In "Important" Life Skills We Trust

I trust in hot dogs and horsey things

There I was, 14 or 15 years old, not a care in the world. My regular summer babysitting gig ended and I was in desperate need of cash to feed my wave pool addiction. I was living in Dallas at the time and my older sister, who was way into horses, worked at a local western clothing/horse gear store. The store was in need of a summer sale promoter. So we worked out a deal: I’d work for cash, due to child labor laws or whatever.

My job was to stand in front of the store on Saturdays promoting the sales going on inside and giving away free hot dogs to customers when they entered. Every Saturday morning I’d get there and would be outfitted from head to toe in fringe galore, cowgirl boots and jeans that were so tight I couldn’t even sit down if I wanted to. Yeeehaaaw! Then, while sporting my wears, I tempted the equine enthusiasts with my delicious dogs and it was over. They were in the door, spending way too much money on “horsey things” as I used to call it.

After weekend upon weekend, I learned to man the grill quite easily and became very bored. So, I got myself a lasso rope from in the store and started perfecting the art of roping in customers, or any random person for that matter. To this day I have a mean lasso aim and I’m not too bad with a bullwhip either!

Yes it may have been an odd job, but I learned the biggest lesson of my life that summer. Go with the flow, meet new people and you may find you’ll pick up a random talent along the way. For those of you who are wondering, it took me years to be able to eat another hot dog. But when I could again, I went right back to the way an old cowboy taught me to “dress” my dog. Mayo, ketchup and a slap of relish!

– Desiree

HOOKER(of bushes)

– Doug

I trust this should be filed under 808.06

My very first job as a teenager was as a page at the City of Roanoke Public Library, located less than a block away from ND&P’s Roanoke office. That “a place for everything and everything in its place” experience has had an impact upon the many other jobs I’ve had since, causing me to be near obsessive compulsive about organization. In most libraries, “a place for everything” revolves around alphabetical order for fiction and the Dewey Decimal Classification (DDC) system for non-fiction. Developed by Melvil Dewey in 1876, the DDC is a classification system being used today in 200,000 libraries worldwide. And I’m amazed at how much I still remember about Dewey’s numbers. The 900’s are history and if you’re looking for books on “Reproduction, Development, Maturation” (read sex education) head for the 612.6 section. Sorry, I no longer can remember which volumes have the best pictures, although there was a time when that information was top of mind!

– Roger

In meow I trust

Probably the oddest job I had was working at a cat gift store in college.  This wasn't a store that sold cats.  It was a store that sold STUFF to cat lovers.  It was a tiny apartment converted into a store on the second story of an old home in the touristy downtown district of St. Augustine stuffed floor to ceiling with cats.  This store carried pretty much anything you can imagine that could have a cat on it, from toilet paper holders to t-shirts explaining why cats were better than men to picture frames to cat tombstones.

The main reasons I wanted to work there were 1- I didn't want to buy ANYTHING in the store for myself, so I knew I would be able to save my money.  I did get a 50% discount on anything I wanted...but only used it to buy presents for my grandmother. I like cats in general, but not that much.  2- It was easy/air conditioned. and 3- Last but not least, the people watching was AMAZING.  

On a daily basis I would have elderly couples come in with the wives genuinely interested in everything and the husbands who would make fun of everything and purr or mew at me and tell me I had the "purrrrrfect job".  We had these plastic cat figurines covered in rabbit fur that made them feel like real cats, and people would yell at me because of the unethical treatment of cats, however when I told them it was rabbit fur, they wouldn't care, and might actually buy them. My favorite customers however were the bikers that came in decked out in full Harley Davidson leather and jeans (usually during Daytona's Bike Week) and then buy $100 worth of cat tchotchkes and oooh and aaah at the "cute kitties".

Things I learned from this job: People will buy ANYTHING if it is somehow related to something they are in love with. Cat lovers are pretty intense and come in all shapes and sizes, even the ones you wouldn't expect, and often times, though they love cats care nothing about rabbits.

– Grace

 

I trust in red knickers

Picture it: Yorktown, VA. 1993.  It was a summer of heat and angst for a teenage boy from York High School.  A young man stared into the mirror and winced.  For now let's call this young man, "Spleen" because it rhymed with his real name and was his actual nickname (he even had, "SPLEEN1" on his license plate because, astonishingly, someone already had "SPLEEN" - presumably a doctor or sociopath).  Spleen was wincing because what stared back at him was Busch Gardens Williamsburg's latest Games employee, designated to the "Festa Italia" area of the faux European theme park.  

