Chapter 14: Rimpy: Agent for G.U.N.S (Ground Up Nut Shells)

Chapter 14: Rimpy: Agent for G.U.N.S (Ground Up Nut Shells)

Jobs 23 - 31

After I got the cast off my leg, there was nothing to prevent me from returning to the work force. Nothing, that is, except my own idiocy. I got a fairly substantial settlement (a little under $10, 000) from the insurance company of the nice church organist who had struck me on my moped. I wasn't trying to be greedy or vindictive, but I felt like I was owed something for my pain and suffering.

With money in hand, I returned to College Town. Charlie was by now attending university there, and I went in thirds with him and another guy named Eddie on a three-bedroom house. To my stubbornly immature mind 10,000 dollars seemed like a lordly sum, and I saw no reason to rush out and get a job.

I bought myself a cute little 1967 VW Karmann Ghia. I didn't really need something quite so fancy, but I had this deluded idea that the car would be some sort of investment that would increase in value. I didn't factor in such things as whether or not I would be able to afford the upkeep on a classic car in order to protect my investment. The whole “investment” idea quickly became moot when I lost control one night on a curve and went backwards through a barbed wire fence, scratching up my pretty blue paint job something fierce.

It didn't take me long to burn through the rest of the money, and with it went my ability to pay my rent. It was time once again to get a job. God bless him, Charlie very patiently covered my portion of the rent quite often until I could pay him back as I bounced from job to job. Charlie was the “good” one in our friendship. I, for my part, wasn't necessarily a bad friend, but looking back on it, I wasn't a particularly good one, either. People probably shook their heads and wondered why he put up with me.

1981

Job #23: Kiwi Farm

I got job #23 at a kiwi farm on the south of College Town. Most of the work consisted of pulling tiny young kiwi plants out of the ground and preparing them for shipping in pairs to nurseries. The work wasn't bad or particularly hard, but it was winter and a lot of the work was spent outdoors or in unheated greenhouses.

I forget how long I was with the kiwi farm, but it seems like it was a fair bit (for me). A new problem I was starting to have vis a vis work was alcohol. There used to be bar and music venue called Cabo's that had a popular tradition known as “Tipsy Tuesday”. At the start of the evening drinks were incredibly cheap, and would go up in increments as the night wore on. It was a clever marketing ploy on their part, and a cheap way to get wasted. One Tuesday night a bunch of us from work went there together. Probably not a great idea on a work night, but maybe my co-workers had more self-control than me (gee, you think?).

The next day I was badly hungover, but I tried to work anyway. I was useless, however, so they sent me home, but thankfully didn't fire me. I forget the circumstances under which I left that job, but given my history, I'm sure I quit for no particularly good reason. I'm pretty sure I wasn't fired.

The next few jobs aren't necessarily in strict chronological order. Such are the ravages of time upon the mind of a flake.

Job #24: Yard Maintenance

Job #24 was at a yard maintenance company whose name I can't recall, which is just as well since I would be unlikely to use it. I do seem to recall that this was the job in which I was asked in the interview if I liked to “hussle” - which I've always interpreted as “work really fast for no good reason”. Of course, I lied and said I did, but it soon became apparent to them that I didn't. Most of the work involved crawling about on my hands and knees pulling weeds out of people's lawns. It was quite similar to job #2, pulling weeds at Hobbie Auto. I tried to perform to their expectations, but like my dismissal from job #6 (Yancey Derringer's), the warning signs were there, but I didn't heed them. A supervisor came by once or twice and told me to hurry up. I thought I was doing a good job of pretending to “hussle”, but next thing I knew the supe came back and said something to the effect of, “That's it, Rimpy. You're fired.”

On my previous experience with being fired, I got to just walk away. I forget how the matter of my final pay had been handled at Yancey Derringer's. I don't know if the law existed in 1978 that says employees are to be handed their last check at the time of their involuntary termination. If it did, it's more likely that the bellicose management of Yancey's weren't very concerned with such niceties as “laws” and “fair labor practices”. I probably had to go back on their regular payday to get my last check, but I didn't know better at the time, anyway.

This time, however, we were in some remote part of College Town, so I had to ride in a pickup with that supervisor back to their office so they could give me my final check. It was an awkward ride – I didn't know what to talk about with somebody who had just fired me.

It didn't occur to me until years later that any job involving pulling weeds was probably one I should have avoided. That was one of those chores that my dad seemed to delight in torturing me with when there weren't any tubs of shit that needed dragging. I remember once, when I was only about 7 or 8, I had gained permission from my parents to try to stay up all night one weekend. I can't recall if I managed to stay awake the whole night, but even though my dad knew I was sleep deprived, he had me out early the following morning pulling weeds along the side of the garage. As he went about his weekend projects, he kept passing by and yelling at me to work harder. I was watering those weeds with my tears by the time my mom finally spoke up and reminded him that I had not had any sleep, and I got to crawl into bed. I'm sure that my dad didn't need reminded of that fact. I think he thought that my wanting to stay up all night was indicative of some kind of character flaw that needed corrected with some good, hard work.

Job #25: Personal Care

Job #25 was a very temporary gig helping to care for a elderly man who had suffered a stroke. He was home with his wife, but she wasn't in great shape herself, and needed the extra help with cooking and personal care.

Job #26: Delivering Coupon Books

For job #26 I got to make my dubious investment in the Karmann Ghia work for me. A lady sold coupon books by telephone out of her apartment, and it was my job to deliver the books to the customers. I remember very little about that job, or the circumstances of my leaving, but take a wild guess.

Job #27: Nut Company

I tried very hard to get job #27, which was at the nut company. It's not really a factory, because it's not like they make nuts there, but it's not really a cannery, either, so “company” will have to do. College Town is famous for almonds (which the locals insist on pronouncing with a short “a” and no “l”) and other tree nuts, and the old nut company has been a large presence on the north side of the neighborhood known as “The Avenues” for many years. It has diminished a bit in eminence in the last couple of decades, but it used to be one of the largest single employers in town, and a well-paying one. Of course, most of the work was seasonal. Only a handful of people worked there year-round. I had applied well before the season, and had been tentatively selected. Then it was just a matter of checking in regularly to let them know that I was still interested. I came to be on a first-name basis with the nice ladies in the personnel office. Finally the blessed day came when they told me to come on in and work on the swing shift. I felt as though I had “arrived”. I didn't entertain any notions of working with nuts for the rest of my life. I just wanted a good paycheck for awhile.

My usual position was at the ass-end of a machine which ground nutshells. The shells would flow through a pipe from the grinder into the top of a huge contrivance which would shake them through a series of screens and spit them out in uniform granules into burlap sacks. My partner and I would sew up the ends of the bags and stack them on pallets. I was never clear of what were the uses of ground nut shells. I heard the Japanese liked to use them for pillow stuffing. They must have had some fatal pillow fights with those.

Sometimes we had to change the size of the screens in the machine, depending upon what size of granule was needed. We climbed up on a catwalk near the top of the machine. The screens were held inside the machine by large segmented metal bands. We had to loosen the bolts holding the screens tight against the machine, swap out the screens, and then bolt them back together. The screens came in designations like 20-20, 20-30, 30-30, etc. I don't know what those numbers meant, but the problem I had was that my partner had a heavy Mexican accent, and every screen size he said sounded like “tooty tooty” to me.

The first time I changed some screens on my own, I thought I had done a good job of securing the bands. I climbed back down and we fired up the machine. Moments later, my partner tapped me on the arm and pointed overhead. I looked up and was horrified to see the bands spinning merrily around the circumference of the machine while unfiltered granules poured out of its sides. We spent the rest of the night fixing my mistake and cleaning up the horrendous mess.

Work at the nut company involved other duties as needed, such as loading trucks, or helping out in other sections of the plant. Sometimes a few of us would pile into private vehicles and drive out to one of the nut receiving stations in the vast orchard lands surrounding College Town. Most nuts are harvested by shaking the trees with special Suessian-looking machines. Then everything that falls down is scooped up, along with anything else which was already on the ground. At the receiving stations, they had huge machines which would separate the nuts from the leaves, twigs, rocks, and other trash, like live rats and mysterious large animal bones. My job on those nights was to walk back and forth next to the machine and keep the screens clear with a hoe on the end of a long metal pole. Those were not my favorite nights.

Working at the main plant was much more preferable, in part because there was a small market across the street, where some of us would buy a beer to go with our lunches. My job didn't involve driving, per se, unless of course, you count forklifts and the little Bobcat loader I sometimes used to shove the un-ground nut shells into the hopper for the grinding machine, and you probably should. So, yeah, it was pretty irresponsible to be drinking at work. After all, we were working around dangerous machinery. I wouldn't dream of doing something like that now, but then it just seemed like an acceptable thing to do. Back then, companies didn't have all the drug and alcohol testing they do now. Sometimes the modern policies can be a pain in the ass – such as when you've been randomly selected to drug test, and you've been good a good boy – but it's probably a good thing we have them now.

