Working Man - Part V - More Dishwashing, Some Pizza and Vacuum Sales

Well, I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

'Cause I get home at five o'clock
And I take myself out an ice cold beer
Always seem to be wondering'
Why there's nothin' goin' down here

I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

"Workin' Man" - Words & Music by Lee & Lifeson

 I was still part of a Way "program" and had made plans to enter their leadership training, I was not looking for anything long-term, but I started out my time in a new city with a job already lined up. The Country Kitchens in Kearney and Lincoln were owned by the same company, so I started my life in Lincoln ready to start work. As I stated in Part IV, my job was a dishwasher, but they referred to me as a DMO - Dish Machine Operator. I worked Monday - Friday, 7am - 4pm. I have no idea how I managed to avoid evenings and weekends, but wasn't about to complain. Tim, one of my roommates, worked a similar schedule, so I always had a ride to work. I'd start my day cleaning up the horrendous mess that the closing shift left for me. The sink would be full of pots and pans, silverware and dishes, and, an accident waiting to happen - knives. I don't recall ever cutting myself, but I ranted about it just about every day. If I had stuck around I might have worked my way into a waiter or cook position, but as I was still heavily involved in The Way, and had planned on entering their leadership training program in a year, long term career goals were not a priority. 

Around this time I met Pat, the woman who I would eventually marry, which influenced what my next job would be. In February '82 I had been reassigned to a different part of the city by Way leadership, which made it difficult to get to my job at Country Kitchen. Pat's ex-husband Dave was a manager at the Domino's Pizza Commissary, the location where the pizza dough and toppings were prepped for all the Lincoln and Omaha Dominoes. It was located within walking distance of my new home, so she asked him to hire me on. It was another Monday - Friday job, starting at 7am with varying end times. We’d start the day making giant piles of dough that we would cut up and weigh - these would become pizza crusts - and put in trays to be delivered to the different stores. Next we’d cut up various toppings - onions, peppers, mushrooms etc., and bag them up. This was all according to orders called in from the stores. 

Back in those days I wasn’t very safety conscious. On two different occasions I tried to unclog the vegetable slicer and sliced the end of a finger. The first time I put a Band-Aid on it and it healed just fine. The second time one of the owners was present and insisted that I go the urgent care and get stitches. I can still see the scar from that one. (Years later as a certified Level 4 Food Manager & store safely coordinator, I understood the owner's point of view!)

After a few months I was entrusted with driving the delivery truck, first to the Lincoln stores, and then to Omaha, driving the big 10 speed manual transmission rig. This was a part of the job that I really enjoyed - it was a few hours every afternoon, just me and one other person, driving and unloading at each of the stores. On one of my trips I got stuck in a narrow alley and tried to back out, the bumper got caught on something and was bent back. I “fixed” it by pushing the bent bumper against a telephone pole to get it back in position. I thought that no one would notice! 

That summer I found out that I would not be entering leadership training, and Pat and I got married. I was far from employee-of-the-year, but I’m pretty sure that’s why I got fired. Although Dave was not happy that I called the owner after Dave regularly showed up late for work, leaving the whole crew standing outside, unable to clock in. This was the beginning of a long stretch being unemployed, other than a brief stint selling vacuum cleaners. 

Vacuum cleaner salesman was the shortest and probably the most ridiculous job I ever had. I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but I think I answered an ad that was fairly vague, but promised big paychecks. After sitting through a training class I found out that I’d be selling Rainbow vacuum cleaners for commission. I was very bad at it. We were supposed to generate leads by giving potential buyers a case of soup to get in the door. (Yes, a case of soup) After going through our spiel and attempting to close we were supposed to call our district manager and have him talk to our lead. This didn't work very often, it usually just annoyed people. These vacuums were ridiculously expensive, but a ridiculously high percentage of the cost was the commission, so you could make a pretty good living selling one or two a week. I only sold two or three in the month that I did this, but I made enough to keep our heads above water for a while. 

I ended up being out of work for about four months, I didn’t pay rent that whole time, and I got really good at figuring out how long I could avoid paying a bill before getting cut off; we signed up for food stamps and WIC. There was always food on the table though. I managed to hang on until I was able to get two part time jobs - stocking shelves at a Food 4 Less from 9pm - 2am, then delivering Omaha World-Herald newspapers from 2:30am - 7am. 

Working Man - Part IV - Cutting Glass, Emptying Bed Pans, Flipping Burgers, and Washing Dishes

Well, I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

'Cause I get home at five o'clock
And I take myself out an ice cold beer
Always seem to be wondering'
Why there's nothin' goin' down here

I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

"Workin' Man" - Words & Music by Lee & Lifeson

 

The next several jobs cover my time in Sidney and Kearney Nebraska from August 1980 through August 1981 when I was a Word Over the World Ambassador for The Way International. Details of this time can be found in my series So, You Want To Join a Cult. One of the rules of this commitment was to work only part time. Therefore, none of these jobs were "careers", since I didn't expect to be around more than a year

I don't know if I should count this as a job, but I did get paid. After being assigned to Sidney Nebraska as a WOW I caught a ride with a couple who owned an old yellow school bus. They were to take me as far as Grand Island where I would meet the other members of my team and continue on to Sidney. Unfortunately the bus broke down and needed a new engine. We slept in tent behind the garage near Adair Iowa for a week while we waited for a replacement motor. The garage had a side business cleaning up after wrecks on the interstate and I worked doing that for the week. Most memorable was a flatbed carrying a load of pipe that turned over, spilling it's load in the ditch on the side of the road. Carrying ten foot long pipes up the hill (with another guy) took all day. We got to Sidney about a week late.

