My Moments in Time: Work

Work

I got my first real job when I was a junior in High School. I was a bus boy at a steakhouse. My sister, Mary Ann, worked there as a waitress and she helped me get on there. I actually enjoyed it. I really enjoyed making my own money. I learned about as much as you would expect from a sixteen year old kid. I goofed around, kidded with my buddies on the crew, and drove around after work with the older guys and drank. I put my own gas in my car (which my parents had bought) and learned that spending cash was great, but rarely lasted til the next check. For a kid, that was fine. But there was so much more to learn.

One day I just didn’t want to go to work. I don’t remember what I did instead, but it was really a simple case of “I don’t wanna”. So I called in. I gave a thinly veiled excuse to the tune of “my friend needed me to come bail him out of a jam” kind of thing. Just like skipping school, except I rarely did that. The next shift I worked, our manager said he’d like to speak to me in his tiny cubbyhole of an office. He sat me down in the chair across from his desk, all of two feet away, and asked me why I missed my shift. Barely half way into my poorly constructed lie, he held up his hand to stop me. The tired expression on his face, and the tightly pursed lips as he looked at the floor for a second stopped me in mid sentence. He took a long, measured breath through his nostrils, and exhaled through his mouth once, in a practiced, meditative way before he spoke.

“Kevin, listen. I don’t need all that. You’re making a mistake. I’m not your Mom or Dad. I don’t need to hear your problems. I’m not a councilor. I’m your boss. When I make out the schedule, I’m counting on you to be here. This is a business, and you have a responsibility to be here. If you’re not, then everyone else here has to cover your job. You seem like a nice guy, but if you’re not going to show up when you’re on the schedule, then this is not going to work out. I’ll give you another chance, but if it happens again, you’re out of here. Do we understand one another?”

“Shit” I thought.

“Yes sir.” I said.

“ Okay then. Go back to work.”

So I did. Red faced and embarrassed, but I went back to washing dishes and busing tables. I was pissed, but more “butt hurt” than anything else. I mean, where did he get off not believing my lie? A d what was the deal with the “ I’m not your Mom and Dad, I’m your boss” thing? I fumed. I worked, but I fumed.

Throughout my life, I have had many jobs. I won’t bore you with all of them. Briefly, I’ve been a factory worker, dockman, maintenance assistant, janitor, floor tech, retail sales guy, cashier, and deckhand, just to name a few. Most of my years were spent in fiberboard container manufacturing (translated-I made cardboard boxes) as a machine operator, feeder, print die mounter, forklift operator, and lead man. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, eight and twelve hour shifts. I worked on, climbed on, sweated over hot, greasy, ink-splattered and dusty machines to crank out boxes for all kinds of companies to put their stuff in. For the most part, it was a decent living. Adequate. I raised a family and struggled to pay bills, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. There are worse ways to make a living.

I’d been doing the factory thing for about ten years before my personal life took a turn. Without going into the specifics, over the next ten years I developed an alcohol addiction, my wife died, and I lost every semblance of my former self and life. I went from one factory to another, then another. I finally came to work shit faced and got canned for it. That sent my “career” into a downward spiral. Not long after my second DUI, my sights were set on “whatever I can find”. So I answered an ad in the paper for a floor tech at a local nursing home. It didn’t pay much over minimum wage, but it was close to home. I should say, my Mom’s home, because I was living with her. I was in my forties. Yeah, boy, I was killing it.

The floor tech job didn’t require much of me. I learned that I could handle it and do even more when other things needed to be done. I showed up. I did my best. I actually liked it, even though it was mostly what you’d call unskilled labor. I grew comfortable in the job, and liked the people. I’d never worked in a place like that, and enjoyed being around the residents. The employees were different than I was used to, but I liked them too. Especially the Dietary Manager, Laura. We’ve been married for nearly ten years now, and she’s the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me. I guess you could say she’s the best thing I loved about that job.