I can't recall how long I was with the nut company before I quit, but I suspect it was less time than I had spent actually trying to get the damned job. I recall Charlie commenting on this irony. One night, I went out drinking after my shift with a bunch of co-workers. I had a good time, but I fell into an alcohol-induced low blood sugar funk and decided I didn't want to go in the next day. I probably would have stayed with several of my jobs longer if I hadn't mixed them with booze. When sober, I could deal with the drudgery of the working week, but when I would drink I would start to imagine some sort of better life beyond the confines of my current position. Perhaps one where an imaginative and creative mind could make a living from his talents. I didn't have the fortitude to try to make my dreams come true, so the only control I had was to quit whatever job seemed so restrictive at the time.

Job #28: Gorilla

(Updated Jan. 1st, 2016)

Happy new year, everybody. Observant readers may have noticed that the title of the blog has changed (slightly) yet again. That's right - yesterday I suddenly recalled a job which, though I think of it often, I  - for some reason - forgot to include in my list. This brings the total to 85. I guess I may not have thought of it as a "job", per se, because although I was definitely "hired", I'm not sure I was actually paid for any of the small amount of time I spent being where I was expected to be. I'll explain in a moment.

I remember where I was living at the time, and what car I was driving. Given the nature of the job, it puts it around September into October, so I'm going to say it was in late 1981. As for the job itself, I was hired to be a gorilla in a haunted house. No, really. In the weeks prior to Halloween, a married couple was advertising for workers for a new haunted house they planned on opening up. This wasn't going to be just one of the many run-of-the-mill, short-lived haunted houses which pop up at that time of year. It seems like those are usually run by some fun-loving volunteers who either just really love scaring people and want to make a quick buck, or by charitable organizations who are trying to raise funds for a worthy cause. My new employers actually planned on trying to make their haunted house a year-round attraction. That was something of a warning sign right there.

I don't know if they bought or rented, but they had acquired the use of an abandoned motel on the far north end of the Promenade in College Town. That area has always had a lonely and forlorn feeling to me. At the time it was mainly a mix of orchards and light industry. It has grown up some since then, mostly with somewhat expensive housing developments, but the rest of the area still has the dodgy look that unplanned development tends to bring.

For the past several months, most days of the week I drive my bus right through this neighborhood. I'm pretty sure that the site of the old motel has been replaced by one of the new housing developments, but there is one weird old pair of buildings which looks approximately like the place I remember. I'm pretty sure they're not, though; they don't really look like a motel. I don't know what they are, to tell you the truth. I was looking at them as I drove past yesterday when I suddenly thought, "Oh my god - I forgot to put that job on the list!"

The couple hired several young people, and we met a few times at the old motel to discuss the plans. I think there was an understanding that we weren't getting paid for those early meetings. That may have been legal back in the early '80s, but I'm pretty sure it's not now. If you expect people to report for duty, they need to be paid for their time. Another warning sign ignored.

For some reason I was chosen to be the gorilla. I don't know why a gorilla would be in a "haunted" house with ghosts and ghouls and such. That should have been another warning sign. I never ended up even trying on a gorilla suit before I left.

There was one interesting thing that happened during one of those planning meetings. There was an intense blond fellow in our party.I think he was slated to be a vampire. He was standing in the middle of one of the motel rooms explaining an idea he had for a spooky effect.  He said he could slowly raise his hand (which he did), and then the light in the room could dim. Which it did. But no one was near the light switch, which wasn't the dimmer kind anyway. The rest of us exchanged nervous glances, but blondie acted like it was the most natural thing in world. I kept my distance from him after that.

One morning, I was having stomach pains, They became quite severe, so I asked to leave early. When I got back to the house I shared with Good Time Charlie and our roommate Eddie, I couldn't get in because everyone was gone and I had forgotten my key. It was a cold day, so I curled up in the old easy chair on the front porch and covered myself up as best I could with a foam rubber mat I found in the backyard. Eventually one of my roommates came home and let me in, and I crawled into bed. I ended up having a bout of intestinal illness that lasted several days and left me weak and drained and even skinnier than I already was. Needless to say, I gave up on the gorilla job as a lost cause. It was too flaky, anyway - even for me.

The couple did open their haunted house before Halloween, and I heard it did a pretty good business during the season, although I never went to see it. There was a segment on the local news about it, and they paid for radio advertising. They tried to keep it open after Halloween, but it wasn't long before they had to admit the folly of this and closed up shop. So much for "job" number 28 - a total non-starter from beginning to end.

1982

Job #29: Cleaning a Warehouse

So, onto another series of short-term jobs. #28 was helping a man clean a warehouse he was leasing, in a row of old warehouses next to the railroad tracks just south of the university. Those buildings are long gone now, razed to make room for the never-ending expansion of the college, which seems to be the only growth industry left around here.

I can't recall exactly what business this fellow was in (if I ever knew), but he was a nice guy, and seemed to be doing well in whatever it was. He was restoring a 1930s era Rolls-Royce in the loft portion of the warehouse, which was accessible by a ramp of massive wooden beams built into one corner of the building.

Job #30: Yard Clean Up

Job #29 was doing some yard clean up and stacking firewood at a small daycare center that a lady operated out of her home. There were about six little girls and a toddler boy running around. The job only took a couple of days, which is good because the little brats were driving me crazy. At one point, all the girls popped their heads up over a low wall and the ringleader shouted, “Hey, mister. Do you want to see our bottoms?” and then they fled in gales of shrieking giggles. Thankfully, I'm not a pervert, so I had no interest in seeing their bottoms, but I was eager to get away from there before a neighbor could overhear a similar bizarre question and get the wrong idea.

Job #31: Dormitory Janitor

Job #30 was actually a pretty cool job. I was part of a large crew of janitors at a huge complex of privately-operated dormitories for the college. Each “apartment” had four bedrooms and a bathroom. My main task was to clean the bathrooms of the apartments. We worked in pairs, and the schedule was designed so that each bathroom got cleaned once a week, so they didn't get too gross.

Cleaning up after college kids wasn't tons of fun, but the job had lots of perks, not the least of which was being surrounded by hundreds of young women. There was even an all-female wing, which was informally known as “The Nunnery”, but I very much doubt that any of the girls there were as chaste as a Bride of Christ.

Sadly, I was too shy to take proper advantage of the proximity of all these single females. Most of them didn't pay much mind to we lowly janitors. I did work up the courage to ask out one friendly young woman, but it turned out she was going out with a young man from another wing. It was kind of funny because I had become friendly with both of them without realizing they were seeing each other. They were both really nice people, so I was happy for them, despite my broken heart.

Another great perk of this job was almost-free food. The complex had an on-site cafeteria, and we workers were allowed to have one meal a day for a mere dollar. I've always been a big fan of breakfast, and I took full advantage of this boon. Also, our boss, Chip, was really mellow. As long as we got our jobs done on schedule, he didn't care how about making sure we were busy all the time. He gave us two thirty-minute paid breaks a day, instead of the lawful minimum of ten minutes. We also got an hour-long unpaid meal break rather than the usual half-hour. A very civilized place, all in all. It seems silly 33 years later to say that I should have stayed there forever, but I probably should have stayed longer than I did. As it was, I was there for at least a few months, which was quite long for me back in those days.

I can't remember the particulars behind my decision to leave the dormitory job, but at least I know I wasn't fired. My decision may have had something to do with my resolution to finally attempt to attend college, which we will explore in the next chapter.

The end.

Chapter 13: Broken Bones and Dreams

Chapter 13: Broken Bones and Dreams

Jobs 18, 19, 20, 21 & 22

Well, there have been some changes here at the blog. For one thing, just this morning I suddenly remembered yet another job. It was only a one-night affair (I broke it off – it just wasn't working out), so it's not surprising that I had forgotten about it. However, I cannot ignore it, so I've had to add it to the list, which means I've also had to change the name of the blog.

Now you've probably noticed that the name has been changed to “82 Jobs in 35 Years”, and you must be thinking, “But Rimpy, shouldn't it be 81 jobs?” Well, that would be true, but since I've had to let go of the nice, round “80”, I've decided to go ahead and count the substitute paper boy gig as a whole number, instead of a cheaty decimal.

Fortunately, Blogger allows you to change the URL of the blog, so it can remain consistent with the list of jobs. This will no doubt cause problems if people click on older links in Facebook, but hopefully I can fix that later.

Now! Back to those jobs! We've barely scratched the surface. At some point, I ended up living in College Town. Despite my already spotty employment history, somehow I had managed to save enough money to get a room in a house with three other young men. It was my first multiple roommate living arrangement. I got along quite well with my roomies, and it was mostly a lot of fun, having other young people to hang out with, and a room to go to when I wanted to be alone. After all, some hobbies aren't for public viewing.

I can't recall the exact order of the next three jobs, but let's just go for it.

Job #18: Dishwasher

I got job #18 as a dishwasher at a place called Joe's Barbecue (no longer extant). It wasn't a bad job, especially since I wasn't above eating some of the untouched food which came back from the tables. Unfortunately I developed an allergic reaction to the combination of steam and dish cleaning liquids I was using, and I got a terrible rash on my arms. It was probably for this reason that I left that job.

Job #19: Car Wash

Job #19 was at a car wash and gas station which no longer exists. Usually I worked where car owners would pull in, then we would fuel the cars, and drive them around to the entrance of the cable-driven car wash. I seemed to have a problem not running the left front wheels up unto the side rail of the mechanism that pulled the cars. Finally my boss said that if I didn't stop doing that, I would be fired. I didn't do it again. I guess I just needed the proper motivation.

