Grunt: The Rise and Fall (And Rise Again?) of an American Working Class Stiff

By Peter Michael Cox

There is another four-letter word associated with work: life. Beyond providing us with a means to live
and survive it can be a key, as Freud noted, to self-esteem, self-identity and how we value life. Now,
"Dr. Siggie" nor I believe that work can only be satisfying if you make a ton of money or become famous
and powerful. Rather, what "Herr Doktor" was getting at, I believe, was do you love what you do to
earn a living? If so, then you've achieved one of the key components of wellbeing. But this philosophical
tenet raises a basic question: If you love your work is it really work? An equally troubling question:
Conversely, for those people who dislike their jobs, are they justified in disliking life and themselves?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477123003

Peter Michael Cox

Peter Cox is the author of several novels including Donuts, Missing Faith, On the Run with Jack Frost, and Blended Borders, as well as a memoir, Grunt: The Rise and Fall (and Rise Again?) of a Working Class Stiff (Xlibris.com) He presently lives in Salem, Massachusetts with his wonderful wife, and is currently working on a book of poetry.

Book preview

Grunt *

The Rise and Fall

(And Rise Again?) of an

American Working Class Stiff

Peter Michael Cox

*or How I survived the Great Recession

Copyright © 2012 by Peter Michael Cox.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

117255

Contents

Chaptert 1 Four Letter Words

Chapter 2 Shoveling Snow

Chapter 3 Interviews

Chapter 4 Dunkin’ Donuts

Chapter 5 The Factory

Chapter 6 On My Own

Chapter 7 This Job Sucks

Chapter 8 College Daze and the Candle Factory

Chapter 9 Did you just call me a chigada de madre?

Chapter 10 ‘Saving the World’—The Peace Corps

Chapter 11 Cox, I Got Some Bad News for You.

Chapter 12 ‘Saving the World II’—Projecto Libertad Legal Aid Office

Chapter 13 Hey, did you hear what happened to . . . ?

Chapter 14 ‘Saving the World III’—Essex County Community Organization

Chapter 15 Someone called you for an interview

Chapter 16 Selling Out to the City of Irvine—1990-2008

Chapter 17 Petah, they want you in the office.

Chapter 18 Reflections on Studs Terkel’s Working

Chapter 19 The Bottom?

Chapter 20 Reflection on Gail Sheehy’s Passages

Chapter 21 Dream On

Chapter 22 Reflection on Karl Marx’s Capital

Chapter 23 What does it mean to be a man and unemployed?

Chapter 24 Reflection on Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman

Chapter 25 Democracy and the Working Class

Chapter 26 Reflections on John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath

Chapter 27 Happy Ending?

Epilogue Espiritu Post Mortem

For Gorete who always stood by in the good times and the bad

Everybody is working for the weekend

—Lover Boy

Chaptert 1

Four Letter Words 

Work is a four-letter word. It fits in quite nicely with those other four-letter words: fuck, suck, shit, piss, dick and so on. These words fit in quite nicely, too, in describing various aspects of work. My boss is a fucking dick! This job sucks! They always give me the shit work to do. The way the company treats us like dogs pisses me off. And, well, you get the picture.

Now don’t get me wrong, work can be fun. Being a Playboy photographer, for instance, is not too tough to take. Or a baseball super star. Or a star actor earning $20 million a picture. Or any other high-paying profession. For a small minority of people, work can indeed be very rewarding. Who was it (Freud?) that said the key to happiness is to love your work (i.e. work + love = happiness). But all of this begs the question: if you love what you do whether you earn tons of money or not, is this activity really work? In other words, if you’re having fun while you work you can’t call it work can you? Painters love to paint; they don’t work at painting do they? Achieving success, wealth and fame or not, a passionate musician will perform no matter what even with an open guitar case on the sidewalk to survive—not to earn a living. After all, for the vast majority of workers worldwide who live paycheck-to-paycheck, of those whom their jobs are a daily, dangerous, dirty, demoralizing, despairing grind, work truly sucks. This memoir is dedicated to their working lives, whose work is definitely not fun.