We had only just started dating when she was let go. They screwed her over and fired her while she was on sick leave after having her gall bladder removed. Very dick move. I stayed, partly at her insistence, partly because I liked what I was doing and still wasn’t very motivated to find better employment. Then something weird happened. They asked me to be the Environmental Services Supervisor, or Housekeeping Supervisor. I’d be over 6 housekeepers, 4 laundry aides, and two floor techs. I’d never been a manager, or supervisor before, but I took it. It was just a few dollars more in pay, but came with insurance too. So I learned another job from scratch.

I held that job for about ten years. Halfway into that time, my daughter worked for me, as a floor tech. It was one of my favorite years there. I enjoyed training her, working with her, and travelling back and forth to work with her. She was an awesome employee, and I don’t say that lightly. She gave it her all, and the people there recognized her potential. They offered her a position as Dietary Manager, my wife’s old job! She accepted, and was training in the job, when another lightning bolt struck. She got into some trouble one weekend that required me to bail her out. It involved a house party that police had been called to and she got arrested. The charges were later dropped. The incident was noticed on the internet by some people in the “home office” however, and she, too, was let go. That seemed to me to be unfair, and, after a few weeks of fuming, I handed in my keys.

A little over a year passed and I was back there as a floor tech. I worked barely two months and the EVS Supervisor gave notice and I was asked to step back into the position. I did. It was almost as if I’d never left. Understand this: I had to swallow my pride to go back there. I’d quit, dropped my keys, and spoke my mind when I left. I did it as respectfully as I could, but I never thought they’d have rehired me. There I was, though, killing it.

I loved the people I worked with, even if the people I worked for weren’t my favorite folks. I got along, and did my job. I did my best and tried to give the residents there a home that was safe and clean. I did my best to take care of the people in my department and treat them as I want to be treated. I tried to give them respect and work beside them, as well as supervise. I never expected them to do anything illegal, immoral or unsafe. I wouldn’t ask that of them, and wouldn’t tolerate being asked those things of me. Too bad that, in the throws of the pandemic, in 2020, I was asked to do some very sketchy shit by the company. When I refused, they didn’t force the issue. I wasn’t their favorite employee after that, but there was no retribution. Still, I couldn’t stomach it. I began to look elsewhere yet again.

I had almost took a part time spot at FedEx, when my current employer called me. They were looking to hire someone to do EVS at their rehab hospital. I tried not to get my hopes up, but went through the motions to see where it might lead. It lead me to the best job I’ve ever had. I doubled my old salary, gained much better insurance, and began working at a barely three year old facility. The people were welcoming, professional and generated a great atmosphere. I feel needed, part of a team, and valued. Plus, they don’t ask me to do illegal shit. Definitely a plus. God willing, I will retire from here some day in the future, and leave the work force on a high note.

As I look back on my work life, I see many ups and downs. Mountains and valleys. Hard work, sweat and grit. Angry days where I dreaded going to work. Happy days where I felt needed and successful. Problems I caused and problems I solved. People I loved, and people who…well…I didn’t love so much. Through it all I can see a common thread. A purpose. I can see the many times I was wronged, as well as the many times I was wrong. The job doesn’t define you. The best you give is what defines you. You are your own best advertisement. I was taught by my parents that, if you’re going to do a job, do your best. Get the job done. Don’t be a slacker. Not because the job demands it of you. Some jobs only require mediocrity, and will even punish better performance with even more expectations. The reason you show up for your shift, get the job done, and do your best, is because THAT is the RIGHT thing to do. You won’t always get extra points for doing it, but a job well done is a reflection of who you are, as a person. Never do your own character a disservice by being the lazy, absent and disgruntled person that YOU don’t want to work with. Satisfy yourself with the quality of your work ethic. Those around you, and above you, will take notice. Just keep in mind: they’re not your Mom and Dad, they’re your Boss. Mom and Dad will love you regardless. Your boss needs you to show up every day and give it your best. I’m grateful to the first manager who taught me that lesson. By the way, I never went back to food service ever again. Hated it.