Working Stiff

I have had several jobs since I turned 16 and discovered that cars and girlfriends cost more money than an allowance can afford. Some of these were good, fun, rewarding jobs: Coach, Cider Maker, Engineering Intern. Others, which some of you will nod at knowingly, were essentially unholy hell: Day Camp Counselor, Clothes Salesman, and Car Parts Salesman.

I don’t really count my translation and editing work as a job, because I do it more on a “oh, hey, I need cash” basis than on anything approaching a regular schedule.

As for the trio of jobs that I generously label as “not so good”, let me first say this: I am glad that I had those jobs, and I am equally glad that they are over. I don’t mean to insult anybody who does any of those for a living and loves it. In fact, I’m eternally grateful to you all for doing those jobs so that I don’t have to. I learned a lot selling car parts to rednecks and shirts to women of a certain age, and I can’t bring myself to be a jerk to any sales associate, cashier, or waiter because I’ve been there and dealt with the bullshit. But, damn, I was a horrible salesman.

The sales gigs came about because I needed something part-time while I was in school and I was singularly unqualified to do anything more interesting than minimum wage retail work. Most of you are familiar with this situation. It’s what my grandparents would have described as a “character building experience”.

And they would have been right, too, so far that as soon as I built up enough character to quit, I did.