldn’t trade my philandering for anything.
The first job I ever had that required a W-2 was as a caddy at Old Elm golf club in Highland Park, Illinois. I mention the tax form only because I’d been working odd jobs as a baby-sitter or mowing lawns since age 9. My mother came from a poor farmer’s family, so when the diapers came off, the chores were handed out. I basically spent my pre-teen years seeking employment just so I could get out of the house to work less.
Old Elm was a course that allowed only white, Christian males to play golf, but to be fair, they did allow people of all colors to serve them drinks and carry their bags. At 13 years old, I was 5’3” and 100 pounds soaking wet. The average golf bag is about 30 pounds, and the average golf course, four miles. But since most of these retirees hadn’t had to carry their bags since the War, they felt it necessary to pack them with all kinds of gear. For instance lead, or mortar. So for two summers, I carried half my weight four miles in the morning, and then would go four miles again in the afternoon. Somehow this seemed like a good deal at the time. I learned a lot about the world while toting clubs, but the thing that I remember most was the realization that I don’t want to get too old before I die. You may have had notions of growing old gracefully, but I spent two years of my life being reminded what old age is really like. Gee, I sure can’t wait to leave a giant blob of mustard on my cheek every time I bite into a sandwich. I can’t wait for my swollen prostate to make me pee on every 3rd elm tree. I can’t wait to have a 12-degree range of motion on my golf swing that is unfailingly followed by flatulence. I can’t wait to hit a white object five yards down an entirely green landscape and still need to ask where it went. I can’t wait for my most common demeanor to be general confusion. You’re thinking about Social Security, I’m trying to decide what cliff I’ll jump off of.
In addition, I learned that working indoors was more palatable than being exposed to the Chicagoland elements. At this point I was 15, and there was one restaurant in town hiring kids that young. I spent the next year working at a pizza and bar food greasy spoon in a town that once held the Guinness record for most bars per capita. It was adjacent to an army base, therefore booze sold well. Buffo’s was the kind of place that was crooked enough to have the regular draft and light draft taps feed from the same keg. I soon discovered that my job description was cook/cashier/bartender/translator/keg changer/prep cook/janitor/caterer. To this day, I just refer to that occupation as “working at Buffo’s”. When busy, it was loud, dirty and very little fun, but when it slowed down, I learned how enjoyable playing with food could be. Exactly what happens when you put a hot pepper in the deep fryer? How burnt can you cook a burger? Can I do the pizza dough flippy spinny thing without dropping it on the ground? How much beer can I fit in my backpack without getting caught? It was a limitless supply of raw food materials to experiment with. You would pass time with your fellow underage slave workers by hypothesizing whether pizza dough stuffed with cheddar cheese sauce and deep-fried had any flavor merit. It did, if you’re wondering.
Once I had cooked everything I could think of, it was time for new blood. I moved on to my first corporate position, at a Walgreen’s pharmacy. I walked into the store and asked if they were hiring, and I distinctly remember the manager looking me over twice to make sure I wasn’t fucking with him. The fact that I was hired the same day I applied should have been a clue as to how many people were lining up to work there. After being placed in front of a dusty television/VCR combo and watching a series of Walgreen’s orientation videos, I was given my uniform. The fact that it was an aqua vest with a purple name tag pinned to the lapel did little for my already dormant sex life. I did work in the camera department for a while, but we sent pictures to a lab so I didn’t have a chance to snoop through anyone’s photos. The actual fun for me came from being the cashier at a drug store. Look, there are certain things in life that are simply embarrassing to buy. I just didn’t realize that every single one of those items is available at your local pharmacy. Every day, my fancy Walvest and I would find ourselves ringing up soccer mom’s maximum strength tube of Vagisil, or grandpa’s six-pack of Fleet enemas with special bonus suppositories, or single guy’s tube of KY that he attempted to “hide” amongst a few tubes of toothpaste. Note to that guy if he’s reading, no amount of hiding it within your other purchases will keep us from eventually discovering it and then just feeling awkward about it. Do both of us a favor, put it in front and let us get it in a bag for you. As if that wasn’t enough, once the store closed the real fun began. You then had to go through every aisle to pick up all the shit that had been moved, worn, opened, broken and played with. Then you’d spend the next hour placing every item back at the very edge of each shelf so that it looked uniform and was “as close to the customer’s hand as possible!” Thanks for the lesson in marketing, Wal-orientation tapes.
That job only lasted about 3 months, because, well, it sucked. I found a job for the summer at a local True Value hardware store. It was great because they made you work at least 5 days a week and paid a whopping $6.50 an hour. That was like having your own money-printing machine at 15 years old. It was my first experience using a barcode laser scanner gun as a checkout device. Why they would allow a 15-year-old boy to handle a red laser made in the shape of a gun for ten hours a day is beyond me. If one of my fellow cashiers someday develops cataracts, well, I guess they had it coming. It was a relatively mundane job, just scanning, typing in codes, and getting people their change. Until one day some guy, let’s call him Prick, had had an apparently frustrating day. He stood in line clutching a single item tightly in one hand and his car keys in the other, shifting his weight impatiently back and forth. To this day I can’t tell you what he was attempting to buy, because you see when Prick’s turn came, he announced his bitter arrival by slamming his keys down on the counter. Unfortunately, Prick had made the brilliant decision to carry pepper spray on his keychain. As if to punctuate his forceful display of malcontent, a red cloud of death was released on my face. I went down like my bones had liquefied. Instantly, there was a pile of Zach twitching on the ground. The cashiers at the adjacent stations began to cough, but I was already way beyond coughing. I was at Defcon 1. It’s as if my entire face was making as much liquid as it possibly could until further notice. I don’t remember how long I was down. When I came to, Prick had made a dust trail, his item still waiting to be rung up at my register. I’d love to find out who he was now, go to his house, give a friendly knock on the door, and then douche him with a fire hose of pepper spray the instant he appears in the doorway. And then finish with something cool like, “how’s it feel to get sprayed in the eyes with pepper spray?!” Then I’d kick him in the nuts, put it all on Youtube and make a million dollars. Next question.
2 Comments
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Support Barack Obama
Well….touch me in the morning and then just walk away.
What a cliffhanger!
When do you start talking about your time working at Applebee’s?
hahahaha
More more more! Pepper spray - too funny.