One time, a man came in with a very expensive looking Jaguar. After I drove it to the car wash, I was having trouble finding the door handle so I could get out. It was very dark inside that car, and I had never been in a Jaguar before. Everything was dark leather with polished wooden accessories. Finally I found a pretty wooden handle on the door and pulled up it. To my surprise, it came out in my hand, because it was actually a .357 Magnum revolver that had been tucked into the map pocket. I quickly jammed it back where I'd found it and managed to find the real handle. After that I was more careful about what I grabbed in unfamiliar cars.

One day it was one of the summer holidays like Memorial Day or Labor Day. Rather than asking, I just assumed the car wash would be closed that day. I should have known better, but I was probably already cruisin' to be losin' that job. I was sleeping when my boss called to find out why I wasn't at work and I told him why I. When he straightened me out on that point and told me to get in there, I said, “Well, I guess I quit, then.” I've never been at my best when awakened before I was ready.

I didn't really have a good reason to leave that job. I was just well on my way to being a total wanker when it came to work. I knew people had to do something to make money in order to survive, but sometimes in my darker moments I wondered what the point of it all was. I had already given up on my young dreams of doing anything creative, and just slaving away at some dead-end job in order to eke out an existence until you became too old to work seemed like a life sentence. Besides, constantly quitting jobs was a subconscious way to get back at my dad for those interminable lectures about the necessity of work, work, work.

Job #20: Rice Cake Factory

Job #20 is the one which I had forgotten about until this morning. I don't know what made me remember it, but I think the reason I hadn't is because it wasn't even a job I had tried to get. It just happened to me, so I had even less invested in it than in many of the jobs before or after.

One of my roommates worked a night shift at a place which made rice cakes, which many believe was the first of its kind in the country. He would come home from work smelling like popcorn, which embarrassed him a bit when people would notice it. One night he was either sick or just didn't feel like going in. He knew I was between jobs at the moment, so with my acquiescence, he called his bosses and told them he couldn't come in, but his roommate needed work. They must have been desperate, because they agreed to take me sight unseen, so I filled in for him. My roomy said if I liked it and they liked me, I might be able to find regular employment there. I was happy about that prospect, at least until I got there.

It was actually pretty awful – packing boxes and stacking pallets at a high rate of speed in a hot, noisy, dusty environment. I only worked there that one night, and didn't feel bad about not trying to pursue it.

Now, somehow I ended up back in O-Town. I'm really not sure what prompted this move. I do know that my parents' relationship was going through some turmoil. My dad had retired from the trucking company in West Sacramento with a decent union pension. Now he was around the house all the time, bored and driving my mom crazy. I was living away from home, so she only had her husband's dubious company.

Finally she couldn't take it any more, and ran away from home at the tender age of 60. She didn't tell my dad she was leaving, let alone where she had gone. Eventually she contacted him. She had lit out to San Francisco, and was living in a dumpy residential hotel where the communal bathrooms were at the end of the floor halls. She was looking for work, which must not have been easy for a woman on the back side of middle-age who hadn't worked for some years, but it's not like she wasn't without skills or a work history. My mom had often worked while I was growing up, but always while I was at school so that she was home when I was. Being a kid, I didn't think about it at the time, but now I am eternally grateful to her for that.

My mom always put her all into everything she undertook, and she had great organizational and leadership skills. She had spearheaded many public art projects through the O-Town Art League which helped to dress up our drab little town. She would have been a plum employee for any boss. I think she did get some kind of clerking job in an office during her escape to San Francisco.

I was a little flabbergasted by this unexpected turn of events in my parents' lives. Mostly I was full of respect for her for summoning up the courage to leave my dad. I also respected the fact that she was brave enough to tackle a big, strange city like SF. I've always been fascinated by that city, but never had the courage to try to live there.

There was, however, a small part of me that wished she had left my dad sooner, and taken me with her. I recalled a horrible Christmas (one of many), when my mom had partaken of a little too much holiday spirit and told my dad some of things she really thought about him. A huge row had ensued, which ended with my dad slapping my mom.

Afterwards, pubescent me was trying to comfort my distraught mother. She was talking about how she wished she could have left her husband much earlier, but she felt like it wouldn't have been a good life for me. She painted a rather bleak picture of the prospects for a woman her age trying to raise a boy alone, because she was sure my dad wouldn't have contributed any support. At the time I couldn't help but agree that this scenario sounded pretty grim. But still, maybe we would have both been better off, despite privations.

After I left home, my mom must have felt that she had nothing to lose, so she just went for it. My dad was pretty shaken up, and I'll admit to a certain cruel satisfaction at seeing him so upset. In the end, he managed to talked her into returning home, with promises to seek marriage counseling. I don't know if they ever followed through with that or not. Probably not.

I don't know if it was part of the agreement for reunification, but my parents also decided to sell their home in O-Town and move back to the central coast region of California. They first settled in Grover Beach, where they opened a strange hybrid business in their home called Solar Arts Studio. This “home” was actually a rented commercial property, but my parents managed to live there as well with the help of the good old motor home parked in the back. My mom tried to sell her artwork, and my dad tried to sell solar energy equipment. It's hard to imagine my dad as a salesperson. His bombastic, opinionated, and judgmental personality probably rubbed potential customers the wrong way.

Not surprisingly, this business venture didn't last long, so they bought a small house in Cambria, a trendy sea-side artists' community featuring small lots at high prices. Some of you have probably seen Cambria without realizing it: it starred as the fictitious town “Canaima” in the 1990 Steven Spielberg-produced film “Arachnophobia”.

Despite my mixed feelings about the last house I had shared with my parents, it was a strange feeling to have that removed from me. Now my parents were off on adventures and a future of uncertainties (but considerably better resources), and I was alone in a familiar town. No back up, no safety net, no more second chances. My dad still continued to offer to let me leave with them rent-free if I went to college and brought home good grades. I continued to decline.

Job #21: Mucking Out the Underside of a House

I lived for awhile with my old high school friend Lurleen and her boyfriend (later husband) Scoop (not their real names). While there I got temporary job #21, which was cleaning out the crawlspace under a house. Basically I had to make sure that there were no large pieces of wood or other trash under the house, making especially sure that there was no organic material connecting the frame of the house to the earth. The house was being put up for sale, and this was apparently one of the many strange things one must do before a house can be sold.

I had actually done this chore once before, when Sandy sold her house in O-Town before moving to Berkeley, so I was familiar with the process. But that had been summer, and the worst thing I encountered was a desiccated cat corpse. This time it was a rainy fall day, and I was slogging through cold mud and standing water. My clothes were absolutely sodden and heavy with brown muck. Not a job I would have wanted to do on a regular basis.

Job #22: Church Janitor

My 22^nd job was as a part-time janitor at Liz and Sandy's church, the First Congregational, which was a beautiful old building built in 1913 (and which tragically burned to the ground in an arson fire in 1982). I really liked that job, despite my suspicions that the place was haunted, though I never saw anything definite.

A part-time job was sufficient for my means at the time, because when my parents left O-Town, they had lent me the use of the old travel trailer (you know, the one that produced all those tubs of shit). I rented a space in a residential trailer park on the south side of O-Town. My dad moved the trailer in there, and I had cheap digs.

It was certainly an eye-opening experience living in “South Side”. During the whole of my comfortable middle-class upbringing, I had never ventured south of O-Town's main drag. I had once driven Al in there to see an old friend of his, but that had been at night, and I didn't see much. What a different world it was on the wrong side of O-Town Dam Boulevard. It had a well-deserved reputation for poverty and roughness. It hadn't always been that way. When the railroad yard and its roundhouse (which also burned down mysteriously) had been a major enterprise, many of the people who worked there lived nearby. There were many successful black-owned businesses, including grocery stores, bars and a taxi company, and lots and lots of churches.

With the diminishing of the railroad, poverty and decay began to creep into the neighborhood, even before methamphetamine and crack became such scourges. My trailer home was right next to the sidewalk, so I had a front row seat for some of the goings on in the ghetto. One night I was trying to get to sleep, but I was prevented from doing so by a man with a loud, gruff voice who kept badgering someone he called “fat boy”. He kept yelling, “Get over here, fat boy! I'm going to kick your ass, fat boy!”

I was concerned for this poor, unknown corpulent man who was on the verge of a savage beating, but I didn't know what I could do. Eventually the bellowing man's voice faded into the distance, presumably in pursuit of his silent, tubby intended victim, and I drifted off to sleep. Then next day, I was outside my trailer when I saw a big, burly biker type walking his pit bull (no leash, of course). In the same voice I'd heard the previous night, the biker kept trying to get the dog to mind by yelling, “Get over here, Fat Boy! I'm going to kick your ass, Fat Boy!” Fat Boy paid his bellicose owner no mind.

