I found one of my very first jobs the way most of us probably did - by hanging around listening to the 'Top Gun' album in my room and hoping Mom wouldn’t come hounding me to find a job.
"A job is not just going to come to you. You need to get out there.”
But my perseverance paid off when my next-door neighbor came to the house looking to hire my brother to deliver car parts for their small company one summer. Bro was firmly entrenched in the computer world at that point, but I was there, hands waving and yelling, “Pick ME! ME! ME! ” I suppose a chick wasn’t their first choice, but my dedication to organizing headlights and PCV valves convinced them and it turned into a four-summer occupation.
It was the BEST JOB EVER.
My uniform – shorts and a t-shirt.
I drove pick-up trucks around all day with the tannest arm in town hanging out the window blasting “Kokomo”. I was Master of the One Way Street and Back Alleys. It was complete and utter freedom (in between stopping at GoodYear and Acura).
On the downside, I had sketchy old men calling me 'Skeeter', 'Honey Chil' and 'Hey Good Lookin’. These were not the accolades you might think as there’s little competition when you’re picking up brake pads. And you have a streak of 10w30 running across your forehead.
Aside from some of the usual creepies, my only beef with the job was delivering to a certain radiator shop. You’ve most likely never been to one, but they stink. Like a punch to the gut. The pic below is the best I could find of what goes down in one of these places.
The guys at this particular shop were of the I-see-my-probation-officer-on-Tuesday's variety. The “office” was wood paneled with a tiny AC unit blasting away, flipping the pages of a nudie Snap-On Tools calendar from four years ago. The desk, broken Laz-E-Boy and assorted chairs were all covered in grease and radiator gunk. It was small, dank and dismal, reeking of radiator shop. Waiting for them to cut me a check was the longest 10 minutes of my life.
Earl: How much is that bill fer?
Earl: RAY JUNIOR! WHERE’D YOU PUT THAT CHECK BOOK, BOY? You gotta boyfriend baby?
Me: Yes. (not really)
Earl: You wanna ‘nother one?
Earl: RAY JUNIOR! GET IN HERE!
Ray Jr: (enters with a fresh blast of radiator shop) Hey baby…you gotta boyfriend?
Me: (please find the check book, please find the check book) Sorry, already taken. (not really)
Ray Jr: (digs checkbook out of dented, Bondo-colored filing cabinet covered with faded NASCAR decals) Earl, yer such a dumbass. (Throws checkbook at Earl’s head.)
Earl: (starts writing check) Yer lookin’ pretty good – I could take you out some time. (hands me check covered in oily fingerprints)
Me: (accepts check as if it was plague) Uh huh. Ummm… thanks guys. (Please don’t gang rape me.) See ya.
Posted at Humor-Blogs