His uniform/costume consisted of a puffy white shirt like that of a swashbuckling pirate, if the pirate shopped at Goodwill; it bore a series of thin vertical stripes in all colors, which only appeared more ridiculous an idea upon further inspection.  One was unlikely to inspect it further due to the distracting nature of the pantaloons.  Awkwardly tied by a fabric belt was a pair of red knickers on his legs.  Let us say this again: red knickers.  It hung over the pair of white socks (ordered pulled up to the knees) and requisite black Reeboks.  The final accessory was a bright blue nametag with his name and state of origin.  

Let us recap: white shirt with rainbow stripes, red knickers, white knee socks, black shoes and blue nametag.  He was a dramatic tragedy of the visible spectrum.

His duties included: a complex dance of extroverted salesmanship (to coax the unsuspecting to play carnival games), introverted basic math (to take care of a till and keep hours tidy), unseemly physical prowess (wrestling with tens of dollars of giant stuffed animal swag, cleaning out the water games and reaching the hard-to-reach stuck rings), and superhuman endurance (of the constant replay of "Hooked on Classics" blaring far too loud in the giant tent).

His official duties did not include the following: Chucking Skee Balls at giant Scooby Doo dolls; flirting with employees (except Sweepers); smoking Cloves near the break room's Galaga machine; traveling to "New France" for BBQ dates with far-flung employees; making fun of Sweepers; perfecting a British accent for future casting in Threadneedle Faire; climbing on top of the water game and triumphantly holding up a golf club while singing Stan Bush's, "The Touch;" and sneaking in a change of clothes for after-shift park roaming and Sweeper harassing.

While the job of the Games employee was not glamorous, it was not the life of a Sweeper.  It is important to distinguish that no matter what theme park employee category you feel pity for, there are none in the caste system as low as the Sweeper.  The Sweeper does three things: it sweeps, it gives directions to confused guests, and it cleans the bathrooms. Beyond the infinite patience this requires it must endure the endless abuse from other park employees. Even when two Busch Gardens "cast members" are caught shooting the breeze, it's the Sweeper that gets its hand slapped because they could just keep moving.  Sweepers had a bizarre independence, like an unchained ghost who could move about but only in archaic patterns, doomed to roam and be bothered by the living.

No, Dea-er, Spleen was not a Sweeper, at least.  But he was wearing this horrific outfit. Because it was his first day of work at this new job, the first truly above-board, taxable job he'd ever had, his mother wanted to take a picture.  An argument ensued, his mother not fully understanding the height of his embarrassment and he not understanding how important this job was in proving to his mother he wouldn't be a colossal failure as a child (as close as the costume had grazed that possibility).

By the end of the summer Spleen had been promoted to a Lead, which ostensibly meant for a nominal raise he was forced to come to work earlier, haul heavier things and take longer breaks to flirt with employees.  A year later he would return to the land of Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, VA to act out this Lead supervisor position in the magical area of fake Germany.  With this transfer he thought he would certainly be outfitted in a better uniform and bestowed buckets of respect.  

That is, until he saw the fake lederhosen.

– Dean

Someone's progeny stands in front of
the Festa Italia Games Tent, 2009

In hog maws and head cheese I trust

"Stack 'um high, sell it low...everthing's gotta go".  That's what the owner/head butcher would go around chanting all day while Christmas music blared in the background (all year long).  Richey was the boss and ran a tight, tight ship.  He smoked like a chimney and constantly had to wipe his ashes off the band saw  - hey, at least we wiped it off before cutting meat.  He was an Italian German and insisted that everything was done right all of the time.  His level of perfection crept into every corner of the shop and made people want to always do a better job.  

Beginning my butchering career at the age of 12 was an experience of a lifetime.  The street education that I received proved to well position me for the advertising business.  Not only did I have to always be nice, sell hard and work with a bunch of overly eager, loud men - I had to handle more animal parts than anyone should ever have to pick up.  It made me realize that you get a lot further by being cooperative and just doing your job.  

The butcher shop was located on the east end of Long Island and our clientele was very diverse.  The "city people" wanted only the finest PRIME meats and kosher deli products while the locals were more into hog maws, cow parts, head cheese and neck bones.  There was always an interesting person to talk to and it's unreal how much you can learn about a person when you're getting their meat orders together.  Every weekend, one of our customers brought in something they'd made during the week - from BBQ to greens to brains - it was always a treat.  

The best thing about working at CVA Meats was the people.  My customers and fellow butchers and butcherettes made me laugh all day long.  We'd have chop meat fights in the back freezers, slide on the floors with slabs of bacon as skates and see how many slices of deli cheese we can fit into our mouths at one time.  Everything was a competition and everything was done to the max.  It worked for someone like me who is competitive, loves to have fun and refuses to think that things can't always be better.

– Denise

Comments

[Meghan Tanner]

This is John G's sister and this voice message is no joke. I get at least 1 a day. Sometimes on the home phone, cell phone and work phone - depends on what Barney (the dog) has done that day.