I borrowed some money from my brother Dick to buy a moped, because I was still seeking more gainful employment, and doing so on a bicycle wasn't efficient. One day I was exploring South Side on my new ride. Ahead I saw a crowd of people in the parking lot of a defunct drive-in eatery. They were standing around a man lying on the ground. I figured there must have been some kind of accident. As I got nearer, a man was running across a field across the street with something in his hands, followed by a woman. I thought that he was bringing some object to help the fallen man. I crossed in front of the running man just as he got to the street. He paused, probably not for me, but because of the crowd of people. As I passed him, I saw that the object in his hands was a sawed-off shotgun! Meahwhile, the woman had caught up with him. She was screaming, “NO! Don't do it!”. The maniac, who was huge, was breathing heavily, with this wild look in his eyes. The best I can figure is that he had injured the man on the ground, and had run back to his hovel to fetch the weapon to finish the job, but was stymied by the people who had gathered. I just kept going and didn't look back. I never did hear what became of that incident.

Other than these brushes with the seamier side of society, though, my life on South Side was a mellow time for me. I had cheap accommodations and transportation, and a pleasant job which provided for both. I could probably have continued on like that for some time, but fate intervened.

It was two days before my 21^st birthday, which I was looking forward to greatly. It was also approaching the national election, which was to be my first presidential election since becoming an adult, so I was looking forward to that, as well.

That night of October 23^rd, I was riding my moped home after visiting my dear friend, J (the future Mrs. Rimpington). A car suddenly turned left in front of me at an intersection. I tried to brake, but struck its right fender and flew over its hood. I remember watching in fascination as the nearby Safeway sign described a lazy somersault in the dark sky. Then I struck the pavement face-first, bounced into a half-flip and landed on my back, with a badly broken left leg. Luckily I had been wearing a helmet.

I was in hospital for a few days, including my birthday - so no partying for me. My brother Dick and sister Buff came to visit me, which was nice. I don't know if this counts as irony, but the driver of the car was the organist for the church where I worked. She was a very dear lady, and she felt terrible for what had happened.

After being released from the hospital, I convalesced for a bit at J's apartment. I struggled out on my crutches on a very rainy election night, so determined was I to vote against that bastard Reagan. I wish votes that are difficult to cast counted for more, but the election was a fait accompli anyway.

My brother came up again to help me close down the trailer, which my dad ended up selling. I spent the rest of my time in my cast at Dick's house in Sacramento. At least it wasn't my fault that I lost the job at the church.

Eventually I healed, and was ready to re-enter the workforce, but not before demonstrating just what a nitwit I could be when handed a sum of money. But that's a story for another chapter.

The End

Chapter 12: Slouching Towards Bedlam

Chapter 12: Slouching Towards Bedlam

Jobs 11 - 17

From here on out, the jobs start coming fast and furious, so you'll have to look sharp or you might miss some. Even I am not sure I haven't forgotten one or two, and I certainly won't swear to the chronological accuracy of this “history”.

In fact, at the end of the last chapter, I made reference to an unorthodox method of job search I used. Upon reviewing my notes, I think that doesn't come until a bit later, but I'm going to let the previous chapter stand for now, and come back to that later.

I think I've said before that you'll probably start to figure out that, at least early on, when it came to work, I was a bit of a wanker. I wasn't a victim of circumstances – I was just a neurotic dork. Another thing you should know about me is that I do not quickly learn from my mistakes. Please just keep that fact in mind when you start to wonder “What on Earth is wrong with this guy?”

For a lot of these early jobs, I can't usually remember how I got them, but I suppose that doesn't matter. Before the internet added new possibilities, the usual methods for finding a job included the state employment office, temp agencies, classified ads (those were predecessors of Craig's List that came out in things called “newspapers”, kids), word of mouth and just plain “pounding the sidewalk”. So it's safe to assume that if I can't remember the specific means by which I came to a new job, it was through one of those means.

Job #11: Cleaning Out a Garage

Job #11 was a one-day gig cleaning out an old man's garage. I think it was located on a property he had been renting to someone else, but which hadn't been occupied for some time. A lot of junk had piled up in the garage. When I saw what was in there, including mountains of aluminum cans, I made a deal with the gentleman that for a reduction in the cost of my labor, I could keep anything I might find in there, to which he readily agreed. I've never seen myself as much of a wheeler-dealer, and in fact, I may have done myself down on that one. The old guy probably wouldn't have known or cared if I kept some of the stuff or just trashed it, so I likely didn't need to offer the reduced wages, but I felt it was better to be upfront and clear from the get-go.

I made a pretty penny by recycling the cans, and some of the better items I gleaned from that job were a pair of removable, canvas Jeep doors. I had no use for them myself, but I figured I could sell them, which indeed I later did. I forget how I transported all that stuff, since I didn't own a vehicle. I think I was using a pick-up belonging to the owner.

Job #12: Groundskeeper

Job #12 was as a groundskeeper at the golf course, which was located by the airport. It was actually a pretty nice job, but the commute was murder. I would get up well before dawn and ride my bike over 5 miles to work, then of course the same distance home at the end of the day. That was probably the deciding factor in my not-so-eventual decision to leave that otherwise unobjectionable position.

Of course, I was still living at my parent's house, and chaffing to break away. Old buddy Good Time Charlie was then living and attending school in Santa Barbara, so I decided to try my luck there. I rode down with the parental units, who were on their way to a Thanksgiving gathering of my dad's relatives. Charlie welcomed me to his tiny studio apartment. I think the plan was that once I got on my feet, he and I would room together in a larger place.

Santa Barbara is almost exactly half-way between my old home of San Luis Obispo and my dreaded former residence near Los Angeles. Fortunately, it's much smaller than LA, and its geography was more reminiscent of SLO, so I didn't get me that heeby-jeeby feeling that LA induced in me. In fact, I had a very interesting experience being back in southern California – one people smarter than me would call a Proustian memory. I was in a natural foods cooperative near Charlie's place when I saw some fruits called pineapple guavas. I was suddenly smacked with the memory that we'd had a pineapple guava tree in our front yard in SLO. I used to love the taste of the fruit, but I had not seen or heard of it since we had left there, and had completely forgotten about it. That may seem insignificant, but it was a very powerful feeling to suddenly have some long disused door in my mind yanked open and a bunch of thankfully pleasant memories come spilling out.

Job #13: Jack in the Box

This is one of my many brief jobs which I'm having the hardest time placing confidently in the time-line. So much so, in fact, that I somehow missed it on my messy hand-written chronological list of the jobs, subsequently forgetting to include it when I first published this post. That job was at none other than O-Town's Jack in the Box restaurant. As previously mentioned, I had worked in restaurants before, but never in fast food. What a different world that is. I donned the itchy, horrible polyester tunic and silly paper hat and stepped into hell. I just couldn't keep up with the insane pace of places like that. After a couple of days, I quit. Yeah, I know - I'm a wuss. You would think that slinging burger patties would be a breeze compared to - say - dragging a tub of shit. I think it was more the getting yelled for not being fast enough that got to me. Too many shades of my father for my angry, insecure mentality to deal with.

Job #14: Sales Associate in Training

Another thing that helped me forget my proximity to LA was the clothing-optional beach near Charlie's apartment. I probably should have spent more time finding work than I did collecting material for my favorite hobby. As it was, it wasn't long before I landed job # 14, as a sales associate at a home improvement warehouse store.

That was an interesting job. During my training, I learned about all kinds of things I had never done before, like calculating square footage, cutting glass and operating a fork lift. After a couple of weeks, they said that we needed to begin thinking about what department we wanted to specialize in. It was nice we had a choice, but this made me very nervous for some reason. I guess I didn't feel prepared to try to become an expert on anything.

I don't think this minor anxiety was enough to push me on my way down instability lane, but true to my developing pattern, I began itching to be on my way again. I think the southern California ambiance was starting to get to me, after all. It seems that I never wanted to stay where I was, but I wasn't brave enough to just set out for parts unknown, unless there was someone there I knew. When the thrill of a new location began to wear off, and the dull reality of having to work to live set in, all I could think of was returning to the only place that seemed like home. These brief interludes of relocating provided me with an escape from the humdrum of being a grown-up. I was able to delude myself that I was somehow moving toward an as-yet-unknown goal. The world was my oyster, but I didn't know if I even liked oysters. I'd never had them, but I was allergic to abalone, so maybe oysters were just as bad.

Since I didn't have the luxury of a ride in my parent's motor home, but a little too much stuff to reasonably carry aboard a bus, I got an empty bike box from a shop and put in my partly-disassembled bicycle, along with my few other possessions. The driver of the bus looked at me funny when he attempted to heft the box. Of course, it was heavier than the average bike, so he threw it on a scale, but it was still under their limit, so it got put in the cargo hold of the bus. Then I was on my way, once again, toward O-Town and an uncertain future.

Job #15: Personal Attendant

The months after my return to O-Town are a bit of a blur. I stayed for a bit with my parent's, but then I happened into job #15. In high school I had a girlfriend named Liz, and her mother is a wonderful lady named Sandy. Both of them are still dear friends to this day. At that time, however, Sandy had ovarian cancer, and had to have a hysterectomy. She was very sick for a long time. Sandy was living with an older gentleman named Al, who was in a wheelchair. In addition to being his partner, Sandy also provided for Al's medical needs. Of course, she was too sick to that, so they hired me as a live-in care-giver for Al. I also had some responsibility for Liz's brother Andy, who was about 10 years her junior.