Thinking these negative thoughts while driving the Toyota 4-Runner from California to Boston with my wife, dog, and two cats, loaded with our belongings, I wonder; was work always a bummer for me? The last job I had, employed as a senior planner for the City of Irvine in California left me embittered (much more on that experience later). After working in Irvine’s Community Development Department for 18 ½ years, I was basically forced to retire. Besides losing my job, we also lost our house to the bank as a result of the housing bubble bursting (the one I warned my realtor friend about in 2006). At that point in time in the summer of ’08 I said fuck it to California. We packed the SUV and headed back home to Boston ("Going back to Boston"). During the trip home, not knowing where are we going to live, I anticipate what type of job I hope to find: urban planner, housing specialist, community organizer, who knows? Hopefully (Are You listening God?) it’ll be something in my field.

Meanwhile on the CD player Springsteen sings My Home Town.

I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand

Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man

I’d sit on his lap in that big old Buick and steer as we drove through town

He’d tousle my hair and say son take a good look around this is your hometown

This is your hometown

This is your hometown

This is your hometown

So I can’t afford to remain too negative for too long concerning work. We all know a man’s got to put food on the table and a roof over their heads for his family. To stay in a positive frame of mind (especially for any upcoming interviews), while my wife tells me to slow down as an 18-wheeleer rushes past us on the I-10 in Arizona, I recall some of the jobs I had that were, I dare say, fun. You name it I did it. I shoveled snow (fun), collected garbage for three days (not fun), installed carpet, worked as a bus boy, was employed as a part-time school librarian aide (college financial aide job), worked in a candle factory, was a Peace Corps volunteer (built latrines and drinking water wells) in Paraguay for 2 ½ years, delivered pizza at U-Mass, worked in a factory, framed homes in Texas and Cape Cod, another factory job, worked as a community organizer as well as worked in the Mall and at a convenience store, and as a housing specialist, and lastly senior planner. With the wide-open highway beckoning me, what’s next?

Slow down or I’m getting out of the car! my wife yells at me. I’m speeding over 70 M.P.H. on a sloping hill to overtake a tracker trailer loaded with automobiles. The trucker must be pissed his rig can’t exceed forty. Deadlines. Getting to delivery on time—or not—probably results in receiving a full paycheck or half of one.

OK, OK, I answer as I change lanes. In the rearview mirror the Mack rig is behind us. The expansive cactus desert surrounds us. The jagged, brown mountains lie ahead of us. OK.

Most of the above-mentioned jobs sucked. A few of them, however, like the Peace Corps, changed my life forever. Even the shitty jobs, I realize now, rounded out my life. Pivotal experiences and emotional growth spurts sprout from work no matter how menial. For example; first romance (Dunkin Donuts), sexual adventures (the candle factory), bonding with poor people and people from different ethnicities and nationalities (Peace Corps and the community organizer job), socializing with blacks for the first time (the candle factory bi-racial, mixed-sex softball team), learning to speak in public (the City of Irvine and working as a community organizer), material and professional success (City of Irvine), learning to speak Spanish and Portuguese—mas ó menos (Peace Corps), and last but not least meeting my future wife (Peace Corps again)—a life changing experience for sure.

Don’t get me wrong, therefore, when I say work is a four-letter word. Sometimes it can be ‘good’, lead to ‘love’, you get ‘laid’, and, of course, you earn ‘cash’ to ‘live’. Here we are in the summer of ’08 motoring through mountain desert in the South West and into the scrub brush of desolate west Texas, and with the national unemployment rate above 7%, another four-letter word crosses my mind—fear. I don’t have a job lined up yet in Massachusetts; hell, I don’t even have a place to rent when we get there. Scary.

Am I the only one who thinks and feels this way? Do other people analyze and evaluate their jobs, or do they just deal with it for better or worse? If workers did consider their jobs in these times many probably would conclude it’s better to be employed than stuck in the unemployment line—or worse—I suppose.

We pull into Waffle House right off of the Interstate. The asphalt simmers like a mirage of a desert pond in the 95° mid-morning heat. My wife and I enter the AC-chilled restaurant. We wait for a booth or counter stool, whichever becomes available first. In front of us a microcosm of humanity at work—waitresses, cooks, bus boys, manager, cashiers, hostesses—play out their daily routine as though being led by an invisible conductor (Adam Smith’s invisible hand?) orchestrating a symphony of labor. Everyone behind the counter has his part to perform.