Sidney, Nebraska is a small town of around 5,000 people that started life as a railroad town and is known as the original home of Cabela's, since bought out by Bass Pro Shops. The Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador program that I was part of required that you arrive at your assignment with $300 - no more, no less, and secure a part-time job. As one might imagine, there weren't very many job opportunities in Sidney. It took me about a week to find a job, the last of the four in my group to do so. I spent my day going from business to business and finally found something at a carpet store on Illinois Avenue, Sidney's main street. The Pittam family owned several businesses along Illinois Avenue, including a diner. I think Ken Pittam felt sorry for me when he hired me, since it didn't seem like there was much gophering for me to do. I swept up, occasionally cut carpet for customers, and just tried to look busy! The only excitement was when I was able to work with the two glass cutters/installers. The taught me how to cut glass to size and familiarized me with with decidedly rural or small town speech patterns. "I can't feature what to do" apparently meant "I can't figure out what to do", I was also introduced to a use of the word "visit" that I was unfamiliar with. To me "visit" could be a verb: "I'm going to visit my grandmother"; or a noun: "We had a pleasant visit. In Sidney I encountered it as a synonym for "conversation", e.g. "Come to the office and we'll visit about your qualifications" was a usage that I came across in setting up a job interview. "Let's visit for a while" might be a prelude to a chat over coffee. That usage still sounds a bit odd to my ear. 

The most interesting thing that I did was work with the glass installers when the local Safeway was being remodeled. We removed all windows and glass doors from the old building and came back a few days later to install all the new glass. I was learning a lot from these guys and was excited about learning a trade. But it was not to be. As I have outlined in So, You Want To Join a Cult, the town of Sidney was fortified against us and Mr. Pittam was pressured by his church to fire me. I'm sure he felt bad about it, despite giving in to his church he helped us out several times over the next few months. 

Shortly after being fired we had some people over, one of whom had just left a job as a Nurse's Aide in a Nursing Home. He mentioned that he was the only male Nurse's Aide and that they were looking for another man to replace him. The next morning I showed up at the Lodgepole Plaza Nursing Home and was hired on the spot. 

The residents of the home varied from fairly mobile and semi-independent to totally bedridden. I had a variety of tasks: serving meals, feeding those who couldn't feed themselves, bathing residents, emptying bedpans, and general cleaning. As part of the WOW program I was limited to part-time work - the schedule at the home, while technically part-time, was unusual. We worked a two-week schedule. The first week would be Friday, Saturday, and Sunday 7am - 3:00pm; week two was Monday through Thursday. In effect, I'd work seven days straight, then seven days off. Looking back, I wonder why the Way leadership allowed me to work a schedule like that, but I kept that same job until we were reassigned. 

Unlike other jobs, none of my fellow employees stand out in my mind, however, the residents were a colorful and interesting bunch. One memorable gentleman had been an optometrist before retiring. He was pretty mobile and could usually be found flirting with the women - residents and employees both. What was surprising about his Casanova-ish activities is that due to an unspecified malady, he'd had his penis removed! One afternoon he told me that he wished that he could pee standing up! Another resident was George, who was a big, burly, retired farmer who no longer communicated. We had to do everything for him. To bathe residents like him we had to strap them into a chair which would be hydraulically lowered into a bathtub. On one bath day as his chair was at the high point in it's trip to the tub he kicked me in the face. I came perilously close to blacking out. I was always careful around George after that. Etrulia was a feisty old lady. I was assisting a female aide to clean Etrulia up after an accident when she objected to a man seeing her naked. My coworker told her that she didn't have anything I hadn't seen before, just more wrinkled. There was also a lady whose name escapes me, who would regularly announce that she was leaving. She'd slowly head toward the doors, pushing her walker ahead of her, until someone would gently turn her around and she would had back the way she came. 

As much as I'm trying to make this about my jobs, and not my involvement in The Way, the good citizens of Sidney made it very difficult to separate the two. Sidney was a relatively small town, Nebraska certainly has smaller towns, but it was small enough that the presence of four outsiders who represented a cult was noticed. I came to work one day to find an article on the break room bulletin board from the local newspaper decrying the cultists in their midst. Management received the same pressure to fire me that my previous job had. A delegation of local church leaders came to complain in person when my roommate Steve came in on a Sunday morning to lead a nondenominational church service for the residents. Every Sunday a different minister would lead a service, but on this particular Sunday the assigned pastor was a no-show, so I called Steve, who was our designated leader, to do it. The manager, instead of caving like my previous employer, not only defended me, but pointed out that it wouldn't have occurred if whoever was supposed to be there had shown up and threw them all out. She then convened a staff meeting and let them know in no uncertain terms that I was a valuable employee and that she didn't care about my religion as long as I did my job. Anyone who didn't like it could quit. 

This was a job where I felt I was making a difference. I thought about making it a career when my WOW year was up. I worked at the nursing home until February when The Way decided that Sidney was a lost cause and relocated us to Kearney, a college town centrally located in the state. I quickly found a job at a Burger King. 