It was a mutually convenient arrangement, but it was especially beneficial to me. I had free room and board, and money to boot. Of course, I was too dumb to look far enough ahead to see that this arrangement couldn't last forever. Instead of saving my wages toward this eventuality, I spent it on silly stuff like a .22 rifle. Sandy gently tried to talk to me about this, but I was too clueless to heed her wisdom.

Job #16: Yard Work

I also picked up a little work on the side. Job #16 was doing a bit of yard work for an old lady friend of Al's. Really nothing much to say about that.

Eventually, and thankfully, Sandy was once again well enough to resume her usual domestic duties, as well as attending college, which would eventually lead to her relocating to Berkeley to attend the Pacific School of Religion. Liz would follow in her footsteps a few years later.

Job #17: Air Conditioning Helper

With Sandy back in the pink, I needed to find new digs and a new job. I once again squeezed behind the piano in my former bedroom in my parent's house. It was then that I hit upon the unusual idea of just cold-calling a bunch of possible employers. I started at the beginning of the yellow pages and called every local business who seemed likely and asked them if they needed workers. My dad was sure that such a method would never work, but I proved him wrong. Before I even got out of the “A's”, I got job #17. I think I can safely say the real name of the place, since they don't seem to be around anymore. Besides, you'd probably think I was making this name up anyway: Sweem's Air Conditioning.

Now I had a job, but I still needed a place of my own. My parents departed on yet another of my mom's painting trips, and I was left alone for a bit. I jumped into action, and had a yard sale. I sold a lot of my old stuff, including those Jeep doors I mentioned before. I also sold a pachinko (Japanese pinball) machine I had received as a gift, for which I got a good price.

The proceeds were enough to get a dumpy little studio apartment on the south end of town, near the railroad yard. It was one of about four units under a common roof. I'm sure it used to be company housing for the railroad, which at one time had been a major employer in the area. It was hideoulsy furnished, and had strange Art Deco prints on the walls, but it had a wall air-conditioner, and it did nicely for my purposes.

Sweem was a funny old guy. He never did seem to be able to get my name right, instead calling me by any name starting with R. I finally gave up on correcting him and just answered to whatever he called me. Eventually he figured it out – probably when he had to issue my first pay check – and then he gave me some ribbing for letting him call me by the wrong name.

I was initially hired as extra help around the shop, which was in desperate need of some cleaning and organizing. Pretty soon, I was going out on calls with some of the technicians, one of whom was Sweem's son-in-law, Jeff, who had been a pretty good friend of mine before high school. It was a funny feeling now being a subordinate to a former peer. Jeff had never been a very happy kid, and work had only seemed to make him a grumpier man.

For my part, I didn't really know how to do construction-related work. I was learning on the fly, inside dark, dusty, super-heated attics in the Sacramento Valley summer. One day I was struggling to nail a bit of duct-work into an opening of a ceiling, and just making a total bollocks of it. Jeff came storming over, and with a few angry but well-aimed blows of his framing hammer, and a few choice words, he slammed the troublesome sheet metal into place. He later apologized for his temper, but I felt especially unmanly and incompetent that day.

Another time our only access to an attic was through a very narrow hole in the roof. I knew I could fit my skinny self through it, and though it was a creepy prospect, I was about to do it. But Jeff – who was thin enough to fit as well – said that he wasn't being paid enough to go down there. I can't remember how much he made then, but it was well above my legal minimum of $3.10 an hour. I found it odd that the well-compensated employee felt underpaid for such work, and the definitely underpaid employee was ready to tackle the task.

Some of the other pros were more agreeable. I preferred to go on calls with an older guy. He was more of a repairman than an installer like Jeff, so I usually had little to do, which suited me fine. That guy was funny. One time he said that when he was on a tough job, he liked to let his dong hang out of his pants and go about on all fours. When I asked why, he said, “Well, if I'm going to work like a donkey, I might as well look like one.” Heh heh. Donkeys.

Then a new technician joined the crew, and I seemed to get stuck with him a lot. I couldn't stand that guy. He wasn't much older than me, but he seemed to think he knew everything, and wasn't shy about sharing his wonderful wisdom. One day he left me alone to do some menial work at a house in the foothills that was being remodeled, and said he would be back later. I couldn't stomach the idea of having to see that jerk again, so I walked all the way back to the shop and told old Sweem I was leaving.

So now we're at 17 jobs and I was still only 20, and I had been on the work force for barely five years. According to my understanding of math (which is poor, at best), that yields an average of one new job approximately every 3 and a half months. Ye, Gods! Now you can start to see how I've managed to pack so many jobs into a lifetime. It's a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.

In the next chapter, the whirlwind of employment continues, despite being briefly interrupted by the crunch of broken glass and bone, on the eve of that dark period known as the Reagan era.

It's

The End

of the

World as We Know It.

Chapter 11: Working with the Fishes

Chapter 11: Working with the Fishes

(Jobs 9 and 10)

Anything involving the legal system seems to take forever. Even though I was prepared to plead guilty and throw myself upon the mercy of the court, there was still a long series of meetings with lawyers, appearances before judges, etc. I was assigned a public defender, who seemed like a decent fellow, if a bit lazy. When I met with him, at one point he was in a telephone conversation with a colleague about my case. He said something about the nature of my crime (spritzing a teacher with dog repellent), and then he said that in his opinion I ought to be given a medal. This surprised me a bit. Up until then, everyone involved in the legal system had seemed so deadly serious and devoid of any sense of humor. A little levity was refreshing. His joke also made me feel like not everyone hated me for what I had done. As a little side note to this erstwhile public servant, much later I ended up mowing the grass at his suburban ranchlet as part of job number 47. It was memorable because he had a donkey, and I love donkeys. No! Not like that!

In true prosecutorial fashion, the district attorney wanted to punish me to the maximum extent possible, in order to make an example of me. Apparently my case was the first time in Butt County history that a teacher had been attacked in such a brazen and bizarre fashion. In addition to assault, they were also charging me with interfering with a public official in the course of his duties. Even though this was my first crime, together the two charges could have added up to something like a year or two in jail, the prospect of which frightened me very much.

Then there was almost an 11^th hour miracle. My lawyer missed it, but the judge noticed the fact that I had confessed before being officially charged. This presented a legal technicality, and the judge was prepared to dismiss the whole case, which made me like that judge very much. However, the district attorney talked him into a compromise, to which my lackadaisical public defender acquiesced. It seems that I just had to receive some sort of punishment for my dastardly deed, which I suppose is fair. In the end, I was given a year of formal probation and a few weeks of community service. Pretty light, when you think about it, although a criminal record is not a great thing to have, especially when looking for work. Fortunately, things were easier in the late 1970s than they are now. Back then, not as many employers ran background checks. If I didn't want to reveal my felonious ways, I just didn't.

While all these legalities were grinding along, I was in a bit of a bind at home. I couldn't really look for work until I knew what my fate would be (or maybe that was just a handy excuse), so my parents decided for me. If I didn't go to jail, then I was going to enroll at Sacramento City College. The plan was that I would spend my weekdays staying with my dad in the travel trailer on the truck yard in West Sacramento, and getting to come home to O-Town on the weekends. Apparently I wasn't to be trusted to attend O-Town's own Butt College without parental supervision. Needless to say, I was thrilled at the prospect. Is there a typeface more sarcastic than italics? Hmm, apparently there is.

Job #9: Working with Dad

In the meanwhile, most of my time between court appearances was spent performing job number 9, the one mentioned previously as involuntary and indirectly related to my legal imbroglio. I was working for my dad at the truck yard. It was involuntary in that I didn't really have a choice, but it was voluntary in the sense that volunteers work for free. It was just what I had to do to earn my keep.

My dad was head mechanic for the trucking company, and he decided to use the free labor to clean out some junk from around the shop and yard. I made countless trips with the company owner's pickup truck full of metal objects to a scrap yard across town. It was rather fun to watch the crane operator carefully lower the huge electric magnet into the bed of the pickup. He had to be especially cautious because the pickup had those silly rails along the tops of the walls of the bed for tying down loads. Even though there were a scant few inches of clearance between the magnet and the rails, so consummate was his skill that the operator never once bumped them. Even more fun than that was when I had to go up to the window for the payment for the scrap, because the girl who worked the window was gorgeous. On the last day I performed that job, I summoned up the courage to tell her I thought she was very beautiful. She didn't seem impressed.

The work itself wasn't bad, it was just having to spend so much time in the presence of my father which was no picnic. My oldest brother Dick lived in Sacramento, and he would visit from time to time, so I had a sane person to talk to. One night he and a buddy came around to take me out. Despite the fact that I was awaiting judgment for a crime, somehow it was decided to try to get my under-aged self into a bar. I must still have looked older than my years, because it worked, and a splendid time was had by all.

Job #10: Community Service (Fish Hatchery)

When my legal fate had been decided, I undertook job number 10: community service. This was also involuntary and unpaid – unless you count the fact that I was working off my debt to society. I met with a very rotund man whose job it was to assign miscreants like myself their tasks. I lucked into a gig at the local fish hatchery, a part of the State Water Project, of which O-Town Dam was the keystone.