The hostess leads us to a booth. The waitress greets us with water and writes down our order. She hands it to the cook. He cracks open a few eggs, mixes it with cheese, and pours the mixture on the sizzling greasy grill along with four pieces of bacon and sausage. The waitress brings us two cups of coffee. Fifteen minutes later she returns with two plates of omelets, bacon, sausage and home fries. In the booth next to us the bus boy shovels the dirty plates, cups, glasses, silverware, rumpled napkins and morsels of food into the large plastic bin. Finishing breakfast, we leave the waitress a tip and wait in line behind a trucker wearing matching cowboy hat and boots to pay the cashier.

To this satiated traveler (me), the symphony of the worker bees buzzing around restaurant stage is music to my ears. The cacophony of the red-headed waitress handing an order to the African-American cook (Jimmy, two omelets over easy, hon.) as he takes the slip of paper with one hand while placing a plate on the pick-up stand with the other (Yo, Janet. Ya’ll pick up for table two.); the Mexican bus boy gripes to the other black waitress ("A la pinta, deez people at table seex are eslobs."); the dishwasher rinsing the dinner ware; the cash register spitting out receipts; a fallen glass crashing on the tile floor; the customers conversing in southern accents; swirls in my mind. I wonder how their day is going so far? Did the cook have a bad morning after arguing with his wife about what bill to pay first—the rent or the car loan? Is the waitress, a single mom without health insurance, worried sick trying to figure out how the hell she’s going to pay $18,345.66 hospital bill for her daughter’s leukemia treatment? Will the INS track down the Mexican bus boy working here with a fake work visa? Who cares besides me? Certainly not the diners. The truck driver is probably trying to figure out how keep his business afloat with gas prices tripling over the past three years. And don’t bother to ask the local farmer whose fertilizer costs soar while the price of soybeans plummet.

In the parking lot between the big rigs and the RVs my beagle takes me for a walk to a green patch. While he relieves himself I’m pissed at how most of us in this American Dream country of ours are not getting by. Working for a living these days, trying to survive pay check-to-pay check, juggling more and more bills in the air, sucks. As for the unemployed, they’re fucked.

I remember when I was a kid, for my dad, earning a living wasn’t such a hefty load to lift. Starting in the 1940s he worked for the same firm for 33 years. My mom, like many mothers in the ’50s and 60s, was a stay-at-home housewife. Even though Dad had only a certificate in drafting (probably the equivalent to an associate’s degree from ITT Technical) in the 1930s it was enough education and training for him to raise a family of eight, build a roomy house in middle class Wakefield, send us kids to private high schools and colleges, own a modest cottage across the street from the beach in the south shore coastal town of Green Harbor, and take my older brother and sisters on a trip to Europe in the 1950s; all of this on one paycheck a week. Can you believe it? Not bad. Dad wasn’t the only breadwinner to earn enough dough to live the good life. For many of my friend’s families just their dads worked while their moms stayed at home. All of them were homeowners and some also owned vacation homes on Cape Cod just like our family. They, too, occasionally took long distance trips to California or spending a couple of weeks in the winter in Florida. But that was then and this is now. And now means for a lot of working families with both husband and wife employed they barely make enough to pay the bills, the mortgage or rent, and childcare and medical expenses; forget about sending their kids to private schools and colleges, or owning a vacation home. It sucks to be us.

We’re on the road again. The SUV is gassed up. The traffic is light. My wife is reading her magazine and, therefore, not yet bugging me over my driving (Love ya, honey). I turn the CD player back on.

In ’65 tension was running high at my high school

There was a lot of fights between the black and white

There was nothing you could do

Two cars at a light on a Saturday night in the back seat there was a gun

Words were passed in a shotgun blast

Troubled times had come to my hometown

My hometown

My hometown

My hometown

My stomach is full and I’m semi-wired from the two cups of coffee. The pets are lying low in the back seat. Heading across Texas with three more days of traveling ahead of us before we reach Massachusetts, I try to leave the past in California behind me. I want to forget about our house being sold to the bank in a short sale. I want to forget I was forced to retire because I performed poorly at work due to my bi-polar depression. I want to forget (for now) that I owe the IRS and the State of California approximately $40,000 in back taxes. I want to overcome the guilt I feel for disrupting my two daughters lives as they stay behind in California to continue to attend school.

In spite of such a negative outlook, I strive to remain optimistic on finding a professional job in the Boston area. Surely some city planning department will be impressed with me over the 18+ years I worked for the City of Irvine Community Development Department. I’m sure I’ll draw interest from any community organizing group with my experience as an neighborhood organizer in Salem 20 years ago. Perhaps I’ll land a job as a affordable housing advocate or economic development specialist in a low-income, Hispanic neighborhood considering I have an M.A. in Economics and served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Paraguay. Speaking Spanish and Portuguese moderately well is a plus, too.

