What was your first full time job? What year was it and how much did it pay?

My 1st job back in '77 was delivering searches to local law firms in downtown Buffalo,alot of walking. If the other person didn't come to work,I had to do her route as well I learned where all the law firms were located I stayed for 2 1/2 yrs,the pay was terrible I think it was $3.25/hr
 

I guess my first full time job was pumping gas at an Exxon station down in Florida when I was 18 in 1975-76. Or it might have been working at an Eckerd drug store at a stock-boy. I don't remember which came first — probably the gas station. I had a lot of jobs in my teens, now that I think about it.
 
Youngster said:
Being retired gives me more time to reflect on my past. This came to mind and I thought it would be interesting to hear what others had to say.
My first full time job was working in a lumber mill pulling dimensional lumber off a planer chain and stacking it. This was in 1973 and it paid a whopping $3.00 per hour.
How about you?
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Wow, you were wealthy. My first job, in the 50's, was typing - for 25cents an hour.
 

What was your first full time job? What year was it and how much did it pay?​

Youngster said:
How about you?
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This subject has come up a few times

Nut shell;
Hoeing roses
I was 14 or 15, so maybe 1963
Seems it was around $.60/hr
10 hrs a day

A story I've posted too many times

But here it is again;

First Jobs

My very first ‘job’ was hoeing roses for an ol’ guy at the end of the mountain road up from our place.
He was a prize winning grower, lots of entries and ribbons and medals and plaques from all over and of course Portland, the City of Roses.

As a teacher, the crotchety ol’ fart was not the gracious diplomat he was when accepting an award.

‘Quit pickin’ at it like a gd woman, gdammit.’
‘Gimme that hook.’
He’d jerk the ‘hook’ outta my hand and commence to beat the holy krap outta those roses.
Apparently the ones that survived became resilient and hardy....and beautiful.

The hook was not much more than a smallish three prong pitchfork bent 90°.

‘You don’t stop till it’s rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock.’

That was the work schedule.

And off he’d go in his dilapidated ’49 ford sedan.
The engine sounded like it would blow apart any minute, pistons rattling around, tappets tapping a beat, zero oil.
Only drove it a few hundred yards, just to harass us.

One of the old hands said, ‘just hoe like mad until you get over the hill, then you can take a little break’.
The old gent seemed to know what he was talkin’ about, he’d been there a long time.
Back permanently stuck at 45°.
Kinda bugged me...cause when it was rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock, we’d all beat feet over to the walnut tree....here he’d trudge...and there he’d stand....bent.
His hands were stuck in a hoe holding position.
Not big on talkin’.

‘How long you been doin’ this?’

‘Some time now.’

‘Huh.’

It was $.60 an hour...10 hours a day.

I’d been there just a few days, and hoein’ like mad.
The hill just a half hour of back breaking hacks away.
Once over the hill, outta view from the ol’ guy’s shack, I straightened up and leaned on my hook.
Just stared into the sun.
Rolled a smoke.
A smoke never tasted so good.
I was just getting’ into a mind filled tryst with Sophia Loren when I heard, ‘That’s enough of that, git offa my property.’

I turned around and there he was, leanin’ on them crutches.
How in hell had he snuck up on me?
Had he crutched his way up the hill, knowing full well what I was doin’?
At first I was startled, and maybe a bit scared.
Then I got mad, and with the knowledge that several fields of hay bales were just waiting for me, I headed right for him.
His expression changed from sneering disgust to alarm.
‘Don’t worry ol’ man. I’m not gonna beatcha.
You’ve done enough of that yerself.
Here’s yer hook.’

So, yeah, I got fired from my first real job.



When we moved closer to town, I got an evening job at a rather posh restaurant.
The Hillvilla.
It worked well with my junior year schedule.
Work till 11pm…sleep through class..if I went.

Washing pots and pans.
My first day, I ran a sink full of water, hot and cold.
The owner, Ed Palaske, reminded me of Mr McGoo, kindly, gently turned off the cold water.
Hot water and steam came outta the tap.
‘We don’t use cold water. It’s not so sanitary.’
His hands and forearms looked like lobsters...no hair, red, much like a burn victim.
Lou, the cook, doing a great impression of Ed Asner, just leaned on the counter and grinned.
Damn, I’d never known hot water up till then.
The crab pots and pans, from making crab louie, did loosen up better.

Then I graduated to the salad bar.
Much like a bar tender.
The waitresses would come up, order, and I’d prep, sip a coke and munch on crackers.

This one waitress, guess she was in her late thirties, would tell me dirty jokes and chit chat when ordering.
She had blonde hair, all pulled back, like Kim Novak in Vertigo....rather buxom...like my dad’s Police gazette gals.
I had fantasies about her while I was sleeping in class.

Sometimes a dignitary would call me over,
‘Hey sport, here’s a buck, get me a pack of Winstons outta the machine...keep the change.’

If a patron didn’t like their meal, one of us would get it.
It..... was... gooooood.

After my shift, and the upstairs was closing, I’d head downstairs and get another coke from the bar, and if lucky, I’d chat more with Kim Novak, and watch her sit there, undulating.

I think that was my best high school job.

I know it was.
 
My worst-paying job (and worst job overall) was in college, working in my dorm's dining hall (I had run out of my summer money and needed spending money and it was all I could get at the time in the middle of the semester). I had to wear a dorky yellow gingham nylon uniform with a button-on apron, white tennis shoes with white ankle socks and absolutely the worst of all....A HAIRNET! I looked like a dork. A hairnet......and me with lovely hair down to my butt.

If I was lucky, I got to stand by the line and check everyone's dining card off the list (but, on the other hand, everyone in the dorm got to see me dressed like a dork). But, usually, as the new kid on the block, I got stuck at the dirty dish conveyor belt, scraping food off the plates before loading them into the dishwasher.

And for this humiliation, I was paid 90 cents an hour.

Not what you want to be doing at 19.
 
Gas station attendant, 1969-70, $1.35/hr, raised to $1.50 after the ol' 3 month probation period with the additional responsibility of assisting the mechanic. This place did oil changes, replaced belts and bulbs, flushed radiators, checked brakes, and looked like a UFO.

old orbit station.jpeg
 

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