A White Sports Coat and A Pink Crushed T-Bird
by Joe Acton
Remember your first job? No — I mean your first real get-up-and-go-to-work-every-day job, not the jobs that your parents gave you over the summer to keep you out of their hair and TO HELP YOU UNDERSTAND THE VALUE OF A DOLLAR SO YOU WON'T KEEP THROWING IT AWAY ON A LOT OF UNNECESSARY NONSENSE LIKE SLOT CARS, ROLLER-COASTER RIDES AND "THE SCREWING AROUND YOU NORMALLY DO WITH THAT CROWD OF KNUCKLEHEADS YOU GENERALLY HANG OUT WITH.".
My first contact with the real world, and likewise its first contact with me, came when I was 15 and went to work at Bennie's Chevron, the neighborhood service station. This event was no less traumatic for both sides than when Stanley blundered through the African continent to utter his now famous line, "Dr. Livingston, I presume." In other words, finding the job was a lot more fun than actually having it.
Bennie's Chevron was a "service station." You remember those things — back in the "olden days" — it was a place where you'd stop for gas and, as if by magic by today's standards, someone would actually come out of the building and fill your tank with gas AND service your car. No kidding. It really was like that.
Back then service stations sold stuff like Bardahl and STP — now you go to a mini-mart for gas and burritos — they've never heard of Bardahl and think STP is a new lotto game.
Back then a kid came charging out to help you — now you have to run in, stand in line with a bunch of kids with green hair and beg "The Dudette" behind the counter to take your money before she finishes her phone call to "Spike."
And back then, the kid that came charging out always wore a uniform. Mine was white. A white uniform? In a gas station?
Nuts, eh? Ask any mom the dumbest thing you can buy for a 15-year-old boy and right at the top of the list will be ANYTHING that's white. Now tell her that you're going to have a teenage boy wearing a white uniform working in a gas station all day and she generally heads for the liquor cabinet.
But Bennie was not a mom. He was fair, though. For example, even though he required us to wear Chevron white uniforms, he let us pay for them out of our paychecks. And I'm sure it was just a matter of convenience that we had to buy them from him, not the distributor.
What Bennie lacked in parental insight he made up for with the ability to build character faster than a drill instructor.
"All right, you three morons have two things in common — you don't know anything about this business and I'm paying you more than you're worth."
Well, that just about says it all for the "New Employee Orientation," doesn't it?
"Rule Number One around here is 'Bennie is always right.' Doesn't matter if what I tell you today is different from what I told you yesterday. All you gotta remember is that I was right yesterday and I'm right today." Okay, so there's not a lot of room for discussion, no problem, I'm used to that — after all, I'm a teenager with parents — this'll be like driving my parents nuts except I'll get paid for it.
"Rule Number Two is when the bell out front rings that means there's a car waiting for gas. That means they want service. We're a service station. Now isn't that just a slice of coincidence? When the bell rings you clowns drop whatever you're doing and swarm on that car like felt on moose horns." Are you kidding me? I'm getting paid to wear this swell uniform and have foot races all day with three other guys? Far out.
"The last thing you three dip-sticks need to understand is that a Bennie's Chevron customer is always right. No matter what. Even if they're as stupid as you are, they're always right. Even when they're wrong, they're right. I don't want to get any complaints because one of you three Yahoos didn't do something a customer wanted done." Even at 15 it was hard to imagine a customer dumber than me about cars, but I was willing to play along.
I knew it was going to be a long summer when the very first rattle out of the box I drew the short straw and had to clean the bathrooms. This wasn't supposed to be part of the job — everyone knows that cleaning the bathroom is the lowest job around. I'm wearing a nice uniform and should be out front where all the girls can see it — and me in it.
Besides, I'd been in men's bathrooms before and knew what to expect. But the women's — come on, man, give me break. I'm not supposed to even be in one of them much less clean them out.
For those of you who've never been in a women's public restroom let me tell you it ain't a pretty sight. I thought there was a lot of anatomically impossible graffiti on the men's walls, but the women's defied description, gravity, and the laws of nature.