My Kearney Burger King stint was my one and only experience working in a fast food restaurant. The road leading from the interstate to downtown was referred to as "restaurant row", virtually every chain eatery known to man could be found along 3rd Avenue. Due to its proximity to the interstate a large portion of our business was out-of-town travelers, including busses. The arrival of a bus was an all-hands-on-deck situation. During slow periods it was easy to make everything to order. Monitors above our stations would let us know how many hamburgers and whoppers we needed, including modifications (it was "have it your way" after all), and the cashiers would call out the number of fries and drinks over the loudspeaker. (No self-serve drink station back then). But when you were getting dozens of orders at a time, you just kept making burgers, bagging fries and pouring drinks and hoped for the best. You'd sort out the details when second calls for things you missed started coming. 

I'm not in fast food places much these days, but I believe the uniforms tend toward t-shirts with a silly slogan on them and baseball caps. In my day we wore uncomfortable polyester shirts in the Burger King colors topped by a paper hat. My daily reminder of my time at Burger King is a faded scar on my forearm, the remnant of a burn that I received from a hot fry basket. 

One of the worst things about working in fast food was the schedule. I could be scheduled for 35 hours one week and 10 the next. It was impossible to budget (as if I budgeted my money back then). One week I had written down the wrong schedule and showed up for work late and was subjected to a lecture from the shift manager. I threw my polyester shirt and paper hat at her and walked out. Possibly the only time I left a job without being fired and without another job already lined up. But this was restaurant row. I walked across the street and was immediately hired as a dishwasher at the Country Kitchen. 

My stint as a dishwasher, or DMO - Dish Machine Operator - wasn't too bad. The hours were regular, I started early and was home by lunch time. The owners fed the staff a shift meal and it definitely was a team atmosphere. Outside of work things were very unsettled, but work was a haven from the chaos of being a WOW Ambassador. My year was up in August, but I had volunteered to be part of another Way program and was assigned to Lincoln. The company that owned the restaurant owned another Country Kitchen in Lincoln, so I was guaranteed a job when I arrived. 

Working Man - Part III - Shrimp, Trucks, Plants and Stocks

Well, I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

'Cause I get home at five o'clock
And I take myself out an ice cold beer
Always seem to be wondering'
Why there's nothin' goin' down here

I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

"Workin' Man" - Words & Music by Lee & Lifeson

My uncle John Hudacek was a chef at either The Metropolitan Club or the Gramercy Park Hotel (he had worked at both at various times, I don't recall which one he worked at during this time period). When he was at home Uncle John was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken guy who was usually overshadowed by his wife, my mother's sister Marion. I was quite surprised to discover that when he was at work, he was General Patton. He was a chef well before the days of celebrity chefs, but nonetheless, he was the king of the kitchen. I wasn't there long enough to learn much about how the kitchen worked - it was understood to be a temporary job - but as low man in the food chain, I got the low jobs. The one I remember with the greatest clarity was prepping shrimp. My memory presents a trash barrel quantity of shrimp which needed to be deveined, with the heads and tails removed. If I remember correct the "veins" were reused somehow, but the rest were disposed of. I swear cats were following me home that night!

After about a month I took my trip to Ohio, and shortly after returning home I found another job, this time as a stocker a Pergament Home Center, unloading trucks and stocking shelves. Pergament Home Centers was a family owned chain of hardware stores scattered throughout Long Island. The one where I worked was fairly close to home, just outside city limits at the south end of "Snake Road" which was what we called the winding, southern portion of Brookville Blvd. It was nestled in a little strip mall that included a May's Department Store and a grocery store. I was hired as a stocker, which meant I would mainly be unloading trucks and filling the shelves. It was one of the few union jobs that I have had. 

Unloading a truck at Pergament was not easy. There was no loading dock which trucks could back up to and remove pallets using a pallet jack. We had to hook up a "roller" to the back of the truck and toss individual cases of product down the rollers to be restacked on empty pallets on the floor of the stockroom. When a pallet was full it would be moved out to the sales floor where a second team would manually price each item with a pricing gun that disgorged small adhesive price tags and then place the product on the shelves. If this wasn't labor intensive enough, we sold carpet, paneling and lumber. Paneling was manhandled by two of us and slid down the roller to be placed on what we called a U-Boat, a cart with high sides that would be wheeled out so the plywood could be placed in a display rack. Lumber was gathered up in armloads and thrown off the back of the truck, aimed with great optimism at a U-Boat. All of this was back-breaking labor. Nonetheless we competed among ourselves - the stockers on the truck trying to roll down stock faster than the stockers on the floor could keep up. This process took hours and was often not completed before the store closed at 9:00pm. Being a union shop, we didn't stay late to finish the job, but locked up the truck, locked up the store and went home. Or somewhere. 

One of the more dangerous things we did was to tie customers' purchases of lumber, carpet or paneling to the roofs of their cars. This of course wasn't dangerous to us, but was potentially dangerous to the customer. First we would stack their purchase on top of the car. We'd then tie some heavy duty twine to the front bumper, over the top and loop it around the back of the paneling and back to the front bumper. This would theoretically prevent the load from slipping off backwards. We'd then do the same to the back bumper tying it in back and looping it around the front to prevent the whole load from flying forward when the driver hit the brakes. For good measure we'd run rope through the open doors to secure the whole pile. I don't recall anyone complaining about losing anything on the way home, but I did see someone fail to make it out of the parking lot once. We didn't even get them to sign a waiver.

