Get a Job

Best present I ever got.

For my eleventh birthday I got a Rollfast two-wheeler. Yeah, it wasn't a Schwinn, but it didn't really matter. 

The bike was more than just a toy. It symbolized a liberation. And, with certain limitations (no riding on Linden Blvd, cross at a light) it expanded my boundaries not to be equaled until seven years later. But that's another story.

Within a year the bike would become a money-maker for me. I wanted my own money, not an allowance, so I went into every store along Church Avenue from Albany Av to beyond Utica Av. ("Hey, you need anyone to deliver orders for you or any other work? Have bike; will deliver!") 

None of the stores I went into looking for a job was a chain store. The 
person I spoke to was the owner, not a manager. I'm referring to the stores where I felt I had a slim chance of finding part-time employment, so that eliminated Ebingers on Church near Utica Avenues and the Woolworth's on Utica Av, John's Bargain Store and the Carvel on E.55th St. but even that was an individually owned franchise. 

Two afternoons of futile searches and I was walking past my neighborhood drug store - actually my neighborhood "pharmacy" and I thought I'd give Dr. xxx a chance to hire a dependable eleven year old with his own transportation. And, what do you know, he just happened to be looking for someone with my experience. Finally, seven decades later, it dawned on me.  Was there a connection between my search and the fact that the good pharmacist was a family friend? Nope.  My parents didn't know I was looking for a job.

Here's something to consider.  In a one mile stretch along Church Avenue, which at best may have been considered a class "B" shopping area, not in the same league with Kings Highway, Pitkin Avenue or Flatbush Avenue or even Utica Avenue Church Avenue had a lot of drug stores.  Maybe not as many as candy stores but darn close so there's little chance you'd be able to figure which one I got my business-start in.

Hold on a moment.  Conjure this. An eleven year old on a bike with a package and enough cash to make change for the order so the customer had no excuse for not paying me, especially if it was a life-threatening prescription I was delivering and the patient died before paying. So, there I was, with maybe ten dollars and a bike worth maybe 50 to 75 dollars left outside while I made the transaction that maybe netted me a few soda bottles for their deposit that I would collect on my way back to the drug store.  Worry?  What was there to worry about? Fast forward a lifetime and let me list all the things!

It was an easy job; no heavy lifting like Tony's job who had to shlep heavy vegetables, until the day I learned a valuable lesson about the world of business: some people in business cheat!

I got paid either a nickel or a dime for each delivery plus the tip from the customer.  Remember, we're talking about the 1950's. To put things in perspective, my neighbor's 15-year old works for an ice cream shop - her first job - she earns $15 an hour!

Remember, I'm the 1950's kid earning, at best a dime for each delivery. So, I deliver Mrs. Klein's prescription and by the time I get back to the store the pharmacist is holding a package for me. I gave you the wrong package.  Bring this one to Mrs. Klein.

OK.  Until the end of the day. Seven deliveries including the two visits to Mrs. Klein, and the owner gives me sixty cents.  "No, there were seven deliveries including the mistake to Mrs. Klein," "No, I don't count that as two deliveries." Of all the ways to fire someone or get him to quit that had to be the cruelest.

That evening, after dinner, my folks asked how my day went. That opened the floodgates. Rarely did I ever hear my parents curse nor did I ever curse in front of them - or at least tried not to.  

That day there was a relaxation on the cursing moratorium. I wondered if my former boss ever asked my parents what happened to Neil that he no longer showed up for work. I wonder if my parents ever again shopped in that store.

I had one or two unmemorable jobs after that until probably my junior year in high school.  Then I went to work for Seymour Rubin and his father who owned the butcher shop on the corner. This was the total opposite of my drug store experience. Not that it was hard; It was nice. I got a salary, I got to ride one of those big delivery bikes and if it rained Seymour who didn't vant I should get vet would drive me to the customer. 

One customer in particular. The father owned a wholesale candy warehouse on the next block and the wife of the owner would shop at Rubin's even though they didn't live in the neighborhood. Regardless of the weather, Seymour would drive me to their home on Snyder Avenue near Kings Highway. I didn't want to talk to Seymour on those trips.  I was too preoccupied rehearsing what I would say when the daughter opened the door. And sure enough there she was and as usual she acted surprised and told me to wait while she went for her money and sure enough my rehearsal was not enough. Next week would be different.

It wasn't. 

What would hurt if she asked me to come in, would you like something to drink or how about some candy. Then I could go into some of my well-rehearsed lines like: what school do you go to? and maybe find out she's in college and engaged.

I left Rubin's when I entered college.  I wonder if Seymour was hoping I would join him in his business.