Ah, summertime. The five-day forecast calls for bugs, brown-outs, and bolts
of electricity. Happy children frolic in city fountains. Women swoon with
delight as hairy men remove their shirts in public. In a word, intoxicating.
And as we all sit in an endless line of traffic, inching as one toward our
collective stress-free vacations, there is plenty of time to reflect on past
seasons in the sun.
All I have to do is switch into cruise control, lean my head back and close
my eyes, and I am transported to a simpler time when carefree wasn't so
carefully choreographed. When every man, woman, and child did not feel the
need to have a tiny plastic telephone stuck to their heads at all times.
Back to the glorious days of the dead-end summer job.
I realize that nostalgia and exhaust fumes can play tricks on the mind. Even
so, after years of gainful, and sometimes painful, employment, I still look
back fondly on my days as a seasonal wage slave. Odd, really. Conventional
wisdom would have us believe these early brushes with disorganized labor are
only stepping-stones on the path to true professional enlightenment. We are
like young Jedi Knights dipping onion rings into the deep fryer while our
wise Yoda-like assistant manager looks on. If we wear the silly uniform and
name tag, we are rewarded with a real job. A job we care about. Which, of
course, is the problem.
The best thing about the summer job, whether it's washing dishes
or being CEO of an Internet start-up, is that you don't have to care.
And it's that sanctioned indifference that can turn menial tasks into
cherished memories. If you don't believe me, wait a few years.
Given the proper hindsight, the summer job will reveal itself as
a fleeting and perfect state. It is not a career. You are not punching
coordinates into your Palm Pilot as you climb another rung on the corporate
ladder. There is no rung. There is no ladder. It's just you and the Slurpee
machine.
It's little wonder the tattooed types at the coffee shop seem so
content. They hate their jobs and are free to admit it. Contrast that
Zen-like state with the vibe emanating from the actual adults waiting in
line for their goat cheese croissant and jumbo latte. Gaze upon their
pinched expressions, furrowed brows, and other telltale facial tics.
They have those fabled real jobs. They have to care that Q3 widget
sales are flat. No wonder they're so glum. Meanwhile, the coffee shop guy
is singing as he refills the napkin dispenser.
Those looking to trade their high-powered misery for low-rent
satisfaction are in luck. A booming Massachusetts economy, combined with
a flabby populace's insatiable desire for Biggie Drinks, has resulted in
a summer job surplus in the Worcester area. Desperate employers are even
raising wages and offering bonafide benefits to those willing to punch the
clock. Tempting? You bet. If it wasn't for the delicately balanced system
of bouncing checks and shrinking balances that keep me tied to my own
forty hour grind, I might grab one myself. Then again, why be greedy? I
had my share of bliss.
Take my short-lived stint at a mini-golf course in Hampton Beach, NH.
The days found me doing time in a plywood hut, handing out tiny clubs and
tiny pencils to tourists. By night, I drove the owner's big Buick up and
down the main strip, hauling a monstrous "Let's All Whoopie Putt!" sign
on the back of a trailer. To make the spectable complete, I was also
equipped with a public address system so that I could testify to the
wonders of mini golf. While a script was provided, I mostly ad-libbed,
babbling like a loon at vactioners lined up at the fried dough stands.
Alas, all good and embarrassing summer jobs must come to an end. You can't
dress up in a bunny suit and wave at motorists at car wash grand opening of
life forever. With age comes responsibility. With responsibility
comes employee badges, 401K plans, and nightmares about widgets. The world does not stay simple forever. Sigh.
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