Like most jobs it was the people who made it interesting. There was a lot of drinking and pot smoking after work and even during breaks. A lot of us socialized after work, hitting the bars and even forming a softball team. The most "out there" was Mike Morgillo, the senior stocker. Mike had a unique way of meeting women. When we were out at a bar, he would sit a few stools down from an attractive girl and start crying. He'd then start muttering "I'm garbage...just garbage". More often then not he would attract the girl's attention and sympathy as she tried to comfort him, and end up leaving with him. It sounds unlikely, but I witnessed this happen many times. (At work, his nickname became "Garbage", it may have even been on his name tag.) Mike's Casanova ways had a limit though. A woman from one of the other stores took a shine to him. She was tall, approaching six feet tall, built like an Olympic swimmer. As I recall she had a pretty face and a great personality, but she intimidated the heck out of Mr. Garbage. She showed up at a bar we were all hanging out at one night and he ran out the back door to get away! 

One time our store manager noticed that we were missing quite a few of our shopping carts and asked us to see if we could track them down. A couple of us had girlfriends who worked in the nearby Mays department store, who informed us that Mays was using our carts to store and stock merchandise. Mike and I, along with a couple of others, deputized ourselves as "Pergament Security". Mike got us fake security badges and we raided Mays' backrooms, shouting "Pergament Security - we're confiscating those carts" and brought back all the purloined property. 

Pergament Home Centers had a softball league that played games on Sunday, when the stores closed at 6:00pm. Our store fielded a coed team. We weren't really any good, but managed to win most of our games, due to our enthusiasm, and possibly alcohol and cheating. Our pitcher, Azard Hussein, who was from Trinidad and Tobago, had never played softball before and pitched cricket style. I think he scared the opposing team with his running overarm delivery. Other members of our team included Richie Pergament, our sixtyish store manager who was cousin to the company president, and his 10 year old son. One of our signature moves was to all don cowboy hats at some point during the game and howl or chant, or just make a lot of noise. I suspect that many of our wins could be attributed to our opponents just wanting to get away from us.  After the games, retaining the cowboy hats, we retired to a local bar, telling everyone we were a country band called The Worthless Brothers. I believe my name was Cuthbert Worthless. 

Speaking of sports, when I was working at the store I was in my last year playing roller hockey. For many years I played pickup games in local schoolyards and even on tennis courts (we managed to severely damage the courts' surface with out metal wheels and were banned from the park) and the occasional hockey league. The last few years a bunch of my friends, my brother and cousins formed a team that played in the Grant Park Roller Hockey League. Most of us were in our teens, and due to the fact that the other teams were composed of grown men, we got beaten, and beaten up, pretty regularly. I was not very athletic, and was not a very good player but  we had some decent players, my brother Mike and friend Anthony among them. My father was our coach. Since I was not very adept at scoring goals I took on the role of enforcer, clearing the path for the better players to get the puck in the net. My number, five, was known throughout the league as the guy most likely to spend time in the penalty box. My final game came after I had stopped playing actively due to school and work commitments. I had stopped at the park to watch my former team play. My friend Anthony hurt his hand badly mid game and had to sit out the third period. I put on his uniform and skates and took his place. I was recognized as "that (expletive) number five" and got involved in a bench clearing brawl. I think we won the game!

We were inventive (or maybe cruel) when it came to pranks. One of our regular truck drivers had recently gotten divorced. One of the areas of contention was the many cats that his wife had brought into their home. Mike would meow at him when he came to deliver a load, and one time found a stray cat and put it in the cab of his truck. We'd tie a stack of pallets to a truck with a long rope, causing a parade of pallets to follow the truck down the road. Most of the trucks had signs on the back that could be changed to reflect what was in the truck. One of them said "radioactive material aboard". That got the driver pulled over. We were pretty cruel to the manager's son who worked with us when he was on break from college. We convinced him that catching a load of lumber in his arms was a safe way to unload it. 

I ended up getting fired from Pergament for an act of vandalism. My coworker Jack and I smoked some pot on our lunch break and came back to work in no shape to make rational decisions. In fact, we decided to take an axe and pop some holes in the side of the truck we were unloading for ventilation. We had enough presence of mind to throw the axe in the creek than ran behind the store. When the truck arrived back at the warehouse, of course it was noticed that there were holes in the side of the truck. An investigation was launched, but since there were no security cameras and no one was talking, it didn't look like we would be caught. Until Derek, the only Black stocker on the crew, was accused of the vandalism and it looked like he would be fired. This was probably a ploy to smoke out (pun intended) the real vandals, so we confessed. Since we were unionized I received a check for all my unused vacation and sick time. 

I quickly found another job. It was in the same strip mall, in the Mays department store where I had previously repatriated our missing shopping carts. I wasn't there very long. If you've followed along with my series So, You Want to Join a Cult, this was after I had been involved in The Way for over a year. I had planned on going out as part of The Way's missionary type program (Word Over the World [WOW] Ambassadors) in August of 1979, but changed my mind. In anticipation of leaving the state I put my Toyota Corona in storage in a relative's garage, so I had no means of transportation. I ended up working at Mays for about a month or so, running the Garden Center, even though I knew nothing about plants. I managed to quit this job without getting fired, assaulting anyone or engaging in vandalism. Sorry, but no amusing anecdotes from my time at Mays, although it was ironic that I was in charge of plants, an assignment that I would reprise many years later at another job. I was moving out of my parents' home and into a house with several other Way people. Without a vehicle, I needed to find something either near my new home in Queens Village, near the Belmont Raceway, or something where I could take advantage of public transportation. I ended up with a position as a clerk in the stock brokerage form E.F. Hutton & Company in downtown Manhattan. 

