Like many of you, this past Monday I enjoyed some well-deserved time off to celebrate Labor Day. While I was fixing the downspout, cleaning out the garage, mowing the lawn and de-clogging the bath tub drain of either a freakishly, plump gerbil or a decade’s worth of hair, I took time to reflect on some of the past jobs, or labors, in my life. My employment history ranges from normal vocations like mortgage banking, carpentry and bartending, to some less then glamorous occupations, such as a door-to-door, vacuum cleaner salesman (I kid you, not) and placing the disgustingly obese on specialty beds, geared to hold those who somehow let themselves go a bit…800 pounds and up! I could easily fill page after page with anecdotes from each one of these jobs and someday, probably will. However, today I’ll just focus on my very first job, a job some of you, more than likely, suffered through, as well.
When I turned 10 years old, my dad figured I had enjoyed enough carefree days as a child and was in need of a daily dose of physical and verbal abuse. So, he signed me up to be a paper boy for the Southtown Economist. All you needed, to start a promising career in the newspaper distribution field, was a reliable bicycle, which I didn’t have, a desire to work hard each day, which I didn’t have, and most importantly, a dad willing and quite capable of “putting you through a wall!” if papers weren’t promptly delivered each day.
Our subdivision was quite large and much too big for just one delivery boy. Thankfully, there were several other stupid kids in the neighborhood to help deliver the paper, which nobody really wanted in the first place. Unfortunately, my assigned territory was 75 homes in the old phase of the Catalina development. The routes in the newer sections of the neighborhood delivered to young families, with small children and an acceptance of a young person, trying to make a buck. The homes I had to deliver to were primarily owned by cantankerous, wrinkled people with white hair, trousers pulled up to just below the nipple line, who had plenty of free time to lay in wait, so they could bitch at me daily about my delivery technique, the length of my hair or the high cost of a loaf of bread. The remaining homes on my route housed a 10 year olds worst nightmare; high school kids.
For some reason, I seemed to attract packs of discontented boys ranging from the age of 13-18, with long hair, oily, pimpled faces and an insatiable desire to chase me down, knock me off my bike and kick my ass. Some years later, I read a published study in a medical journal, which proved conclusively, pasty-faced red-heads with freckles emit a scent which drives other kids to chase them down and beat them senseless. Or perhaps it was my bike?
As I said before, I didn’t have a reliable bike. Earlier that summer, I suffered my mid-life crises a few years early and became obsessed with owning a “chopper.” My neighbor, who owned an acetylene torch and a father with a lot of free time, helped me weld an extra fork on the end of my existing bike fork, to make my very own chopper bike. It was great to look at but unfortunately, when I tried to sit, the unbalanced weight distribution caused the front end to pop up and the bike to flip over my head. This, of course, got all kinds of laughs from the other kids on the street, an understanding slap upside my head from dad but regrettably, was not conducive to newspaper delivery. Leave it to dad to come up with the perfect solution.
“You can ride your sister’s bike.”
After removing the white, wicker basket from the handle bars and replacing it with large, metal hooks on each handle, I stepped back to assess my ride. It was a typical 70’s, girly bike, painted a light aqua green with a big white, banana style seat, covered with large pastel colored flowers, which looked like they were pulled off the set of “The Dating Game.” This bike, coupled with the red hair and freckles, were a perfect mix to insure abuse. When I whined to dad about how I would get beat up riding my sister’s bike, he assured me it “would build character.” Why do parents feel ass-kickings, crossing gender lines and public humiliation build self esteem? They don’t. It taught me how to peddle fast and run from trouble. I’m so proud.
After loading my bag with 100 pounds of cumbersome newspapers, I peddled off down the street, with my front wheel wobbling back and forth, trying my best to keep the bike upright. When my route was finished and I had successfully run the gauntlet of burn-outs looking for a piece of me, I was thankful for having my sister’s bike. While fleeing, the combination of unbalanced weight load, sobbing and excessive wobbling caused me to lose my balance and slide off my flowery bike seat. As any guy will tell you, falling off your bike seat at a high rate of speed means one thing: RACKED BALLS!!! But because I was getting in touch with my feminine side and “cross biking”, I avoided smashing my noootz on the bar normally found on a boy’s bike and was able to keep, not only my balance for escape, but my dignity. Well, as much dignity as you can have while running home with the bike frame wedged between your thighs to keep it upright, cutting through the neighbor’s yards and screaming over your shoulder,
“Better leave me alone! My dad’s a police officer!!! My dad’s a police officer!!!”
Actually, my dad sold carbon-copy business forms. Yelling, “My dad’s a carbon-copy business forms salesman!!” didn’t carry the intimidating punch I was looking for.