The people who operated the fish hatchery were used to having small-time criminals working off their community service obligations, which were mostly for traffic violations and other minor crimes. It was a little unusual for a violent madman like myself to be assigned there, but fortunately the hatchery men weren't privy to the nature of my charges. They treated me like I was any other mild-mannered misdemeanor-maker, which is to say with respect and kindness. It was quite a tonic for my psyche after months of having prosecutors, my father and even myself telling me I was a bad person.

The bulk of the work consisted of cleaning the long, shallow concrete tanks where the tiny hatchlings matured until they were big enough to be transplanted to lakes all around the state. The tanks had a constant current flowing through them. The fish spent most of their days just swimming in place against the current. I put on a pair of hip waders, lowered myself into a tank and then just walked up and down its length with a wide squeegee on a long handle. All I had to do was loosen the gunk that collected on the bottoms of the tanks so that it could flow out with the water at the downstream end. I had to shuffle along without lifting my feet so as not to crush the little fishies, especially in the tanks with the youngest hatchlings.

The bigger fish were in less danger of being stepped upon, but they were a little harder to walk amongst because they took up more room, and were big enough to bump your feet about when they got riled up – which the appearance of a bipedal giant in their realm tended to do. Under normal circumstances, they tended to stay away from me, but the thing that really got them excited was feeding time. Periodically throughout the day, one of the hatchery workers would drive up and down between the tanks in a strange vehicle which blew tiny food pellets into the tanks. If I was in the water at that moment, I had to turn away and shield my eyes. It was quite a sight to see the moving spray of pellets breaking the surface of the water, followed immediately by a furious boiling caused by thousands of hungry fish in a feeding frenzy. The big fish temporarily forgot their fear of me in their rush to gorge themselves. I sometimes felt like I might be swept off my feet. I dreaded to think what might happen if my delicious flesh should happen to land in the water with the ravenous hoards.

After a few weeks, the physical portion of my debt to society was paid in full, and I rather reluctantly said goodbye to the friendly fish wranglers. That wouldn't have been a bad job to have for money. I then settled into a dull routine of having to report monthly to a probation officer. For the first couple of months I had to appear in her office in person, then just a phone call was sufficient until the year was up. And that was about it for my life of crime. Unfortunately, now that my community service was completed, I had to face the grim prospect of attending college and staying with my father in West Sac.

I went through the motions of enrolling for classes, and I even attended a few. I had only skipped a class once when I was in high school, and I got a fair amount of grief for it, but it became a regular habit in community college, because they don't call your parents. I found a lonesome spot at the top of a fire staircase in a corner of some campus building. I never saw anyone else up there, but I knew some unknown number of scrutiny-avoiders were using it, because I often found “roaches” on the stairs, and not the kind that scurry about on six legs – which is good, because I would gather them up and assemble them into a new tobacco alternative stick. Reduce, reuse, recycle, you know.

One week, my father left me alone in the trailer. He was accompanying my mom on one of her group trips with other aspiring artists (read: bored, middle-aged women with disposable income), usually lead by Richard Yip, a reasonably famous artist of the day. My parents had apparently decided I could be trusted to fulfill my obligations. Oh, poor, deluded fools.

I continued to make a stab at being a college student, but I was becoming more and more depressed. One day, after I rode my bike back “home”, I lay down upon my bed in the trailer and turned on the TV, when I should have been studying. I didn't even eat – I just stared at the television with unseeing eyes until late that night, when I fell asleep. The next day I didn't bother to go to school. I had decided to face my parents' wrath and tell them of my decision that college just wasn't for me.

Surprisingly, my dad didn't seem particularly disturbed, but my mother threw up her hands and yelled, “I guess I'm never going to have a child who's going to be a doctor or a lawyer!” I was surprised – I didn't know my mother was Jewish! Badum-tish. Seriously, though, I hadn't been aware that my mom had held these hopes for her children. I was a little sorry to be the last in a four-part line of disappointments, but at least I could take some comfort in not being the only disappointment.

Once again, I was back in my parents' home in O-Town and in need of work. This just wouldn't do. The chances of finding employment seemed good. After all, I hadn't yet come close to exhausting my opportunities, even in an economically depressed area like Butt County. This time, I was uncharacteristically motivated by the strong desire to get out of my ancestral home. I embarked upon an unorthodox method of job search, but that's a story for another chapter.

The end.

Chapter 10: My Brilliant Criminal Career

Chapter 10: My Brilliant Criminal Career

This chapter is probably going to be one of the hardest ones to write. The funny thing is, I could easily leave this part out, and you could just think that I'm simply a somewhat neurotic doofus who has had problems keeping a job. After this chapter, you'll probably think that I'm at best a total fuckwit, and possibly dangerously insane. I'm willing to take that chance, however. I think honesty is the best policy if we're going to come to some kind of understanding of my emotional state over the years.

The other reason I felt I should include this life episode is because it lead to two of the positions that I've included in this memoir – one directly and one indirectly. Neither were jobs in the traditional sense – they didn't pay anything, and I didn't really have a choice about doing either of them. The indirect one could have been easily explained for other reasons, or left out entirely. I've included the direct one because it actually was rather healing to my psyche after the events I'll soon describe.

But before we get into that grim stuff, let's do a quick recap. In the space of about my first 5 years in the workforce, I had 7 jobs (not counting the paper route gig). That's not so bad for a young fellow, is it? That's the equivalent of a new job about every 8.5 months. I don't think anyone expects great consistency and years-long commitment from someone still in their teens. At least that rate is a little better than my lifetime average of a different job every 5.25 months. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Getting back to the narrative, I now found myself back in my parent's home, and faced with the prospect of looking for work in the economically depressed seat of Butt County. However, I seemed to have stalled in my life plans (as if I had any in the first place). The threat of having to start attending college if I was still at home and not working was hanging heavily over me, but it seemed to do little to motivate me. Instead I recall being more interested in hanging out with my old high school friends, many of whom were still in high school.

At O-Town High School there was a math teacher – whom we shall call Mr. Schmossas. I had never been smart enough in mathematics to have had any classes with him. However, many of my smarter friends – including the future Mrs. Rimpington – had, and they told some tales of what a cruel and rude tyrant this fellow was. It really seemed like this guy needed to be taken down a notch, but of course, as mere students, my friends were in no position to do anything about it.

So I got the idea in my head that a former student might be just person to teach this cad a lesson. Don't worry, I'm not talking about murder or great physical violence. I'll admit that there is a scary little part of my personality that has made it easy for me to imagine that I could have been some kind of stone cold assassin or hit-man. After all, I sure showed those chickens who was boss, didn't I?

No, I just figured that something humiliating and perhaps a little uncomfortable would fit the bill. As I mentioned in the last chapter, I also seemed to be riding on some sort of high after my Alaskan adventure. It was probably completely unwarranted, but I was feeling pretty full of myself – as if I had accomplished something great. Unambitious as I was, I seemed to think I could do anything I put my mind to – and the wackier the idea, the better.

Mrs. Rimpington has a worthy theory about why I did what I did. She thinks my overweening sense of my own importance was compensation for feeling as though I had failed in my first quest for independence, and that I was unhappy about being back under the roof of my overbearing father, who certainly didn't share my high opinion of myself. I probably decided to take on the critical Mr. Schmossas as a substitute for the father I still couldn't yet stand up to. Smart lady, that wife o' mine. Lord knows why she married me.

Whatever my motivations, I decided to make a non-lethal hit upon the pride of the evil Schmossas. Remember that can of Halt! dog repellent from Chapter 8? Well, I still had that can. I also had a balaclava and some gloves from my recent life in Alaska. One December day just before Christmas break, with ski mask, gloves and weapon of choice in the pockets of a loose-fitting jacket, I ambled nonchalantly onto my former high school campus during class hours, at I time I had previously determined that Schmossas would be oppressing a room full of hapless students.

Amazingly, I was delusional enough to think that no one at the school would recognize me, even though I had graduated only the previous summer. Aiding me in my imagined anonymity was the fact that I had grown a nifty little beard in my absence (I had always been precociously hirsute). As it was, I had no close encounters with any of my former school mates or staff. In the empty hall outside Schmossas's classroom. I donned my gear, and with capsaicin cannon in hand, I pulled open the door and sauntered into the room. I kept my knees bent to try to confuse witnesses as to my height.

Schmossas was in front of the classroom, as teachers do. When he saw me coming he laughed, thinking it was some kind of joke, but he stopped laughing when he got a face full of mace. The classroom erupted in screams and yells and I turned tail and beat feet. As I exited the hallway, I threw the can of repellent into a trash can. I waited until I had cleared the school grounds and was sure that no one was in pursuit before I pulled off the mask and gloves, which I deposited – along with the jacket, for good measure – in a dumpster behind the supermarket a few blocks from my house. I then backtracked to my home via some side streets. When I came in, I was a little flushed from all the exertion and excitement. My mom asked what I had been doing. I gave her some lame story, then went to my former bedroom to contemplate my successful caper.

Or was it? A few hours later, I heard my mom answer the phone, and moments after that she came to my door and said that the police department had called and they wanted to know if I would be so kind as to come down to the station to talk with them. She of course wanted to know what was going on. I feigned innocent ignorance as to what the police could possibly want from little old me, and I set off with dread in my heart. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I had decided to let the police come to me. I don't know how strong their case was against me at that point. But I was no hardened criminal, despite my daring escapade, and at that point I thought I would look more innocent by appearing to cooperate.