Moreover, I have confidence in myself. Job interviews never terrified me. During interviews I’m calm and able to articulate quite well my work experience as it pertains to the position. I’m also a quick thinker when it comes to tricky questions ("What is your greatest strength and weakness?").

As far as salary goes, I don’t need to make what I was earning in Irvine ($89,000). With my pension from the City I could get by on half that amount, let’s say around $50,000. So, besides being optimistic, I am also realistic. Although unemployment is on the rise everywhere, it’s lower in Massachusetts than the rate in California. Based on the employment ads in my profession posted on the Internet, there seems to be quite a lot of planning jobs throughout the Bay State.

Along the eastbound I-10 in the Texas hill country I imagine what it would be like to work as a planner or community organizer or housing advocate or economic development analyst. Leaving the sterile master planned environment of Irvine behind me, I’m excited envisioning myself roaming through the old working class neighborhoods like Salem and Worcester, and collaborate with all sorts of people to address the economic needs of the community. Instead of remaining chained to a cubicle I see myself meeting with non-profit housing developers on a project site as well as community activists, politicians, bankers, the media, you name it. Work would have importance to me again. Just imaging this bright future awaiting me invigorates my spirit and life.

There is another four-letter word associated with work: life. Beyond providing us with a means to live and survive it can be a key, as Freud noted, to self-esteem, self-identity and how we value life. Now, Dr. Siggie nor I believe that work can only be satisfying if you make a ton of money or become famous and powerful. Rather, what Herr Doktor was getting at, I believe, was do you love what you do to earn a living? If so, then you’ve achieved one of the key components of wellbeing. But this philosophical tenet raises a basic question: If you love your work is it really work? An equally troubling question: Conversely, for those people who dislike their jobs, are they justified in disliking life and themselves?

Pulling into a gas station I have more pressing questions and concerns. Money. We have a budget to maintain, including how much is spent on gas each day on this trip. Even in Texas gas sells for nearly $4.00 a gallon. In California it was up to $4.67 when we left. Fuckin’ ridiculous. Overall, however, we should be OK. We’re spending between $175 and $200 a day on meals, gas, and lodging. I’ve set aside over $3,000 to cover our living expenses once we arrive in Massachusetts. Plus I’ll begin receiving my $3,000 a month pension check starting in September, which will be used to rent a place somewhere near Boston. And, I almost forgot, we’ll be receiving most of security deposit—around $2,000—from our landlord in Rancho Santa Margarita. Still, money or the lack thereof always worries me.

Now Main Street’s whitewashed windows and vacant stores

Seems like there ain’t nobody wants to come down here no more

They’re closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks

Foreman says these jobs are going boys and they ain’t coming back to your hometown

Your hometown

Your hometown

Your hometown

Money. That, of course, is the only real reason you have (not love) to work. Good ol’ cash. There’s another four-letter word for you. And those of us—the vast majority of American workers—who live paycheck-to-paycheck the daily grind of work wears down our spirit and steals a third of our life away because we’ve got to pay the bills, of which it seems we’re usually one month behind. Bottom line; you live to work, Herr Freud, and work to live.

In Memphis my wife and I dine in a nice hotel restaurant. We feast on a juicy streak (she likes hers well-done so she sends it back to the chef to grill it longer), salad, fries, rolls, red wine, desert and coffee. After a few days of the franchise bland meals served along the Interstate, we deserve to treat ourselves—money be damned. In this relaxed setting my wife cuts the mood by asking me about our immediate future. Are you sure you’re going to find a professional job? Remember, you have two kids to support.

Sipping a glass of Merlot, I nurse a pleasant wine buzz; one I’ve earned after driving eight hours today. "Yes and yes. Yes, I’ll find a good job in the Boston area, and yes, I know I need to support out two little princesses’ school and living expenses in ‘Califonier’."

"And where exactly are we supposed to live when we arrive in Massachusetts? We don’t even have a place to stay once we get there."

I got it all figured out. I try to reassure her—and myself. We can pass the first few days at the Sheraton Colonial Inn in Wakefield. It’s the same place we stayed two years ago for my niece’s wedding.