This was the fall of 1979. Computers existed, but personal computers did not. My job consisted of tracking the buying and selling of stock by the company on behalf of clients. I reviewed reams of green bar paper and microfiche images and entered the information on forms that were forwarded to our data entry team on another floor. It did not pay well and wasn't very exciting. I have a vivid memory of there being pneumatic tubes in the office, like those you see in bank drive-up windows. When we would finish filling out a form we would tube it to data entry. Sometimes we'd include a bag of M&M's if we needed a rush job. At the time, not knowing that I would eventually decide to leave New York as a WOW a year later, I viewed it as a stepping stone to a more responsible and better paying position. I was also attending night school at the time. After graduating high school I enrolled at Baruch College, a unit of the City University of New York, but dropped out after two years due to poor grades. I took a year off and went back in 1979. My job was in Lower Manhattan, not far from Battery Park and college was a little further north. Monday through Friday I'd take the train to work, and then after my work day ended I'd take another train uptown to attend classes. The work day may have been grey and uninspiring, but what went on outside was interesting. 

I saw the high wire walker Phillippe Petit walk a wire between the two towers of the World Trade Center. I saw the Pope's motorcade drive by our office. But lunch time was the most interesting. The corner of Broad and Wall Streets was an historic corner. The New York Stock Exchange was on one side of the street with Federal Hall, which had at one time been the seat of government of the United States, was on the other side. Trinity Church, an Episcopal Church that boasted many of the nation's founders as congregants, was down the street. But what made it interesting was the street preachers. Several years previously, when working a summer job I became familiar with many of the regulars. It had been my first exposure to the fundamentalist and evangelical strains of Christianity. Being a little older and bolder and thinking I knew something about theology I engaged many of them in discussions that, as religious discussions often go, went nowhere. 

In the Spring of 1980 I had again decided that I would go out as a WOW for The Way. But first I would travel to Rome City Indiana to take their "Advanced Class" over two weeks in June. So I quit my job and temporarily moved back in with my parents. Amazingly I was able to leave another job in good standing sans violence. I attended the class in late June and headed to New Knoxville Ohio for a week before shipping out to Sidney Nebraska and my next adventure in employment.

Working Man - Part II - "The Getty"

Well, I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

'Cause I get home at five o'clock
And I take myself out an ice cold beer
Always seem to be wondering'
Why there's nothin' goin' down here

I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

"Workin' Man" - Words & Music by Lee & Lifeson

 My Uncle Richie had a buddy who owned some gas stations where he worked on Saturdays to make some extra cash. When I turned 14 he got me a job at one of them - a Getty Oil station on Sunrise highway near the Green Acres shopping center. Eventually my brothers and cousins ended up working there as well. I ended up working there for five years. 

One of my first Saturdays working I got off on the wrong foot with one of the shift managers. The full-timers all had uniforms with their names stitched on the shirts. As a part-timer, I didn't rate a uniform, but wore my own clothes. Getting set to leave for the day I saw a uniform shirt in what I thought was the trash. I picked it up, took it home and washed it, and unstitched the name "Red" from the shirt, pretty proud that I had my own uniform shirt.  The following Saturday, after reporting for work I found myself facing down a very angry Red, who was grabbing me by the front of "my" shirt and was demanding to know why I was wearing "his" shirt! I learned that day about the concept of a commercial uniform laundering service. I didn't have to deal with Red for much longer though. He and some of the other full-timers were selling drugs from the station at night and were caught by an undercover Nassau County cop. 

Back in the seventies credit card transactions for minor purchases were rare and debit cards didn't yet exist, so the majority of our customers paid in cash. The guys on the pumps were given a "bank" - a wad of singles and fives, as well as a roll each of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. The manager would take readings off each of the pumps, where a dial logged the number of gallons and dollars sold. At the end of the shift another reading would be taken and the difference between the two readings would determine the amount of money we should have to turn in. In addition to fuel, the station also had a small store where cigarettes and cases of soda were sold. Later a refrigerator was added and gallons of milk and cold drinks were sold. There was no cash register. Might not have even been a calculator at the counter. Purchases of items other than gas were tracked on a sheet of paper and added up at the end of the night. At the end of each shift the manager was responsible for adding everything up and balancing the cash receipts with the various hash marks indicating sales. There was a calculator in the back office - one of those museum pieces where you pulled a lever like on a slot machine to get your total. The back office itself was a converted bathroom. The manager's "chair" was the old toilet!

There was no such thing as a self-service pump. Three or four of us were out in all weather conditions. We were not welcome in the office or the garage, but we did have a little shack that we could find a little shade in the summer and get us out of the wind in the winter. In the winter we did our best to bundle up, but there was a limit to how heavy your gloves could be since we were handling money. The standard solution was to wear two pair of cotton work gloves and warm our hands on the tail pipes of the cars. When sweat and condensation started to make the gloves damp, we'd switch them out with a pair that we had warming up on the furnace in the back of the garage. Just before opening, a guy with a small snowplow would clear the lot, but we had to deal with customers who would brush all the snow off the roofs of their cars. On at least one occasion we shoveled it all into the back seat of one such inconsiderate bastard. Some customers thought that emptying their ashtrays onto the ground was good idea. I don't know how many realized that we were scooping up the butts and depositing them back into their cars, but they eventually stopped!   