I’ve found that each one of my past job’s, has prepared me better to handle any crisis that may pop up in my current job. Hopefully, we learn from our mistakes and apply that knowledge to further our careers. Just last month, an issue came up at the closing table for a client’s home purchase. Seems a charge was billed to them erroneously, and they expressed their displeasure at the oversight. Did I panic? No. I simply jumped up from the table, grabbed my balls and ran out of the office yelling, “My dad’s a policeman!!” I look back on my past jobs and I’m thankful they taught me dignity and built a fine character.
When I turned 10 years old, my dad figured I had enjoyed enough carefree days as a child and was in need of a daily dose of physical and verbal abuse. So, he signed me up to be a paper boy for the Southtown Economist. All you needed, to start a promising career in the newspaper distribution field, was a reliable bicycle, which I didn’t have, a desire to work hard each day, which I didn’t have, and most importantly, a dad willing and quite capable of “putting you through a wall!” if papers weren’t promptly delivered each day.
Our subdivision was quite large and much too big for just one delivery boy. Thankfully, there were several other stupid kids in the neighborhood to help deliver the paper, which nobody really wanted in the first place. Unfortunately, my assigned territory was 75 homes in the old phase of the Catalina development. The routes in the newer sections of the neighborhood delivered to young families, with small children and an acceptance of a young person, trying to make a buck. The homes I had to deliver to were primarily owned by cantankerous, wrinkled people with white hair, trousers pulled up to just below the nipple line, who had plenty of free time to lay in wait, so they could bitch at me daily about my delivery technique, the length of my hair or the high cost of a loaf of bread. The remaining homes on my route housed a 10 year olds worst nightmare; high school kids.
For some reason, I seemed to attract packs of discontented boys ranging from the age of 13-18, with long hair, oily, pimpled faces and an insatiable desire to chase me down, knock me off my bike and kick my ass. Some years later, I read a published study in a medical journal, which proved conclusively, pasty-faced red-heads with freckles emit a scent which drives other kids to chase them down and beat them senseless. Or perhaps it was my bike?
As I said before, I didn’t have a reliable bike. Earlier that summer, I suffered my mid-life crises a few years early and became obsessed with owning a “chopper.” My neighbor, who owned an acetylene torch and a father with a lot of free time, helped me weld an extra fork on the end of my existing bike fork, to make my very own chopper bike. It was great to look at but unfortunately, when I tried to sit, the unbalanced weight distribution caused the front end to pop up and the bike to flip over my head. This, of course, got all kinds of laughs from the other kids on the street, an understanding slap upside my head from dad but regrettably, was not conducive to newspaper delivery. Leave it to dad to come up with the perfect solution.
“You can ride your sister’s bike.”
After removing the white, wicker basket from the handle bars and replacing it with large, metal hooks on each handle, I stepped back to assess my ride. It was a typical 70’s, girly bike, painted a light aqua green with a big white, banana style seat, covered with large pastel colored flowers, which looked like they were pulled off the set of “The Dating Game.” This bike, coupled with the red hair and freckles, were a perfect mix to insure abuse. When I whined to dad about how I would get beat up riding my sister’s bike, he assured me it “would build character.” Why do parents feel ass-kickings, crossing gender lines and public humiliation build self esteem? They don’t. It taught me how to peddle fast and run from trouble. I’m so proud.
After loading my bag with 100 pounds of cumbersome newspapers, I peddled off down the street, with my front wheel wobbling back and forth, trying my best to keep the bike upright. When my route was finished and I had successfully run the gauntlet of burn-outs looking for a piece of me, I was thankful for having my sister’s bike. While fleeing, the combination of unbalanced weight load, sobbing and excessive wobbling caused me to lose my balance and slide off my flowery bike seat. As any guy will tell you, falling off your bike seat at a high rate of speed means one thing: RACKED BALLS!!! But because I was getting in touch with my feminine side and “cross biking”, I avoided smashing my noootz on the bar normally found on a boy’s bike and was able to keep, not only my balance for escape, but my dignity. Well, as much dignity as you can have while running home with the bike frame wedged between your thighs to keep it upright, cutting through the neighbor’s yards and screaming over your shoulder,
“Better leave me alone! My dad’s a police officer!!! My dad’s a police officer!!!”
Actually, my dad sold carbon-copy business forms. Yelling, “My dad’s a carbon-copy business forms salesman!!” didn’t carry the intimidating punch I was looking for.
I’ve found that each one of my past job’s, has prepared me better to handle any crisis that may pop up in my current job. Hopefully, we learn from our mistakes and apply that knowledge to further our careers. Just last month, an issue came up at the closing table for a client’s home purchase. Seems a charge was billed to them erroneously, and they expressed their displeasure at the oversight. Did I panic? No. I simply jumped up from the table, grabbed my balls and ran out of the office yelling, “My dad’s a policeman!!” I look back on my past jobs and I’m thankful they taught me dignity and built a fine character.
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