The First Job

The First Job

by Ralph Goodwin

I’ve always hated lobster. Not that it mattered in the big picture, but not only did I not like the taste of the cooked ones, but the live ones gave me the heebie jeebies; what with their little cockroach like bodies, hundreds of little tentacles sticking out this way and that, those big mustache thingies blooming out of whatever it was that they considered a face, those lifeless bits of coal posing as eyes looming overhead. And then there are those big flat claws with their serrated interior edges, just waiting to break off a finger and bring it back to the deep with them. But when Steve Papp told me about the position opening at Pat Garbone’s Italian Restaurant I jumped at and landed the dishwasher job. Outside of a paper route and a summer job doing construction in the city with our church, this was my first real employment, and my excitement was only overshadowed by my anxiety. I was like Mary Tyler Moore. A 16-year-old, tall, skinny, acne-dotted male version to be sure, but like Mary Tyler Moore nonetheless. I would have to make it on my own. Neither my Mom nor the church would be there to bail me out if I screwed up. It was a balmy early June Friday afternoon at 4:30 when I stepped out of my bedroom nattily dressed in my blue jeans and Bruce Springsteen concert tee shirt, ready for the big night. From her stove front location Mom stopped me, looking from head to toe for a quick final inspection, and reminded me to be respectful to my new boss, and to work hard. A half hour later I was in the kitchen meeting the new boss and head chef, Joey Scarbosi. Joey had that whole Steve Buscemi-look going for him, if one considers that to be a look that would “go” for oneself. He was a weasily-looking fellow of about 5’5”, greasy, stringy black hair and mustache, and his bugged out eyes were underlined by the numerous dark circles under them. He nervously wiped his hands on his apron as he sized me up. Finally he extended a hand to me and said, “Nice to meet you, Stretch!” With this the other cook waved happily from behind the grill. Apparently once Joey had labeled you with a nickname then you were part of the team. Joey brought me over to my dishwashing station whereupon I was introduced to the other dishwasher, Meatball, or, for short, Meat. He was everything I wasn’t; short, round, and blond. Meat eagerly shook my hand, and as Joey instructed him to show me the ropes, he leaned in and whispered, “Bill Livett, nice to meet ya.” “Joey seems like a good guy huh, not a bad boss.” “Yeah, he’s pretty cool – its Pat Carbone you gotta watch out for. When she comes in here, just keep your eyes down and let Joey do the talking. You’ll be allright so’long as she doesn’t notice you.” And with that dire warning we were off to the orientation. There really wasn’t much to it; within a half hour, I learned how to load the dish rack and push it into the machine, how to clean the big lobster pots at the end of the night, the subtleties of scouring melted cheese from the onion soup bowls, where the dumpster was and how frequently I should be checking trash barrels, and, finally, the proper method for using the mop. As I donned my first uniform (a graying apron) and eagerly stepped towards the

dish washing station, Bill summoned me to the large walk in freezer. As I entered he was carrying a large silver pot overflowing with a tangle of orange tentacles, claws and eye-balls. He smiled up to me and said, “Oh, and I nearly forgot - of course when Joey needs ‘em you and I get him the lobsters!” I looked down on the floor of the walk-in and there, smack in the middle between the tubs of mozzarella cheese and the frozen vegetables, lay a wooden crate full of the vilest collection of crustaceans I ever had the displeasure to lay two eyes upon. I looked down at them, full of a mixture of loathing, disgust, and outright terror. They looked back at me with contempt with their cold eyes; all heaped on top of each other; their little leg thingies moving in various directions, their rubber-bandless claws slowly opening and closing, their little eyeballs unblinking, their antennae alert and probing, as if searching the room for fear. I couldn’t be sure but I thought I saw the biggest and ugliest one, the one who currently maintained the position of king of the crawling hill, was smiling at me menacingly, if such a creature is capable of doing so. “You ok Stretch?” I stared back at the arthropods; fear slowly washing over my body. I was too stunned to speak. How could this particular facet of the job be worthy of almost forgetting? What was next? “Oh, and you’ll also be responsible for cleaning up the occasional radio-active spill”? “Stretch?” I looked up at Bill.

Oh, right, I was Stretch.

“Uh, yeah, sure – ok.” Joey didn’t need me to get them now; Bill just got ‘em, right? push it out of my mind and concentrate on the more pleasurable job, such as scrubbing pots and emptying stinking trash cans. positive mental attitude, and perhaps a little prayer would no tonight’s patrons to frequent the veal and the scrod and allow armored denizens of the walk-in in peace.

So for now I could aspects of the new Good luck, a doubt encourage me to leave the

But alas, it was not to be. Two hours later, Joey banged the empty silver pot Bill had previously collected the lobsters on the metal counter in front of him, “Stretch – 10 lobstahs, stat!” I looked about nervously, “Um yeah – I’ll get Meat…” The little chef frowned at me, “Meat is doin’ a trash run Stretch. lobstahs now.”

I need them

I opened my mouth to protest but thought of Mom’s earlier advice on respecting management, and instead trudged around my station and took the silver pot from the cook’s outstretched hand. I turned towards the walk-in and began the long, lonely trek. This must be what it was like for death row inmates as they prepare for the end, I mused. My mind raced as I pictured the scene; surely they would get loose and have me cornered by the frozen meatballs; the big lobster boss silently relaying crustaceous commands by antennae as his minions hung from various parts of my body. By the time had I pulled open the handle, religion had overtaken me. Please God, pleeeease. I’ll do anything; just not the lobster. Please!

I stood over the crate; the big silver pot serving as the only buffer between me and the clanking sea of barbs, grapplers and pincers that awaited me. I attempted to reach behind the biggest one, but one of his brethren had his back (or his tail, or whatever they called them) and chased me away with its jagged, can opener-like appendage. Please Lord Jesus Christ.

Puhleeze.

C’mon, I’m a good guy, aren’t I?

Anything…

It was then that I heard the dining room door bang open behind me, and there she stood: the meanest, nastiest, not to mention fattest woman I had ever seen: Ol’ Pat Garbone herself. I’d not seen her prior; but based on Bill’s warning, I knew instantly it was the restaurant owner. She stormed into the kitchen, a slab of lasagna clutched in her porky first; sauce sputtering from her lips as she barked. “Joey I need a dishwasher now!” She was the only person Joey was afraid of, it seemed. “Uh, ok Patty; just one second – both of the boys are doing something right this moment. Can it wait just a min-” She waved him off abruptly with her open hand as she crammed the remaining clump of lasagna into her mouth. “No time- you! Pimples!” My heart leapt as I realized that I was Pimples! I was saved, rescued by the one woman, no, the one force of nature that Joey wouldn’t dare cross. Whatever task she had for me, surely it was a better fate. I shot the lobsters a victorious glance – they would not be dining on my fingers tonight! I turned to my savior with gratitude seeping from my pores – she wasn’t so bad after all, “Yes ma’am. What would you like me to do?” “Some kid just puked up chicken alfredo all over the rug at the front desk; grab a bucket and a sponge and get out there!” I could swear I heard a craggy snicker from the wooden crate behind me. Over the 30-some odd years since that evening I’ve held a variety of positions and learned many life lessons professionally and personally along the way. I've learned how to treat people, how to make friends, give and earn respect, and generally how to identify what the "right thing" is and when to do it. But the lesson I learned that night about wishing away your responsibilities was among the most powerful I can recall. Perhaps matched only by the one Pat Garbone learned about the unbridled vigor of a teenager’s gag reflex.