"The Getty" featured a colorful collection of characters. When I first started I rode to work with my Uncle Richie (known as "Dick" - when his son, also named Richard came to work, they were known as "Big Dick" and "Little Dick", which my cousin wasn't at all happy with). When he cut back his hours I caught a ride with John S, one of two Armenian brothers who lived around the corner. There were seven Tonys working there. One of whom, Tony Z, didn't have a surname starting with "Z" and wasn't actually named Tony, but was hiding income from his ex-wife. There was Tony Beard, the assistant manager who I remember most for stealing the girlfriend of Tony C. The head mechanic was also named Tony, who we referred to a "Wire Brush Tony". The nickname came about due to his tendency to exaggerate what was wrong with a vehicle in order to jack up the cost, which we called "fucking the customer with a wire brush". Jack, the other mechanic, got his son Jack Junior a job in the garage. Jack Junior was usually high - my most vivid memory of him is seeing him comb his hair with a fork after eating lunch. Another father son team was yet another Tony and his stepson Rob. For the longest time I thought Rob's last name was "Ramsey", but found out later that the other guys were really calling him "Ramesses", a brand of condom - a clever way to call him a "scumbag" without him realizing it. The aforementioned Tony C, along with two fellow Italian Americans Dino and Gino, were habitués of the Long Island disco scene. When not at work they could be seen decked out in polyester suits, wide collared shirts open to the navel and plenty of gold chains, and of course perfectly coiffed hair. One Saturday afternoon Gino taught us all a disco line dance in the midst of the gas pumps. An unsavory aspect of Dino and Gino was the way they viewed women. They were both engaged to "nice" girls who we never saw. They also both had girlfriends on the side, Dee and Betty, who would hang around the station when the boys were working. One night my own girlfriend stopped by to say hello. I was "counselled" by Dino and Gino that I shouldn't "allow" her to come to the station, because it wasn't a place for respectable girls. 

As befitted an operation so awash in nepotism, the regular night manager was a ne'er-do-well uncle of the owner by the name of Rocky, also known by the pump jockeys as The Raisin. (Rocky had recently moved north from Florida and was well tanned and very wrinkled). Rocky didn't do much. He'd sit in the back office all night doing who-knows-what, paying little attention to what was going on outside. My brother Mike would sometimes shut the station lights off early, making it look like we were closed, leaving only the light outside the back office lit. We'd loaf around and drink beer and Rocky never, ever, noticed. Two girls from the movie theater next door would come hang out on break, whom Rocky would flirt with. We christened them "The Raisinettes". But the most interesting of all was Station Manager Al Kramer.

Al Kramer was a six-three former Marine who liked to yell. He intimidated the Hell out of us younger guys and we did everything we could to avoid his wrath. We just called him "Kramer". One of Kramer's pet peeves were people who parked on the station lot without buying gas, blocking the pumps. When he saw it happen he would emerge from the office, the door banging against the outer wall, almost coming off its hinges, as he bellowed at the poor soul who unknowingly violated Kramer's rules for parking. One early Saturday morning we found a man sleeping in his car on the side of the building. Instead of waking him up and asking him to move we told Kramer that we had asked him to move and that he refused. Kramer stormed out, started kicking the man's car door and screaming at him to get his car off the lot. We had to find our amusement wherever we could. As mean as he could be, Kramer always stuck up for us if a customer complained. I was once accused of shortchanging a customer, a quick reading and a count of my cash on hand cleared me, but the customer wanted to know how Kramer knew I didn't pocket the money. Kramer asked him how he knew he wasn't about to get a boot in the ass. 

Somewhere along the line the elder generation of employees started leaving for "real" jobs, and Kramer started giving some of us younger guys, including me and my brother Mike, responsibility as shift managers in the evenings and on Sundays. One of the first of the new generation of night shift managers was a guy named Gino (different guy than the other Gino, who actually was named Eugene, or Gene). Gino II had a habit of leaving work in the middle of his shift to visit his girlfriend (since "nice" girls don't come to the station!). One evening, while Gino was off romancin', he left me in charge. Kramer must have suspected something was up; he called while Gino was gone and wanted to talk to him. Thinking I could cover his absence I told Kramer that Gino was in the bathroom. Kramer surely knew I was lying and said he would wait. This was decades before the ubiquity of cell phones, so there was no way I could reach Gino. Fortunately, after a very uncomfortable 5 minutes on the phone with Kramer, Gino showed back up. Shortly thereafter Gino was no longer scheduled for manager shifts and I was. 