I did learn two very important things in the women's bathroom: 1) if you're cleaning it out, put up a sign that says so or else one day you'll be cleaning out a stall when some little old lady with blue hair wanders in and strikes up a conversation through the stall walls about the weather and you'll answer that, yes, it is a nice day for a drive depending on where you're heading, causing her to go running from the stall screaming at the top of her lungs that's there's a "Pre-vert" in the women's bathroom. This, according to Murphy's Law, then causes the State Trooper who's getting gas out front to drag you out of the bathroom by the hair in front of everyone including a carload of cute girls (cheerleaders and baton twirlers) and the Baptist pastor (whose daughter got pregnant two months ago out of wedlock and probably could use a good laugh but had no business getting it off me); and 2) never look up at the bathroom ventilation grate because that's where the mechanic is perched, watching all the good-looking girls in the bathroom below.
The basic problem with giving a bunch of 15-year-old boys orders is that they will probably follow them. So be careful what you tell them to do. Because they'll do it. That's all they'll do though — just what you tell them. Nothing more. Even if it makes sense — actually — especially if it makes sense.
Take for instance The Oil Changing Incident. Guy pulls in with an Oldsmobile longer than a two-dollar clothesline and wants it serviced. Bennie tells me to drain the oil, check the rear end because the customer thinks it's leaking, lube the joints and vacuum it out.
Since I had virtually no idea how to do most of this stuff, I wasn't worried since I figured if I knew what I was supposed to be doing I might be afraid of screwing it up. But since I didn't know whether I was doing it right or wrong there wasn't much reason to worry about making a mistake. This is just an example of why, I think, most parents of teenage boys would support a mandatory draft into the military service.
So, as ordered, I drained the oil out of the engine, glanced at the back of the car and didn't see anything dripping off the bumper or out of the gas tank, lubed the joints and vacuumed it out.
About an hour later Bennie walks over and says, and I later quoted his words back to him, "Did you finish the Olds?" And I said, "Yessir, I did everything you told me to do."
And nothing realIy spectacular happened until the next day when the owner of the Olds came back and tried to punch Bennie's lights out because nobody put any oil back into the engine of his car and the rear axle seized because all of that fluid had already leaked out. But it was nice and clean inside, he had to admit.
Bennie would have fired me but by that time the other two guys had already quit and I was his only hope for the rest of the summer. Kinda like tossing a boulder to a drowning man — he'll grab at it hoping it's pumice.
Things bumped along without nuclear incident for the better part of a month. I was gaining confidence everyday, and had actually been learning a thing or two about cars. And then, just when I thought my gas station career was about to take off, a Southern Belle with a smooth drawl and the nicest sweater I'd ever seen drove her VW bug in to have it winterized.
I tried to tell her that VWs didn't need to be winterized because they didn't have any antifreeze to change. But she insisted that someone had told her that she needed to have the summer air in her tires replaced with winter air and that her muffler had to be wrapped so it wouldn't freeze. According to Bennie's Rule Number Three, this gal was going to get her car winterized.
So, I let all the air out of her tires and started to refill them with our brand new automatic air gauge system — hook it up and it quits when the tire is full. While the second tire was filling, I ran back to the garage to put a pick-up on the lift for an oil change.
The truck was just about halfway up the lift when the VW tire outside exploded and Miss Georgia screamed and started to cry. Naturally, in my role of Sgt. Preston of the Yukon, I ran to the rescue and began consoling her.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, the pick-up truck and camper kept going up on the lift because no one, namely me, was there to stop them. And about one nano-second after I'd dabbed the last tear from Scarlett O'Hara's cheek, the camper crashed through the overhead glass doors in the garage.
By now the station was beginning to take on that unmistakable air of a carnie ride gone sour. People running in all directions, women screaming, tires peeling as motorists raced out of the combat area and the unmistakable sound of a fire engine heading our way which, as it turned out, had nothing to do with the three-ring Bennie's Chevron Circus.
What this joint needed, I figured, was hero. And I was available.
I sprang into action racing across the parking lot heading for the "emergency off" lever for the lift — if I could get to it, I could cut the power, turn the lift off and save what was left of the day.
But heroes can't be everywhere — they can't know everything. Like the fact that Bennie already had the lift under control. Until the power suddenly cut off. Causing the lift to jerk to a stop. Which toppled the truck and camper off the lift. Onto the car in the next stall.
