D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
July
2008
Summer Jobs
Page: 3Scores always ended up in the double digits, 22-17, 18-5, and so on, but the kids and the parents loved it. It was gently competitive, but all teams ended up in the round-robin tournament called the Knothole World Series. This became a huge local event, and was played on the best field at the park, the one that had a scorers booth, complete with PA system and concession stand. The kids got their names "in print" on special scorecards that were given to everyone in the stands.
My fellow coaches were fun to work with; all were college age, so I thought it was really cool to be able to work with them.
I also got to hang around lifeguard Charlene Payne, whom I had a youthful crush on. Never mind that she was attending Yankton College in South Dakota, while I was about to enter 8th grade (although my wife now is nearly 10 years older than I. . . hmm. . .).
My mother continued to work at the park district, eventually retiring as program director, after having to give way, as she puts it, "to some young blonde chicky."
But the park started using more and more college students over the next few years, and my employment, which included brief stints as an unofficial lifeguard when the real lifeguards took a break or ran to the privy, soon ended.
Besides, Charlene moved on, never even knowing I was alive.
From there, my gainful summer employment found me doing a couple of odd jobs now and then, and finally ending up at the brand new McDonald's that was opening in Barrington.
You scoff. Well, at the time it was THE place to work for anyone attending my high school, but only for those who needed to work. The rich kids of Barrington (which I now call "Bah-rington") also scoffed. While they got to hang out in the parking lot of McDonald's, I and the other po' folk labored at making their cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes (which back then were the real thing, almost). But we had fun and we made money that we and/or our families needed.
I also hated being at our un-air conditioned home during the sultry summers in Illinois, so it was always much nicer to be working at the frigidly cool McDonald's.
My last summer job was with my Pa, the workaholic.
When I was 12, my parents divorced. It was a gleeful moment in my life, and took place, ironically, on Valentine's Day. Since then, my mother has carried some kind of odd burden of guilt, thinking that she deprived me of some kind of father figure who never was to begin with. Relax, Mom, I'm okay. Really! Just ask the warden! (Just kidding, mom.)
But part of the divorce settlement included "reasonable visitation," which my father interpreted as "slave labor."
Prior to my high-school years, this involved him picking me up on Saturday morning and hauling me down to the building he owned just off of downtown Chicago. His photo studios were housed on the first two floors; the other three floors were filled with various tenants renting space from him. He and his cousin, Ed, did most of the maintenance and remodeling, but on Saturdays, I was put to work as a gopher, wall painter, "hold this" boy, and of course janitor. I hated it. I hated every minute of it, and dreaded Saturdays except for the cheeseburger and greasy French fries lunch that I had every week at a corner diner owned by a nice Greek couple.
For my last two years of high school, happily, this job was replaced in the summer by a job I actually appreciated, and which usually meant I didn't have to be around dear old dad very much.
Photostats were the grandparent of present-day copy machines, and at least half of my dad's business came from Photostats. He also did a process called Kolorstats, which he once said he had a patent on, but I doubt if that was true.
To deliver the Photostats around downtown Chicago, a supply of foot messengers was needed, and who better to use for summer help than your son? Almost all of his other messengers were men who lived and hung out at what was then called "skid row" in Chicago, North Clark Street. Besotted by alcohol, these unfortunates were nonetheless quite reliable and made good workers. Certainly most of them made their rounds around the Loop with a hangover, but most of the time, they showed up and delivered my dad's wares in rain, snow and the godawful humidity of Illinois summers.
In particular, I remember one man, Ralph Kooi. Mr. Kooi always looked like he was completely out of it while sitting on a chair in the messenger area waiting for an assignment, but when a job was ready to go, he was always the first to grab it and go.
My second summer working as a messenger for Reliable Photocopy Service, I was, amazingly, able to talk Dad into hiring a friend as a messenger, although she was assigned to one of the satellite offices. Carol Watson was my first "gal pal," someone I just hung out with a lot, without any kind of romantic inclinations at all. (Although this might have been different, at least on my part, if she had not been an active member of the LDS church, which I was not.) Being with Carol was a delight, even if she was just a friend. Bright, witty and very into music, she and I had a nice summer working for Pop and taking the train home each night, since his work hours tended to last far into the night. He would pick us up in the morning for the 45-mile commute.
I learned a lot through those jobs. Some of it was fun, such as learning more about baseball, a sport I once adored, or having my first cooking experience of any kind. I also came understand that sometimes, such as in the case of Mr. Kooi, looks can be deceiving. Mr. Kooi rarely spoke or bathed, had one change of clothes (so it seemed) and always looked rough, but he was reliable and honest, which were traits that I was able to hone up on myself just by observation on my summer job.