This was my first management job. I don't mind telling you, I wasn't very good at it. Working there at the time were two brothers, John and Steve VS. Their last name was Socci, but the "VS" was due to the fact that they lived in the town of Valley Stream and we already had a "John S". Steve and I, for some reason, didn't get along. It was probably due in part to my inflated sense of being in charge and Steve's resistance to being told what to do. One afternoon shift change we got into it. At the end of shift everyone had to turn in their cash to whoever was working the counter. This involved tedious counting of change. I don't remember all the details, but I vaguely remember that there was a line of customers buying cigarettes, several workers trying to cash out, and Steve had a line of quarters stacked up 4 high each strung across the counter. Something ticked me off, I can't recall what, and I knocked over all of Steve's carefully counted stacks of coin. Steve vaulted the counter and proceeded to beat the crap out of me until some of the other guys separated us and made me sit in the back room until Steve left to go home. I had a few other run-ins with other workers, in retrospect probably due to my overbearing approach to supervision of people who didn't really need to be supervised. For some reason they still scheduled me as a shift supervisor. 

My brother Mike did a much better job as a shift manager than I did, mainly because he realized that as night manager, all he had to do was count the money at the end of the night and let everybody do whatever they wanted to, as long as people who wanted gas got their gas. One of the things that Mike liked to do was change people's names. They had hired a kid named Mike to work with us. My brother proclaimed that he was the only "Mike" and renamed the guy "Ed", which became his name for as long as he worked there. "Ed" had a girlfriend whose name I forget after 50 years, but she was renamed "Trixie", after Ed Norton's wife on The Honeymooners. A lot of guys had their names changed, but the  most long term change was a guy named Denis. Since there was already a Denis, Mike renamed him "Sid", which became the name his friends called him even after he became a wealthy businessman years later. As far as I know he's still called Sid. 

One of our ongoing pranks involved "sticking the tanks". When a delivery tanker would show up, we had to insert a ten foot pole into the tank to determine the level of the gas in the underground tanks. The openings were on the side of the building. New guys were told that the tanks were across the heavily trafficked highway! The sight of a newbie dodging traffic while shouldering a ten foot long ruler never got old! 

We had a lot of private jargon among the pump jockeys. "Rubberhead" was a favorite insult to customers we judged to be stupid, as well as "pork nose", which we applied to the usually obese, arrogant, assholes who we felt treated us poorly. One of our competitors, I think it was Exxon, had the slogan TFGB (Thanks For Coming By). We decided GTFO (Get The Fuck Out) was more appropriate to our attitude. Someone made a sign with the letters GTFO on it and tacked on to the outside of our little shack. Occasionally a customer would figure it out! We also had a couple of first generation Italians working at night, who would insult customers in Italian, but do it with a smile on their face so the customer was (usually) unaware of the insult. We all competed at telling people that they were idiots without them realizing that we were telling them they were idiots. It was a skill that would have a lifetime of useful application. 

But all good things come to an end. For me it was my adherence to Kramer's "don't park at the pumps" philosophy. A customer, who was not gassing up, blocking the pumps to go in and buy some cigarettes. I asked him to move. He ignored me and attempted to go inside. I stepped in front of him to block his progress - he poked me in the chest and told me to move, whereupon I hit him. And I hit him a couple of more times. Of course I was (rightfully) fired. Not the last time I was fired for an act of violence. A few days later the Nassau County Police came looking for me, since my victim had filed a police report. The shift manager Rocky referred them to my brother, who declined to give them any information. When he got home and told me that the police were looking for me, my father, an NYPD officer, took me to the police station and made me turn myself in. I wasn't charged, probably out of professional courtesy to my father - the closest I have ever come to being arrested.

This was during the summer of 1978. It was my first year involved in The Way and had agreed to go to their annual international get together in Ohio, helping to drive in a "caravan" of Way people. Because of this commitment I wasn't ready to take on a permanent job, so I went to work for my uncle John, who was a chef at a hotel in Manhattan to earn some money to get me to Ohio and back.

Working Man - Part I - Paperboy

Well, I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

'Cause I get home at five o'clock
And I take myself out an ice cold beer
Always seem to be wondering'
Why there's nothin' goin' down here

I guess that's why they call me
They call me the workin' man

"Workin' Man" - Words & Music by Lee & Lifeson

Since I am on the six-month countdown to retirement, I thought that a retrospective of my working life might be in order. The image that I included shows a man working on a computer, which describes some of my work life, but I'm finishing up my work life toiling away in my third major industry, and computers didn't come along until I was well into it.

I started out delivering newspapers in my neighborhood. Had a few summer jobs, one in the police department and one for a Wall Street firm in the mailroom. I worked in a full service gas station through high school. Unloaded trucks at a home improvement store and sold plants in the garden center of a department store. Did data entry for a stock broker. Apprenticed as a glass cutter and took care of old folks in a nursing home. Washed dishes and flipped burgers. Worked in the back room of a pizza restaurant cutting up toppings and making pizza dough and drove a truck driving the supplies to different restaurants. Stocked groceries and managed the night crew. Supervised paper carriers. Was an auditor at a big newspaper and was called a "paper pushing, number crunching son of a bitch" by someone I took to court. Back to stocking groceries and worked my way up to store director. Finished up as a senior revenue analyst working for state government. So far!

