Hey Kid, Want a Job?
During the Summer of 1966 I was dying of boredom. Then my cousin Alan, a handsome, James-Dean-type, pulled into our driveway in a shiny new Pontiac GTO.
I couldn’t imagine in my wildest dreams how such a magnificent car had come into my cousin’s possession.
“I have a job,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m an assistant manager at Dick’s Sporting Goods.”
Holy mackerel, a job! If I started now, by high school graduation I’d make enough money to buy a Mustang — or a Chevelle. Hell, maybe even a Corvette Stingray! There was no time to wait. I needed a job, right now, today!
But at 14, what could I do? “You could bag groceries,” advised my cousin. After weighing other options (garbage collection was out), we concluded that a bag boy was a job I could do.
But in the next moment, my dream was shattered. “Are you 16? Because you have to be 16.”
Seriously? Why would putting groceries in a bag have an age requirement? 12-year-old’s could do that job.
“It’s the law,” replied Alan.
I suddenly had no reason to live as I considered the next 24 months of unemployment.
But then, God presented a solution (well, sort of). I walked into church that Sunday, sporting the navy blue suit my dad had bought me for my ninth grade prom. “You look so grown up,” said the pastor. “I’d hardly believe you were 14.”
Holy cow, I can hardly believe it either!
After church, I ran the block and a half to our neighborhood grocer and asked to see the manager, an old family friend named Jake Skinner. Puzzled that I wanted to see him, Skinner said: “Richie, what’s this about? I just saw your dad yesterday. Is everything okay?”
After assuring him that everything was fine — and that I was seeking employment (using the deepest voice I could muster) he studied me with intense curiosity. I stood up really tall and looked him straight in the eye (“make good eye contact,” my cousin had emphasized).
“What year were you born?” Shit!
I had practiced delivering a firm — sixteen — a hundred times, but this came out of nowhere. Being good at numbers I quickly took two years off my birth year. “1950”, I said with an air of confidence that even had me convinced.
“How will you get to work?” came the next question.
“I’ll ride my bike, we live nearby.” Then, with lightning speed, “Or, I’ll take my mom’s car since I’m old enough to drive.” Damn, I’m quick on my feet too!
But, then I panicked. I’d added another false statement to my spontaneous interview, but hell, too late now. Calm down, stand up straight, act 16!
Looking satisfied and convinced of my abilities, Skinner barked: “Can you start tomorrow?” (hell, yes). “Wear a white shirt” (done). “No jeans” (no problem). “Be nice to the customers, even if they’re rude” (a stretch, but okay).
I could already see my blue Corvette. Or maybe red. Yeah, red for sure. I dutifully filled out an application with my best penmanship, and signed it at the bottom.
I started to sweat. I had just signed my name to a fib, an untruth. But, I needed this job, I wanted this job. And hey, some “business lies” are okay, especially this one — because I will be excellent at this job.
And so I was. For the next three days I was the star employee. I aced the training, donned the whitest shirt on the planet, made $6 in tips, even showed the other bag boys how to best secure a dozen eggs.
On Day 4 my mother walked into the store. “What the hell is this?” she asked with a startled look, pointing to my green, bag-boy smock.
“I’m doing honest work, don’t embarrass me please.”
“You’re underage!” she shouted at a volume you could hear six aisles away. She found Skinner and demanded he fire me on the spot.
Skinner was furious, told me I could have gotten him into big trouble (something about labor laws). I felt awful, realizing I had lied to my boss, who in good faith, had given me a job, the most important thing one can have in life. I imagined myself entering one of those juvenile detention centers.
Skinner saw how upset I was. “Now take it easy son, if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll learn from your mistake. You’re forgiven, this time. Now get your ass out of my store and don’t ever lie to me, or any employer — ever again.”
Then on my way out: “Hey kid, if you want a job come by my house Saturday morning and I’ll give you five bucks to mow my lawn. I’ll be here at the store but Mrs. Skinner will show you what to do. She’s fussy, but fair. I think you two will like each other.”
I mowed the Skinner’s lawn for the next four years. At 16, I became a bag boy (later a checker), which helped me buy a used Chevelle. The Skinners became my foster parents (since my own were hugely uninterested in parenting). Stella Skinner once took me aside and whispered that her husband thought of me as a son. They were good people. They always had sound advice and an empathetic ear.
I went off to college and graduate school, then to New York City where I launched a successful career in communications and advertising (later starting my own company). I never forgot Skinner’s advice: “Never lie to an employer,” a lesson that has served me well over the years. Granted, some of my clients don’t care for my unfiltered honesty, but most reward it.
Right after 9/11 I returned to my home town and went by the Skinner place, finding an overgrown yard (alarming, since their lawn had always been the pride of the neighborhood). A real estate agent (who was planting a FOR SALE sign in the middle of the weeds) told me Skinner had died the previous year, his wife just last week.
Then he says: “Do you know anyone I could hire to fix this front-yard disaster? The back yard is even worse and there’s an open house this weekend.”
I turned toward the shed. “I’ll do it. I know where everything is — and I know exactly what the Skinners like.”