I left my hat on Bennie's desk along with the keys to the door. I think he's still looking for me — the car in the next stall was his. A classic pink T-Bird Coupe. Real Cute. Real Dead. Real flat.
I can't wait until my daughter gets her first real job. Working for somebody else. Hey, heredity is nothing to fool around with.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then you get a job. And then you do exactly what the boss tells you. And then it gets worse. And then it's your fault. Always.
by Joe Acton
Remember your first job? No — I mean your first real get-up-and-go-to-work-every-day job, not the jobs that your parents gave you over the summer to keep you out of their hair and TO HELP YOU UNDERSTAND THE VALUE OF A DOLLAR SO YOU WON'T KEEP THROWING IT AWAY ON A LOT OF UNNECESSARY NONSENSE LIKE SLOT CARS, ROLLER-COASTER RIDES AND "THE SCREWING AROUND YOU NORMALLY DO WITH THAT CROWD OF KNUCKLEHEADS YOU GENERALLY HANG OUT WITH.".
My first contact with the real world, and likewise its first contact with me, came when I was 15 and went to work at Bennie's Chevron, the neighborhood service station. This event was no less traumatic for both sides than when Stanley blundered through the African continent to utter his now famous line, "Dr. Livingston, I presume." In other words, finding the job was a lot more fun than actually having it.
Bennie's Chevron was a "service station." You remember those things — back in the "olden days" — it was a place where you'd stop for gas and, as if by magic by today's standards, someone would actually come out of the building and fill your tank with gas AND service your car. No kidding. It really was like that.
Back then service stations sold stuff like Bardahl and STP — now you go to a mini-mart for gas and burritos — they've never heard of Bardahl and think STP is a new lotto game.
Back then a kid came charging out to help you — now you have to run in, stand in line with a bunch of kids with green hair and beg "The Dudette" behind the counter to take your money before she finishes her phone call to "Spike."
And back then, the kid that came charging out always wore a uniform. Mine was white. A white uniform? In a gas station?
Nuts, eh? Ask any mom the dumbest thing you can buy for a 15-year-old boy and right at the top of the list will be ANYTHING that's white. Now tell her that you're going to have a teenage boy wearing a white uniform working in a gas station all day and she generally heads for the liquor cabinet.
But Bennie was not a mom. He was fair, though. For example, even though he required us to wear Chevron white uniforms, he let us pay for them out of our paychecks. And I'm sure it was just a matter of convenience that we had to buy them from him, not the distributor.
What Bennie lacked in parental insight he made up for with the ability to build character faster than a drill instructor.
"All right, you three morons have two things in common — you don't know anything about this business and I'm paying you more than you're worth."
Well, that just about says it all for the "New Employee Orientation," doesn't it?
"Rule Number One around here is 'Bennie is always right.' Doesn't matter if what I tell you today is different from what I told you yesterday. All you gotta remember is that I was right yesterday and I'm right today." Okay, so there's not a lot of room for discussion, no problem, I'm used to that — after all, I'm a teenager with parents — this'll be like driving my parents nuts except I'll get paid for it.
"Rule Number Two is when the bell out front rings that means there's a car waiting for gas. That means they want service. We're a service station. Now isn't that just a slice of coincidence? When the bell rings you clowns drop whatever you're doing and swarm on that car like felt on moose horns." Are you kidding me? I'm getting paid to wear this swell uniform and have foot races all day with three other guys? Far out.
"The last thing you three dip-sticks need to understand is that a Bennie's Chevron customer is always right. No matter what. Even if they're as stupid as you are, they're always right. Even when they're wrong, they're right. I don't want to get any complaints because one of you three Yahoos didn't do something a customer wanted done." Even at 15 it was hard to imagine a customer dumber than me about cars, but I was willing to play along.
I knew it was going to be a long summer when the very first rattle out of the box I drew the short straw and had to clean the bathrooms. This wasn't supposed to be part of the job — everyone knows that cleaning the bathroom is the lowest job around. I'm wearing a nice uniform and should be out front where all the girls can see it — and me in it.
Besides, I'd been in men's bathrooms before and knew what to expect. But the women's — come on, man, give me break. I'm not supposed to even be in one of them much less clean them out.