My wife forks a piece of well-done steak into her mouth. She seems content about lodging in a familiar, somewhat upscale hotel in my hometown of Wakefield, near where my older brother and sisters live.

On the last day of the trip we’re traveling through Shenandoah Valley. The countryside is a rolling sea of lush, green foliage. It’s a nice contrast to dry southern California and its fabricated vegetation. As we enter Pennsylvania I have strong urge to check out Gettysburg. But while stopping at a Starbucks several miles from the historic site I realize we don’t have enough time to visit. We’ve got to reach Massachusetts tonight and settle in because our youngest daughter arrives at Logan Airport the day after tomorrow.

Time. This is the last four-letter word I’ll mention related to work. You can’t be late for work. Times crawls by so slowly at work. Come Monday, you have five long days of work ahead of you before the weekend arrives. Starting a new job, you typically have three to six months of probation. After one year on the job, you get one week of vacation. The starting pay for a minimum wage job is $7.75 an hour. You’ll have to work at least to the age of 65 before you’re eligible to collect social security. Time is money. So on and so forth.

We enter the Mass Pike at nighttime during a downpour. I drive the 4-Runner onto Rt. 95 North/Rt. 128. Finally, after seven days and 3,000 miles of cross-country traveling we reach home. Wakefield, Mass. My old hometown. Thus begins our new adventure. Good luck to us.

Last night me and Kate we laid in bed talking about getting out

Packing up our bags maybe heading south

I’m thirty-five we got a boy of our own now

Last night I sat him up behind the wheel and said son take a good look around, this is your hometown

—Bruce Springsteen, My Home Town

Chapter 2

Shoveling Snow 

My first job was shoveling snow for an old lady who lived up the street. I was probably ten years old. Her name was Mrs. Emerson. I think she was a widow if I recall correctly. Anyways, every time it snowed at least a couple of inches I would knock on her front door. She nearly always nodded her head when I asked the frail elderly woman if she needed the front walkway shoveled.

There were about five or six concrete steps facing the street with two stone pillars on each side. The walkway sloped upwards for 30 feet more or less until it reached several additional steps to the front door. With the pathway width of five feet the whole shoveling area wasn’t too large for a kid my size; provided that the snow didn’t accumulate more than six to eight inches and it was the light, puffy stuff. If it exceeded 12 inches, and was wet and heavy, different story. In that case, my aching muscles and frozen hands and feet turned a breezy, easy chore into a hard work.

The piece of shit metal shovel I used didn’t help the situation either. It turned the job into a real pain-in-the-ass burden. Chopping into the snow and ice frequently bent the edge of the shovel. Additionally, although it was light and easy to swing, the wet, heavy slushy snow tended to stick to the surface. Then when I banged the shovel on the ground to shake off the sticky snow, once again the edge bent, too. Damn.

Be that as it may, I enjoyed shoveling snow for Mrs. Emerson; the whole experience in fact; before, during and after. It didn’t seem like work to me then as I later understood what working meant. The routine typically started the previous evening. Don Kent, New England’s venerable weather forecaster (we didn’t call them meteorologists back in the day), would place magnetic snowflake cutouts on the chalkboard style map of greater Boston, including Wakefield. Next to the snowflakes he’d write down numbers indicating the amount of projected snow for different town and cities in the region. On a school night the excitement of a possible snow day off from St. Joseph’s elementary kept me awake. From time to time I couldn’t resist climbing out of bed to peer out the second floor window. The glow of the street lamp revealed if it was still snowing and how heavy. You could see down at the illuminated side of the street approximately how much snow had accumulated so far. The occasional scraping plow truck indicated we were for a sizeable dumping of the white stuff. Good sign.

In the morning I rushed over to the window, which by now the pane was frosted. Outside a thick layer of at least a foot of snow covered all the houses, trees and streets turning a brown landscape into a winter wonderland. The plows kept at it. In my pajamas I stepped down stairs. Mom was making breakfast for Dad who had to go to work regardless of the snowfall. She already had the radio news station on announcing school cancellations in various towns.

Ma, did they mention Wakefield?

No, not yet. They just started with the A’s. Sit down for your oatmeal.

Hence the waiting began. "All schools are closed in Abington, Amesbury, Arlington . . ."

I dug into the steamy bowl of oatmeal and waited. "Billerica, Braintree, Burlington . . ."

And waited. Halfway through an English muffin, and they still hadn’t called Wakefield. "Saugus, Stoneham . . ."

