My first real job happened in Santa Cruz after I moved out there in 1972. Before that I worked for my Dad at Burr Electric Company. It’s not fair to call that a “job” since, in the immortal and paraphrased words of Lyndon Johnson, “I did not seek it nor did I accept it if offered.”
It wasn’t offered. I was told I was now working for him and I should probably go out and buy some big boy pants and a screwdriver.
When I left CT for CA ( Hey! I traded T for A! There has to be a joke in there somewhere. Anybody?) I found myself in a big house living with twelve other young people like myself. Well, not really like myself. The difference was….they liked it. There were bodies everywhere at night. Nothing in the fridge was safe. The electricity would be turned off and the landlord would knock on our door telling us the bills and rent weren’t paid because the guy we designated as being the leasee of the house REALLY liked cocaine. I mean he REALLY liked it. He liked it more than he liked living up to his fiscal responsibilities so sometimes we had to pay rent twice. Once to the landlord and once to a guy with face tattoos on Pacific Avenue.
That was when the grim reality hit me. I was there to be in this band. We rehearsed every day. No one woke up before three in the afternoon. I had my days free. Time to go out and find a job.
Dean, our drummer, worked a few nights a week at a pizza parlor. That meant that at least three times a week we could count on him bringing home unclaimed pizza (memo to self: Great band name…Unclaimed Pizza) and a green hefty bag full of beer. You did not know that beer could be transported in a green hefty bag? Where were you raised?
Side note: We eventually got to play at his pizza parlor. That was the good news. The bad news was that, in order to GET to California, the other guys in my band sold all their instruments. They arrived in California to be in a band with no instruments to hit or strum or pluck. Zip. Nada. When we GOT the gig at the pizza parlor we gathered around two acoustic guitars and hoped for the best.
Back to my job.
I saw an ad in the paper that said Marianne’s Ice Cream Parlor was looking for someone. “I’M someone!!!” I yelled out loud to a house full of sleeping hippies.
I looked in the mirror. What I saw was a twenty year old, skinny as a rail kid, with hair down past his shoulders that made him look like Michael Ansara on a non-call day. What to do? What to do?
I went out and bought a wig. Where does one find a wig, you ask? I don’t remember. Today I would Google it, but back then I probably looked in the Yellow Pages and found a wig store. And I bought a hair net. Wearing a wig is a whole big thing. Put all my hair up under the hair net. Secure with pins. Not bobby pins. Actual pins that I drove it through the net and into my skull.
I’m kidding. They were bobby pins. I’m not a masochist. (well, I wasn’t one yet back then) Then I slipped on the wig and… presto chango… I looked like someone you could kind of trust with a scoop and a cash register.
I got the job. It was a great job and I realize now that a lot of what you learn on your first real job guides you and influences you for the rest of your time here on Earth. For example:
My boss Sam was great. Funny and kind and fair. He knew I was in a band so he let me have weekends off. I would open the store and work till mid-afternoon so I could be back in time for the band to wake up and start doing drugs. Eventually I confessed to him that I was wearing a wig (It was hot as hell under that thing) and he basically said “Duh!” Then he told me as long as no one complained I could de-wig. Now when I run a session or are in charge of a project I try to be like Sam… keep it fun, keep it fair and allow people to take their wigs off. Metaphorically speaking.
Another lesson: Sam said I could eat as much ice cream as I wanted. I could eat the stuff all day long for all he cared. The first two weeks it was sundaes for breakfast followed by milk shakes and banana splits for lunch. After a while…you guessed it. I no longer cared for eating ice cream. His inventory was now safe from me. Smart move on his part. I raised my kids the same way. If you deny it…they want it a thousand times more. If you let them go nuts for it they will eventually get sick of it. That philosophy was not successful with my band though. Apparently if you let someone have all the cocaine they want …what they want more than anything is…a lot more cocaine. Forever.
They have a lot in common with guppies. Guppies will eat till the explode. Cocaine users will do cocaine till your band explodes.
Last thing I learned? I love to clean. I also MADE the ice cream in the back room. At the end of the day everything had to be cleaned with soap, water and a hose. And I loved it. To this day I rush through meals so I can start cleaning the kitchen. Give me a sponge and a dirty plate and I am in Disneyland!!
Random wrap up thoughts:
I like ice cream now.
I would drop in and say hi to Sam every time I was in Santa Cruz. till he died a few years ago.
I know the correct way to scoop ice cream out of a can.
My hair is shorter now and I look a lot like the pictures of me in the wig all those years ago.
There is a dirty plate in the sink but I am saving it till later so I have something to look forward to all day.