Your first job
Hoeing Roses
I was around 14
I've posted this story too many times on like threads,
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’ turd was not the gracious diplomat he was when accepting an award.
‘Quit pickin’ at it like a goddamn woman, goddammit.’
‘Gimme that hook.’
He’d jerk the ‘hook’ outta my hand and commence to beat the holy crapoutta 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.
My next 'first job' was much more rewarding
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 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.
Damn, it was good.
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.