Logic and past experience assured me that if those two neighboring towns’ schools were closed then surely Wakefield’s would be, too. Still, I had to continue waiting. Wareham, Waltham, and Wakefield.

Wakefield! Yes! Not only did I have a day off from the sisters of St. Joseph’s, but I could also shovel Mrs. Emerson’s house and make some money.

After breakfast I put on a pair of dungarees, flannel shirt, a pair of wool socks, pulling them over the pants. Next, I stepped into olive green rubber boots and snapped the three mental fasteners closed. I then put on and zipped up the bulky parka, followed by a knit stocking cap and gloves. Ready, set, go.

Outside in the entryway I grabbed the shovel and preceded to trudge through a three-foot tall snow bank at the end of the driveway left behind courtesy of the Wakefield DPW plow. Mrs. Emerson’s home (which reminded me of the Adam’s Family house) was merely three houses up the street. When I got there the job looked daunting. I stepped over or rather sank into the snow bank up to my knees. Reaching the front door with a fair amount of exertion, I rang the doorbell. Clumps of snow had already caked the inside on my boots. As if she waiting by the window for me to arrive Mrs. Emerson opened the door right a way. With her wire rim glasses, shawl, and gray hair tied back in a bun, she appeared as a stereotypical grandmother or spinster. Hello there young man.

Mrs. Emerson, do you want me to shovel out front?

I sure do, sonny. Don’t over do it. Take your time.

Yes ma’am.

Similar to jumping into Lake Quannapowitt for the first swim of the summer I immediately fell into the rythym of shoveling snow. Starting with digging through the snow bank I got into the grove right a way—dig, scoop, toss. It took me over 20 minutes to shovel a five-foot pathway through the freakin’ mountain of snow blocking the front steps. The five steps weren’t so bad except the wet snow had turned wicked heavy. By now the mid-morning sun began to melt everything in sight. With each scoop of snow I had to bang the shovel on the ground to loosen clumps of snow stuck on it. The shoveling grove expanded much to my dismay—dig, scoop, toss, pound!

Several minutes of this grueling routine made my back ache. Needing a break I straighten up my stiff back and surveyed the snowy scene. In spite of the occasional plow and passing car the residential neighborhood was quiet. A slight breeze dusted off the pine trees. If you paid close enough attention you might hear the low buzzing of a distant snow blower but they were not in widespread use yet in the mid-1960s. Otherwise the only sound I could hear snow chunks falling from tree limbs and long icicles crashing down from the eves of the two—and three-story homes. All else was total serenity. Times like these, I later understood, nature quieted your mind and soothed your soul.

I enjoyed the solitude. It was kind of weird. Here, in the middle of Wakefield—a town of 25,000 residents—I felt like a lone survivor of avalanche. Spotting a squirrel on top of the stone pillar I fired a snowball at the fury tail animal. Missed. It gave me a what-the-fuck look before scampering away.

Back to shoveling and my aching back—dig, scoop, toss, pound! Although I started to sweat below the knitted cap, my hands and feet began to feel cold and stiff. The caked snow inside the boots turned my socks into cold, wet slippers. The gloves weren’t waterproof so they, too, chilled my hands. I still had 30 feet of walkway to clear as well as an additional five steps to the front door. Shit.

It’s funny. Thinking back, this was my first experience with work. However, as hard as it was shoveling in the cold, it didn’t feel like work. In fact, dumb me, I didn’t know what work really was like when I was ten. After all, I didn’t have to shovel Mrs. Emerson’s walkway. If not for me, some other kid would probably do the job. Indeed that was the key; a paid task was not a job if I was no one obligated me to show up at Mrs. Emerson’s house everyday to do chores. All I knew and cared about was the three or four dollars she would pay me when I was done.

During my frequent breaks, I thought about money and the hot chocolate waiting for me at home and going to Mrs. Card’s general store to buy penny candy and returning home to settle in and watch a Charlie Chan movie on the old black ‘n’ white TV set down in the basement. Vapor escaping my mouth, I continued the grind—dig, scoop, toss, pound!

I’m ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I sort of short-changed Mrs. Emerson a little bit. By this I mean, instead of clearing the full five-foot wide walkway, I settled for a four-foot or maybe a 3 ½-foot clearance only if the snow was really heavy and deep. Whatever. Anyways, I figured if it was wide enough for the mailman, paperboy, milkman, relatives, or whoever else needed to reach the front door then what was the problem? Besides, the frail old lady was probably legally blind and she wasn’t going to walkout front, so . . .

