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by Todd Levin
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Every culture has its own rites of adulthood, and whether these rites
are truly ceremonial or merely implied, they are all conceived and
organized by the elders or parents in that culture and,
coincidentally, couched in a certain unusual brand of sadism directed
toward their participants. Ranging from female circumcision and being
taken out to the desert to be bitten by snakes, to being dropped
headfirst from high platforms with both ankles bound together with rough
vines, each torture is more bizarre than the last. Perhaps one of the
greatest lessons learned as we pass into adulthood is, "I can't wait to put my kids through
this."
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In America, we have our own bizarre, torturous rites of passage:
summer
jobs.
And by week two of summer employment, most American teenagers
are begging their council of elders for some rough vine.
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The "skilled" teenager (i.e. a strong
swimmer), can possibly land atop a plush lifeguard chair at a
slow-paced public or country club swimming pool (often beginning a
nearly continuous cycle of privilege and good grooming celebrated in
some of the greatest films of the 1980s). But for the unskilled, you
can pretty much expect to scrape the bottom of the food/retail/community service barrel. |
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city-sponsored public works |
The summer before my junior year, I scraped and scraped until I came up with a city-sponsored public works
job. "Public Works," for those not in the know, is a general moniker
used to describe any mentally numbing employment with which the local
government sees fit to saddle its repentant teenage citizens and paroled
criminals. To procure a public works summer job, you are required to
report to a local government office with your working papers. Shortly
after, you will receive a mysterious phone call, imploring you to show up
at a predetermined location in one week's time for an undisclosed term
and type of employment. You are given no information regarding what you
will be doing for the summer or with whom. You just know it is likely
to involve fertilizer and rusted-out equipment. See you there!
I got my call and spent the next week with friends trying to guess exactly what kind of job I would be
reporting to. The fantasies ranged from New York state senator to
picking up trash with a pointy stick, like the park bears did in that
old cartoon ("then you take the stick, put it in the bag — Boom! Boom!").
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Well, it seems the senator position had already been filled (by none
other than Joey Console, a nefarious child of weak moral fiber with whom
I had the displeasure of sharing freshman gym class one year earlier)
and — more bad news — it also turned out that The Cartoon Universe was
not the only universe which openly supported picking up trash with a
pointy stick as a worthwhile social responsibility.
As children, we are
coddled into believing we have the power to make our dreams come true.
Unfortunately, none of this coddling prepares you for the moment that
someone hands you your pointy stick and trash sack and introduces you
to a man referred to only as "Shitpants," your boss for the next eight
weeks.
Worse yet, since I was a "cherry" (a term of endearment used to describe
all newbie prison "punks" and public works employees alike), I was
assigned to work in a mentor-apprentice program with Orlando, a 64-year-old Italian immigrant who came to America for the gold-paved
streets and stayed for the abundance of free trash. He was to show me
the ropes. |
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Those ropes, I immediately discovered, involved pointing out discarded
condoms (my, we had laughs!) and showing me the most well-concealed
sections of the park for napping, drinking, and urinating. To my
disappointment, Orlando was very protective of The Stick, never letting
me really get my hands on it. I knew, however, as I gained his trust in
the trash business I would soon endear myself to Orlando and,
ultimately, hold The Stick. I feared not; The Stick beckoned. My time would
come.
My time did come — one day later when I quit. It turns out, the only
thing more horrifying than reporting to your very first job and
discovering that its responsibilities not only include, but are
comprised exclusively of, picking up trash with a pointed stick, is
realizing that you are expected to show up for this job every day. I
had bigger plans.
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I had a connection at the local supermarket and was
able to parlay my trash-picking skills into a position as "Front-end
Customer Service Representative" (read: grocery bagger). Naturally,
trash disposal was still an integral part of my responsibilities, but
not my sole responsibility. Here I would gain vital skills which I
would later apply to a series of other enriching jobs: Frozen Yogurt
Counter Help, One-Hour Photo Lab Technician, Human Blood Handler — all
promising to cultivate and exploit the imaginative and intellectual
resources of America's future generation of leaders. With each new
responsibility, I gained both a unique odor (developing fluid, yogurt
scum, etc.) and a healthy, deeply harbored adolescent sense of resentment
toward my own parents.
For all of the nurtured dreams we engage as children, to become whatever
it is we desire — Astronaut, Firefighter, Human Blood Handler — it soon
becomes obvious that things are not always going to be as we prepared
for them mentally. I was definitely angry with my parents for putting me
through the suffering of endless degrading summer jobs, when I could
have been much happier lying prone in their den, eating Durkee Potato
Sticks and fishing around for the Doobie Brothers episode of What's
Happening ("Which Doobie you-be?").
But I understand why they were so
adamant about getting me into a job. For all of the pain there is a
silver thread of personal responsibility that has persisted in smart
apes since the beginning of time. The value of work, no matter how
demeaning, only helps to quietly nudge us into adulthood, and into a
state of personal financial solvency.
More importantly, the experience
of gainful employment accelerates our maturation process and our ability
to absorb responsibility for our own lives, so that we may sooner have a
home of our own, with our own children whom we may degrade more
thoroughly than our parents ever dreamed of degrading us. It all seems
contrary to what we are told as small children, but I'm not sure it is.
My parents always promised me that the world was mine for the taking,
and they weren't wrong; they just forgot to mention that I would be
taking it with a pointy stick, one piece at a time.
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If you're looking for a summer gig, degradation be damned, check out http://www.summerjobs.com/.
Todd Levin is now an adult who happily lies in his den eating Durkee Potato
Sticks.
© 1998 Tripod, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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