The O-Town constabulary was located in a dumpy trailer next to the municipal courthouse on the levee above the river. I sat down with a Detective Spumoni (not his real name, but the ethnicity is accurate). He was actually the father of a girl I had gone to school with, but I had never met him before. At the risk of sounding racist, Spumoni was the embodiment of some common stereotypes of Italian-American police detectives you've probably seen in many a cheesy movie or TV show. He was a portly, greasy loudmouth in a cheap suit. His sense of humor ran to sexist jokes toward the females in his department, and he alone thought he was very funny. I took an instant dislike to him, although, all in all, he treated me rather kindly.

Our conversation started out as you might expect. He asked me if I knew anything about what had happened at the high school that morning, to which I responded that I did not. He proceeded to tell me that some witnesses claimed to have seen me on the campus before the incident. He could have been making that part up, but I wasn't savvy enough to think of that at the time. As it was, I said that I was just passing through. Then he dropped his bomb. He pulled an evidence bag from his desk drawer. Inside it was the can of Halt! He said that it had been found by a janitor. He also said there were fingerprints on it, and he had a strong suspicion that if I were to agree to submit my own prints, that they would match. Now I think that the bit about the fingerprints may have been a lie. I had been careful to wipe the canister down with alcohol, and then not to handle it again with my bare hands before the “hit”. At the time, however, I figured I must have missed a couple of incriminating prints, and the jig was up. If it was a ploy on Spumoni's part, it worked. I broke down and tearfully admitted to my crime.

Spumoni then read me my rights, and I was officially under arrest for the first (and only) time in my life. He didn't cuff me. He could probably tell I had no threat of fight or flight in me. I decided that cooperation was my only hope for a light sentence. I agreed to show Spumoni where I had ditched the other accouterments of my crime. We drove down in his unmarked car, and I even climbed into the dumpster to retrieve the evidence against me. Spumoni certainly wasn't going to heft his fat, polyester-clad ass up into a dumpster.

We went back to the station. Spumoni called my mom and told her I was going to jail, and would she like to bring me anything for my stay. She drove down with my toothbrush and some clean underwear in a bag. I stood with my chin on my chest while my poor, confused, sad mother handed Spumoni the bag. He then drove me out to the jail. Since I was a cooperative suspect, and a first-time offender, he pulled some strings to get me a cell to myself, rather than putting me in with a bunch of real criminals. I was very thankful for that.

I traded my clothes for some rather butch jeans and a denim shirt with “Butt County Jail” stenciled on the back. No ugly orange back in those days. The guards found my homey bag of personal items amusing, and relieved me of it. There went my plans for making a shiv out of my toothbrush.

I only spent one night in the pokey, but it seemed like forever. I could hear the other inmates in a common cell watching TV, but I had nothing to distract me from my worries. I tried to nap on my cot, and was just about to succeed when some asshole who was passing my cell with a group of inmates yelled, “Wake up!” at the top of his lungs. He was probably envious of me and my luxurious private cell.

Eventually a kindly old trustee came by and asked me if I would like something to read, to which I eagerly agreed. He came back with a western novel by one of the famous authors of the genre - either Louis L'Amour or Zane Grey. This brand of fiction had never appealed to me before, but I fell to it in desperation. I didn't get to finish that book before I left, and I desperately wish I could remember the exact author and title. I still want to find out what varmint done it.

I had no way of knowing what time it was. I was still reading when I heard the Brady Bunch theme song coming from the far off TV. I knew that a local affiliate always reran the show at 10 PM. I was surprised it was so late. I had thought that the light which was shining from down the the hallway must be sunlight coming through a barred window, but I didn't notice that it hadn't moved. Soon it was lights out, and despite my anxiety, I drifted off to sleep.

The next day we were roused early, and those of us with appointments with a judge were handcuffed and herded into a paddy wagon-style vehicle for the trip to the courthouse. Back in those days, three of O-Town's more notorious scofflaws were these twin brothers and their nearly identical cousin. They were really something to see. They had no hair on their rather simian-looking heads, except for long, straggly goatees. I heard that the brothers had some kind of rare condition wherein they had no sweat glands. All three of them liked to boom around town on big Harleys, striking fear into the hearts of the more mild-mannered populace.

The cousin was one of my fellow passengers in the paddy wagon, and at first I was nervous to be in such close proximity to this infamous and frightening-looking outlaw. You know what they say about judging a book by its cover, though. It turns out the guy was really cool. He was obviously highly intelligent, and well-spoken. He was full of friendly advice for us other inmates. He chose to represent himself when he came before the judge, and he did so admirably. No doubt he'd had a lot of experience at it.

I don't remember all the legal details of my appearance in front of the judge. The important thing is that it was determined that I was fit to be released on my own recognizance. I had to return to the jail to get my street clothes back and get processed out. Most of the guards seemed pretty friendly, and were even joking with some of the inmates. I remember one guard laughingly telling a prisoner to always plead “innocent”, even if he were to be caught standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand.

By the time I was able to leave, they were just starting to serve lunch, which was friend burritos, and they smelled pretty damned good. I was a little disappointed that I couldn't stay and partake. Jail had not been as bad as I thought it would be, but it's not something I wanted to ever repeat. I'm proud to say that I have avoided incarceration since then – with one minor exception, though I wasn't actually under arrest for anything then. We'll get to that later.

Of course, being out of jail was by no means the end of my new legal entanglements, but this has gone on rather longer than I intended. Next time I'll wrap up my criminal career, and we can get back to all those jobs.

The end.

Chapter 9: Go Even Further North, Young Man

Chapter 9: Go Even Further North, Young Man
(Jobs 6, 7, and 8)

So there I was – and here we are – at the start of my adulthood. I've actually been dreading this part to some extent. I've seldom felt like I've done a terribly great job of being a responsible adult, and I'm not sure I've ever completely figured out why that might be. I've had a goodly bit of counseling over the years (thanks to the encouragement of my good lady wife), and I've spent more than a little time on introspection. In fact, working on this project is helping me to realize some new insights. But still, I have nagging doubts about my worth as a person, and downright mystification at some of my past behavior.

Before we go any further, then, I thought I should get some of the self-loathing and self-pity out of the way. I've already spoken of how my father was a critical and judgmental parent. It seemed like his only criterion for a meaningful life was work. He emphasized it to the point that the idea of work started to seem terrifyingly stultifying to me. Physical labor didn't appeal, and I had no mind for business. My dad would sometimes tell me of some young man or another he had heard about who had taken a simple idea and turned it into a highly profitable business. That sounded like death to me.

I leaned more toward the creative side of life, particularly writing. Unfortunately, I lacked the self-confidence to ever dare to submit my work to a publisher. I also seemed to lack any kind of drive. I was like Ferdinand the Bull – all I wanted to do was sit just quietly and smell the flowers. As my father would be quick to point out, however, no one pays anyone for flower smelling.

Along with a stunted attitude toward work, I also lacked financial acumen. In fact, most of my adult life has been characterized by fiscal irresponsibility. I'm not trying to be glib about that – It has made certain things difficult; my credit rating is a joke of cosmic proportions, and it has damaged relationships with certain family members and friends. But do not feel sorry for me. I can do that very well on my own, thank you. I made most of my decisions with a reasonably sound mind, although sometimes I wonder just how sound (and so will you later).

When the plane home from Japan landed, I didn't know what I would be doing for work, but I had already decided where I was going to try: as far from my parents as I could get without a passport (which I had, but I wasn't interested in emigration).

One of the places I had visited on my Alaska vacation was Juneau. I had a good friend in high school named Tammy who had married a nice man named Greg, who was stationed in the Coast Guard in Juneau. Since it was a place with which I had some familiarity, and there was somebody there I knew, I decided to move to Juneau to start my life. Of course, myopic idiot that I am, I didn't tell Tammy that I was coming. I guess I just figured that she would be so surprised and happy to see an old friend that it would all work out. And for the most part, it did, but I still cringe when I think of what a rude and self-centered act that was.

I had some money, probably graduation gifts, and some of my relatives were happy to “grub-stake” me a little cash for my great undertaking. I flew into Juneau (the only way in or out of Juneau is by boat or plane), and found Tammy and Greg's apartment. They were out at the moment, so I left a cryptic little note that said, “I was here, where were you? - Rimpy.” I then found a place to wait for their return. I may have been hiding, or I may have just returned from a reconnoiter when I saw Tammy reading my note. When she said, “RIMPY!?” in shock and confusion, she turned and saw me standing there. It was a memorable moment.

Tammy and Greg were very gracious. I guess I somehow expected that there would be no problem with me staying with them, and thankfully, they acted like there wasn't. If they had, I suppose I had enough money to get a motel room, but I hadn't thought that far ahead. In fact, it's a good thing I didn't have to pay for lodging upon arrival. To thank them for letting me stay, I offered to pay for dinner that first night. We ordered pizza, and when I got the bill, I realized that the cost for goods and services was much higher in Alaska than what I was used to in the lower 48. That one dinner put a goodly dent in my meager budget. Tammy and Greg nodded knowingly and said, “Yep.”

