My First Job

My first job was easy to come by. I did nothing to get it actually. Nothing at all. One day I woke up without a job, and, by nightfall, I had one. The job that would go on to shape my life in a very significant way fell right into my lap. I had to take it.

I was fifteen. I may have been a boring child. I played my violin dutifully but disinterestedly. I did my homework in a similar fashion. I played no sports (there weren’t any for girls back then), I read no books voluntarily, and I stayed quite silent so as not to incur anyone’s wrath or dismay. I remember climbing trees and building forts for secret clubs in hedgerows and seeing just how far I could jump off a swing. I imagined myself an Olympic star for my swingsetting. I was very disappointed to learn that astronauts have to have 20-20 vision, and had to let that life dream go.

I did as I was told.

So when my father came home from his day’s work as an inspector for the local Department of Health and told me I had a job in a local restaurant, I dutifully but disinterestedly went to my first shift the very next day.

I felt in-way-over-my-head. The job was demanding. The boss complained to my parents that I had a vacuous stare whenever they were giving me directions. They soon learned that I was thinking things through, as is my wont.

At first, I did the dirty work. I had to clean like I had never had to clean before, public bathrooms especially. I washed dishes. I cleaned tables, I stocked paper goods. I guess I did all that well, because next thing I knew, I was making huge batches of salad dressings and pouring them artfully into gallon containers. The secret of pouring large batches of liquids from a bowl to a container with a smaller opening is to commit. You must believe in yourself, hold that bowl very high, and tip with aplomb. To miss would be a disaster of slimy liquid seeping under slicers, off tables, onto lower shelves, and spreading into the holes of the rubber floor mats below. It would take a very long time to clean. I learned this task quickly and well. Loved it in fact. I still use that particular skill on the reg. I also learned how to butcher a chicken. I never buy chicken parts, only whole chickens, and I use those long-ago-learned skills often.

I remember being paid something like $3.00 an hour, and that raises would come very welcome in $.05 jumps.

I remember, too, being very proud when I was promoted to the front kitchen, the line, where I would drop batches of raw battered chicken into a large pressure cooker of boiling oil, close the lid, lock it shut, pump a foot pedal, set a timer, then let that chicken cook, all while the customer watched. That stuff was really good. Broasted chicken it was called, and the restaurant was The Broaster.

We broasted lots of stuff: pork chops, steaks and all chicken parts, liver, gizzards and hearts included. I grew to love chicken hearts, and still do.

I like to think my father chose that particular restaurant because it was very well run: clean, organized, and fully up to code. I like to think he approved of the married owner/operators, Barb and Stan. Maybe he just wanted one of his five kids out of his hair in the evenings and on the weekends, because that’s when I went to work. I don’t know if there were labor laws governing child labor back then, but I am quite sure I would have been subject to all of them, my father being the inspector and high school chemistry teacher at the time, and his going on to be a president of several boards, a chemistry professor, the county election commissioner, the town supervisor, and the village mayor.

I learned great restaurant skills at that place, and will be forever grateful to Barb and Stan for instilling all kinds of kitchen ethics in me. As happens often after first restaurant jobs, I had a slew of restaurant jobs after that, and eventually settled on restaurateur as my life-long career, despite my advanced degrees in physics and mathematics.

I moved back to my home town a few years ago. The Broaster has been long gone. I drive by the somewhat desolate location often now, on my way to the bank right across the country road, or to the pet store, or to a friend’s house, or while I’m just driving around; there’s not a whole lot more to do around here and never was.

I remember The Broaster fondly.

Recently I heard that someone is hoping to revive broasted chicken in town. Although I don’t eat that kind of food unless I must anymore, I’ll be one of the first there.

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This is my entry to @ericvancewalton's Memoir Monday initiative. Every week Eric posts a question about our lives for us to answer, in hopes that, after a year, the participants will have produced a valuable collection of memories. This week's prompt is How did you get your first job?

In Eric's words:

Someday all that will be left of our existence are memories of us, our deeds, and words. It's up to you to leave as rich of a heritage as possible for future generations to learn from. So, go ahead, tell your stories!

image is mine