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Monday, Sep. 07, 2009

The roots of my labor

I have never understood why we celebrate Labor Day by taking the day off. Seems like we should show up at the office on the first Monday in September and work twice as hard.

I’m not going to argue, though. Sure was nice not to set the alarm clock this morning.

I’ve often wondered what I might be doing if I wasn’t doing what I’m doing. And where I might be doing it.

I’m terrible at math, so that rules out being president of a bank. And I’ve never rebuilt a transmission, so I don’t think Mr. Goodwrench will be calling me in for a job interview.

I would like to believe every job I’ve ever held has prepared me for the next one.

My very first job was, appropriately enough, in the newspaper business. When I was 14 years old, I had a paper route for The Atlanta Journal, which back then was an afternoon paper every day but Sunday.

I had about 50 customers on my route, all in the neighborhood. I worked every single day for an entire year.

The job was not without its challenges. I had to push my bicycle to the top of a steep hill. (Not a problem coming down, though.)

There also was one mailbox I could never get open, so I had to carry along a pair of pliers.

One grumpy old man would intimidate me by waiting impatiently in his driveway for me to deliver his newspaper.

The guy never bit me, but the dog around the corner left his teeth marks a few times. That ferocious mutt would charge me when I turned down the dead-end street he guarded.

Finally, one day, I decided to retaliate. I filled a water pistol with lemon juice and let him have a squirt right between the eyes.

He never messed with me again. (Note: If you are a member of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, the statute of limitations has expired on this one.)

My next job was in the kitchen at a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. I made enough dough for a down payment on my first car.

I figured Col. Sanders’ secret recipe was worth about a million dollars, but I was sworn to secrecy. (It sure is hard to seal your lips when it’s so “finger-lickin’ good.”)

Sometimes, it would get so hot in that kitchen we would take our breaks and go sit in the big, walk-in freezer.

When my dad found out, he warned that, if I kept it up, I would have arthritis by the time I was 30.

My mother cried when I quit because that meant I would no longer be bringing home big buckets of leftover chicken every night.

I hung up my ice-cream scoop after only three days at Baskin-Robbins because I despised my boss. I landed down the street at a Bonanza steak house, where I worked my way up from being a dishwasher and bus boy to cooking ribeyes medium-well on the serving line.

My favorite job, though, was the three summers I spent at Kmart, stocking shelves and running a cash register. I sold everything from Crest toothpaste to Sherwin-Williams paint.

That’s my pre-Telegraph résumé. Everything else has involved some type of journalism — newspapers, television, radio and books. I’ve also taught several writing classes.

If a man is the sum of his working parts, then I guess I’ve got a little lemon juice, “finger-lickin’ good” drumsticks, blue-light specials and mineral spirits in me.

Reach Gris at 744-4275 or gris@macon.com