Without realizing it at the time, one of my not-so-good work traits was a tendency to cut corners. Why do a complete, thorough, perfect job when you can get it done by simplifying the task? I learned to adhere to the KISS principle—Keep it simple, stupid.

Another of my work traits related to the one above was paying attention to details—or the lack thereof. I never saw the point in striving for perfection (What is perfection, anyways?). What was the point of scraping off every tiny patch of ice and snow on Mrs. Emerson’s walkway? Icy spots or no icy spots, you still got to watch were you’re walking, right? Details, details; they seemed futile to me. Just get the job done.

This trait spilled over to my schoolwork as well. Taking a test or doing homework I usually did not force myself to figure out a math problem if it proved too difficult to solve. Screw it. I’d either guess the answer or leave it blank. It was better, I rationalized, to concentrate on figuring out the problems I could solve. Why agonize over trying to score a 100% when you can relax and receive 85% on the test?

Over an hour shoveling later, with the piece-of-shit shovel all banged up hacking through the snow-packed ice, I called it quits. Ringing the doorbell, I looked at the job fairly well completed (a three to four foot width cleared down to the sidewalk—good enough). Mrs. Emerson answered the door. Her back stooped slightly, she didn’t bother to eye the walkway behind me. Here you go sonny. Is three dollars enough?

Yeah, sure. Thanks. I crumpled the bills in my front pocket.

Be careful walking home.

OK. I will.

I carried the shovel over my shoulder like a civil war veteran returning home from battle. How much could these three bucks buy? Ten pieces of penny candy at Mrs. Card’s general store, a pack of baseball cards and a bag of Okey Dokey cheese popcorn would run me about 20 cents. That would leave me with, let’s say, $2.80. Plus five Illustrated Classics comic books at Minahan’s Drug Store selling for 10 cents a copy would cost me 50 cents bringing my balance down to $2.30. With that amount remaining I could go to Armstrong’s Toys and purchase a couple of model warships and B-52 bombers for 35 cents a piece. Now I would be down to $1.60. I could use up the rest of the money to buy old coins at Crystal Coin Shop to add to my booklet collection. Or maybe I should just go Mrs. Cards and save the rest of the cash. Ah yes, the first dilemma concerning work; before you live on your own and have bills to pay do you spend all your hard-earned cash at once or do you save all of it? Unlike receiving money for your birthday—free money so to speak—earning money is different. You’ve busted your butt in exchange for $, is that comic book or model ship or an Indian head penny really worth the aching muscles resulting from good old fashion hard work?

Mom’s steamy hot chocolate awaited me when I shook off the snow in the entryway. I removed the boots, stocking cap, gloves and wet socks, and placed them next to the radiator.

Take off you wet boots and things.

I already did, Ma. Jeez.

Don’t jeez me young man.

Once I changed, dried off, and warmed up with the hot chocolate I put my ‘Eskimo" gear back on me—the semi-dried parka, boots, gloves and cap—and braved the arctic terrain yet again. Must get my penny candy fix at Mrs. Card’s. On the way to the general store, I stopped by Marty Shield’s house; a 4th grade buddy of mine. Knock, knock. Marty came to the door. What’s up?

You want to get some candy and watch TV at my house? I asked him.

Nah. I got chores I have to do, he said.

That sucks.

Yeah, I know. See ya.

There was that phrase popping up again; had to. I never had to do anything at home as far as chores go except for washing, drying and putting away the dishes and silverware. All I had to do was keep up with my homework and studies at school. I better get good grades Mom and Dad often warned me or else (i.e no TV). Consequently having no real chores, the idea of work remained an alien concept until I left home to live on my own.

Inside the general store I pointed to an assortment of candy behind the glass bin—fireballs, mint juleps, red licorice, sweet tarts, Bazooka Joe bubble gum—while Mrs. Card placed them in a small, brown paper bag. I gave her a dollar bill. She gave me 85 cents in change. Chewing and popping the gum on the way home the tasty reward of hard work was sweet.

Returning home the frozen snow on the street crunched beneath my boots. The occasional car passing by forced me to lean against the snow back nearly falling into it. The tiny circular park where we played hide-and-go-seek during the summer time collected high piles of snow