My first job was as a newspaper carrier for the Long Island Press, an afternoon daily with Long Island, New York circulation. Back in those days, and up through at least the eighties, newspapers were mainly delivered by grade school kids riding their bicycles through their immediate neighborhood. My memory is a little foggy, but it seems like I had around 40-50 customers. There was a little distribution office, not much more than a shack, near the Long Island Railroad station on Francis Lewis Blvd just north of North Conduit Ave. You'd bike up to the "office", which was about 10 blocks from our house on 255th Street, and pick up your papers and head over to your route area to deliver them. A lot of paperboys walked their routes with the official canvas newspaper bag slung over their shoulder; I had a wire rack attached to the front of my bike that held all my papers. It clamped onto the handlebars and was stabilized by two struts attached to the front wheel. It could easily hold 50 rolled-up and rubber-banded newspapers during the week, but since Sunday papers were so gargantuan, it usually took a few trips. I remember one morning, after loading up my Sunday papers, seeing the bike tip over from the weight!

Customers were not billed through the central office, as they are today, but carriers were responsible for collecting, in person, from their customers. The price of seven days of home delivery was 90¢. That broke down as 10¢ per day Monday - Saturday and 30¢ for Sunday. I had a little book where I would keep track of my customers and what service they received (Daily Only, Sunday Only or Daily-Sunday) and marked down when they paid each week. Most customers gave me a dollar, which included a 10¢ tip - with the big spenders forking over $1.25! I had one particularly grumpy customer - Mrs. Diamond - who was very particular about where I left her paper and usually paid me in nickels and dimes - never any tip!

Newspaper carriers then as now, are considered independent contractors. We bought our papers from the Long Island Press distributor and paid him per subscription. The paperboy (or girl) was the only contact that the customer had with the newspaper. Nobody was calling to get you to renew your subscription or take advantage of their special offers. And of course there was no "online" option. I have no memory of what we paid or what our "profit" was, but I must have thought it worth it to do every day (no days off!). We were supposed to pay the distributor every Saturday after we did the bulk of our collecting Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. After my first week I pedaled up to the office to pay my bill. The distributor's assistant was there. In retrospect he was probably around 17-18 years old, but he seemed pretty intimidating to me. When I asked him what I owed, he asked me "What do you have?". When I told him, he said that was what I owed. I reported this conversation to my dad, who took me back to the office to confront the guy. As it turned out, the amount of money that I had on hand did coincidently correspond to what I owed for the week. The distributor explained to Dad and me how the bill was calculated, so in subsequent weeks I would be able to calculate for myself what I owed. 

Eventually the Long Island Press went out of business and I got a paper route in the same general area with the New York Daily News. There were a few differences, the main one being that it was a morning paper, so there was no sleeping in during the summer and I had to get my route done before leaving for school. Our papers were delivered to our driveway (by this time my brother and at least one cousin also had routes) and the distributor came around every week to collect. I was moving in to my last few years of grade school (our Catholic School was grades 1- 8; we didn't have a junior high or middle school) and, not to put too fine a point on it, I was pretty lazy. I didn't like getting up early, I didn't like having to go around and collect money from people. I would put off collecting, and only go around when I didn't have enough money to pay my bill. If the weather was bad I would dump my papers somewhere rather than finish delivering. I had a terrible work ethic. 

Overlapping with my last two years before high school I worked summer jobs in Manhattan. The summer I turned 13 my father lined me up with a summer job at the New York City Police Department. (Dad was a NYPD officer at the time) I was employed as a clerk in the Pistol License Division, which was responsible for issuing and renewing handgun permits for "Special Patrolmen" (SP's), i.e. those who had jobs like security guards which required them to be armed. For the officers in this unit, it was far from a prestige posting. In fact, it was called the "Bow and Arrow Squad", because all the cops in division had their guns confiscated for various reasons and were consigned to desk duty. I spent my days going through files of index cards, looking for SP's whose licenses were expiring and making appointments to get them renewed. When I called SP's I always identified myself as "Tom Joyce, calling from the New York City Police Department". My voice had recently changed and over the phone I sounded like an adult. People calling back would ask for "Officer Joyce", which caused much hilarity among the actual officers. It was far from exciting, but it was my first "real" job. It was minimum wage, which then was $1.65/hour, but I received a "real" paycheck, worked with grownups and commuted to work by bus and subway from our home on the fringe of Queens to One Police Plaza in Manhattan. 

The following summer our neighbor around the corner lined me up a job as a mailroom clerk in a financial services firm, Alliance Capital Management, a subsidiary of Donaldson, Lufkin and Jenrette, a major player on Wall Street. Still not exciting, but with delivering mail, making copies and functioning as an overall gopher, I stayed busy. Auggie DiBiasi, the  full-time mail room clerk, made things interesting. Long-haired, with muttonchop sideburns, he was as hippie as you can get while having to wear a tie at work. Throughout the day he had music going in our little mail room - he convinced me to buy Quadrophenia by The Who, which remains one of my favorite albums. 

What was more interesting than the work was the lunch breaks. The office where I worked was just a few blocks from Wall Street, and I could see the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center from our building. On my lunch break I would often wander down to Wall Street where there was always some street theater to be had at The Federal Building. One of the regulars was an elderly street preacher called Crazy Willie. He would park his big Cadillac in front of Federal Hall across from the stock exchange and stand on the hood, preaching incoherently. I found out from my father that the same guy had been preaching at that corner 30 years previously, when Dad worked in Manhattan. This was all pretty interesting to me and was my first real exposure to non-mainstream religious thought, craziness notwithstanding! 

I'm not certain whether this job was in my first summer after my Freshman year of high school or the last summer before I started high school. At any rate, once the summer was over I started my first permanent, full-time job, pumping gas at a Getty Gas Station, which I did for around five years, through high school and into college.