Over the next few days I started blanketing Juneau businesses with applications and seeking living quarters. I rented a room from a man across the street from the Alaska State Office Building, and next door to Bullwinkle's Pizza, which is still there today, although my old residence (just to the right in the picture) seems to have lost its top story – not surprising when you consider its age and condition and the way it would shake when the infamous “Taku winds” would roar down off the nearby glacier. A local legend said that a meter was once installed to measure those winds, but it was blown away.

My place was a small, two-story wooden house which was probably built in the 1940s. There was a living room, kitchen/dining area and a bathroom downstairs. The bedrooms were upstairs. In fact, my “room” was little more than a laundry space at the top of the stairs. My landlord-slash-housemate's room, which had a real door and everything, was on the end of this space, opposite the stairs. In other words, he had to pass through my room to get to and from his, so there wasn't a lot of privacy to practice my favorite hobby.

My housemate was a decent sort. He was probably in his mid-thirties, and looked a lot like David Crosby. He had worked on the Alaska pipeline. Because he had a college education, the other roughnecks he worked with had dubbed him “Doc”, although I think he only had a Bachelor's degree.

Job #6: Busboy

In short order I managed to procure job number 6, as a busboy at one of Juneau's finer restaurants, called Yancey Derringer's (no longer extant). I had to buy a long-sleeved white shirt and black pants for my first real, grown-up job (even if “boy” was part of the title). The store I got them at let me have them on credit until my first paycheck. Things were rather laid-back in Alaska.

The manager and the chef were also the owners of the restaurant, and it was quite popular with tourists and more well-to-do residents. Sometimes we would have staff meetings, where the chef would basically scream obscenities at us. I couldn't understand what he was so angry about, or why he thought he could talk to people like that. I was just glad that I seldom had to deal directly with him.

One of the best parts of the job for me was that the wait staff had to put their tips together, and then it would be divided equally between all of us. I suppose the waiters probably didn't think this was fair, and I think that busboys probably got a smaller percentage, but some nights I would leave work with upwards of 18 dollars in my pocket. Life seemed pretty good.

Unfortunately, my time there didn't last long. One day I was setting tables for the dinner shift. The manager passed by and said that I was going to have to move faster. This surprised me, because I hadn't been aware that there was a problem. Maybe my anal retentiveness (which has bordered on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder at times) made me spend a little too much time getting the placement of cutlery just right. I tried to move quicker, but a few minutes later the manager suddenly reappeared and grabbed my tub of clean silverware and napkins and said, “That's it, Rimpy. You're out of here”, as he began slapping down place settings. I wasn't sure what he meant – I had never been fired before, but I was pretty sure it actually involved the word “fired”. I thought maybe I was being given an unscheduled break or something. Seeing my confusion, he kindly explained, “You're too slow. You're fired.” Ah. Now I understood.

This was a bit of a blow to my self-esteem. After a few more years in the work force, I realized that fast-paced jobs and I were not a good fit. I am a good, steady worker, and I like to produce quality results. Jobs that require some sort of super-normal pace are not for me. At the time, though, I was rather devastated.

Job #7: Building a Back Office

Through the local employment office, I got temporary job number 7, helping to build a new office space at the back of a downtown store. I didn't have any construction skills, but I didn't really need any. A Native American man and I helped the store-owner. After we had nailed up the drywall, but before we applied the skim coating (I had to look that term up, because I certainly didn't know it at the time), I insisted on signing my name and the date on the sheet rock. My employer thought I was weird, and he was probably right. I knew it was going to be covered up and no one would ever see it, but I felt this need to have my name on this – my first (and pretty much only) construction job. Sometimes I wonder if that sheet rock wall still exists with my name hidden away on it.

Job #8: Dishwasher

After that job, I found job number 8 as a dishwasher at Sally's Kitchen, a cafeteria style diner next door to the State Office Building (and therefore just a short walk from my home). After being declared “too slow” at my previous restaurant job, I was a little nervous about how well I would fare at this job, but I received no complaints about my speed. Sally T. and her husband (last name withheld because there is currently a bed and breakfast up there with the first name “Sally's” ; it's a shame I can't use it – because it's a great name and I'm amazed that I still remember it all these decades later), were very nice people.

That was a great job. I could eat there for little or nothing. Sometimes slices of cellophane-covered pie that had passed their prime in the refrigerated display case out front would find their way back to my station for disposal, which usually meant into my perpetually hungry teenage belly.

One of my favorite parts of the job was setting up the grill for the lunch-time hamburger crowd, which included preparing the soft-serve ice cream machine. I would pour the mix in the top, then do other chores while the machine chilled and stirred it. When it was ready, I would squeeze off a sample cup, you know, to make sure it was mixed properly. Quality is job one, after all, and “waste not, want not”, so of course I would wolf that down as well. I only weighed about 150 pounds back then, stretched over a 6'1” frame. I was always starving, and I could eat anything without worrying about gaining weight. Sigh. Those were the days.

Sally and her husband also owned a liquor and convenience store on the north side of town. Another duty of mine was to help make sandwiches which were wrapped up and sold at the store. Occasionally I would go out to the store to help unload a truck. I called it a “liquor and convenience” store rather than one or the other because of a curious quirk of Alaskan law, at least at the time. A store that sold food wasn't allowed to sell alcohol, and liquor stores couldn't sell food. Why, I don't know. Even though Sally's liquor and food enterprises were under the same roof, they complied with the law by having a dividing wall down the middle, with separate entrances for the two halves. The same cashier would serve both sides from a central corral with a cash register on each side. If you wanted chips and beer, you had to buy one, then go outside and in the other door for the other. It seems a little silly, and this setup was probably pretty common, but it struck me as a rather clever work-around.

Another interesting thing about Alaska was that the drinking age then was 19. I bought my very first legal beer while living there. When I returned to California, where the drinking age was 21 (like it would be nation-wide in 1984. See? Orwell was right!), it was like being sent back two years. I had to wait to be able to legally continue my burgeoning alcoholism.

The only thing I didn't like about my dishwashing job was how early it started. I had to get up at some ungodly hour like 4 AM for work. But I got off early in the afternoon, and the rest of the day was mine. As long as I got to bed at a reasonable hour, I was fine. One evening I was talking to my parents on the phone. I had the handy (and true) excuse of concluding the conversation in a timely manner because of having to get to bed for my early day. My dad said that so did he. There was something in the way he said it that sounded like he was proud of me, and I remember feeling very good about that. It wasn't easy to get my dad's approval, and he seldom specifically said it in so many words. After all the lectures about work, it's seems silly that it should have mattered to me, but it did. Such is human nature.

All in all, life in Juneau was pretty good. I had even managed to talk the owners of Bullwinkle's into starting a tab for me. I felt like quite the swell, being able to order pizza and beer without money, then walking about 20 feet to get home. I probably could have worked at Sally's Kitchen indefinitely, but then the Alaskan winter descended upon this California boy like some sort of metaphor. Juneau is quite southerly for Alaska, and the waters of the Gastineau Channel are warmed somewhat by the Japanese current, so their winters are nothing like what is experienced further north and inland, but it still seemed like Siberia to me.

A funny thing about people who moved to Alaska is they tended to build they way they had in the lower 48, with no consideration for extra insulation and such. My old house was no exception. Some nights I would take my laundry right out of the drier and put it in my bed and climb in after it so I could get to sleep while still warm.

Eventually the cold and long, long northern winter nights (which take up much of the day, as well) became too much for me, and I decided to head home. In true form, I didn't inform my parents of this ahead of time. I did, however, tell Charlie, and he picked me up at the San Francisco Greyhound station (I flew from Juneau to Seattle) because he was attending school at Berkeley at the time. He was about to travel to O-Town for the Thanksgiving holiday, so I rode with him. I surprised my mom by just walking into the house behind Charlie on the pretext of a friendly visit on his part. She was very happy to have me back. She had never been too keen on my choice of new residence to begin with. It had to have been hard for her to see her last child leave the nest (and leave her with only my father for company). My dad, for his part, wasn't impressed with my quick return. After all, I had only been gone about 4 or 5 months.

So now I was back in my parent's home. My mom hadn't been so cut up by my departure that she hadn't wasted any time converting my former bedroom into an approximation of the arts and crafts room she had enjoyed in southern California. I had to sleep on a sleeper sofa that barely fit between the wall and an upright piano. I can't remember when my parent's got that piano – perhaps during my absence. Certainly no one in the home played. I 'm sure my mom had plans to learn, but I don't think she ever did.

This situation was not acceptable, even if I did plan on staying – which I didn't. My dad had always said that I could live at home rent free if I would attend college, which would probably be a pretty sweet deal for someone who didn't mind his parents' company. If I stayed at home and didn't find work, there was the ever-present threat of having to go back to school. The choice seemed simple to me: the first order of business was to get a job, and then a place of my own.

But despite the cramped conditions in my former room, I still spent a few days enjoying the mild winter weather of California and just sort of taking it easy. Looking back on it, I was acting as though I had just returned from some taxing adventure and was in need of rest and recuperation. Like I said earlier, this was one of those time when I really wonder what was going on in my head.

During these days of slack, I got another bad idea – one that really makes me wonder if maybe I wasn't a bit schizophrenic at times. This astoundingly bad decision sent my nascent adult life off the rails for a bit, but you'll have to wait for the next installment to hear about that.

The end.