For those of you who've never been in a women's public restroom let me tell you it ain't a pretty sight. I thought there was a lot of anatomically impossible graffiti on the men's walls, but the women's defied description, gravity, and the laws of nature.
I did learn two very important things in the women's bathroom: 1) if you're cleaning it out, put up a sign that says so or else one day you'll be cleaning out a stall when some little old lady with blue hair wanders in and strikes up a conversation through the stall walls about the weather and you'll answer that, yes, it is a nice day for a drive depending on where you're heading, causing her to go running from the stall screaming at the top of her lungs that's there's a "Pre-vert" in the women's bathroom. This, according to Murphy's Law, then causes the State Trooper who's getting gas out front to drag you out of the bathroom by the hair in front of everyone including a carload of cute girls (cheerleaders and baton twirlers) and the Baptist pastor (whose daughter got pregnant two months ago out of wedlock and probably could use a good laugh but had no business getting it off me); and 2) never look up at the bathroom ventilation grate because that's where the mechanic is perched, watching all the good-looking girls in the bathroom below.
The basic problem with giving a bunch of 15-year-old boys orders is that they will probably follow them. So be careful what you tell them to do. Because they'll do it. That's all they'll do though — just what you tell them. Nothing more. Even if it makes sense — actually — especially if it makes sense.
Take for instance The Oil Changing Incident. Guy pulls in with an Oldsmobile longer than a two-dollar clothesline and wants it serviced. Bennie tells me to drain the oil, check the rear end because the customer thinks it's leaking, lube the joints and vacuum it out.
Since I had virtually no idea how to do most of this stuff, I wasn't worried since I figured if I knew what I was supposed to be doing I might be afraid of screwing it up. But since I didn't know whether I was doing it right or wrong there wasn't much reason to worry about making a mistake. This is just an example of why, I think, most parents of teenage boys would support a mandatory draft into the military service.
So, as ordered, I drained the oil out of the engine, glanced at the back of the car and didn't see anything dripping off the bumper or out of the gas tank, lubed the joints and vacuumed it out.
About an hour later Bennie walks over and says, and I later quoted his words back to him, "Did you finish the Olds?" And I said, "Yessir, I did everything you told me to do."
And nothing realIy spectacular happened until the next day when the owner of the Olds came back and tried to punch Bennie's lights out because nobody put any oil back into the engine of his car and the rear axle seized because all of that fluid had already leaked out. But it was nice and clean inside, he had to admit.
Bennie would have fired me but by that time the other two guys had already quit and I was his only hope for the rest of the summer. Kinda like tossing a boulder to a drowning man — he'll grab at it hoping it's pumice.
Things bumped along without nuclear incident for the better part of a month. I was gaining confidence everyday, and had actually been learning a thing or two about cars. And then, just when I thought my gas station career was about to take off, a Southern Belle with a smooth drawl and the nicest sweater I'd ever seen drove her VW bug in to have it winterized.
I tried to tell her that VWs didn't need to be winterized because they didn't have any antifreeze to change. But she insisted that someone had told her that she needed to have the summer air in her tires replaced with winter air and that her muffler had to be wrapped so it wouldn't freeze. According to Bennie's Rule Number Three, this gal was going to get her car winterized.
So, I let all the air out of her tires and started to refill them with our brand new automatic air gauge system — hook it up and it quits when the tire is full. While the second tire was filling, I ran back to the garage to put a pick-up on the lift for an oil change.
The truck was just about halfway up the lift when the VW tire outside exploded and Miss Georgia screamed and started to cry. Naturally, in my role of Sgt. Preston of the Yukon, I ran to the rescue and began consoling her.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, the pick-up truck and camper kept going up on the lift because no one, namely me, was there to stop them. And about one nano-second after I'd dabbed the last tear from Scarlett O'Hara's cheek, the camper crashed through the overhead glass doors in the garage.
By now the station was beginning to take on that unmistakable air of a carnie ride gone sour. People running in all directions, women screaming, tires peeling as motorists raced out of the combat area and the unmistakable sound of a fire engine heading our way which, as it turned out, had nothing to do with the three-ring Bennie's Chevron Circus.
What this joint needed, I figured, was hero. And I was available.
I sprang into action racing across the parking lot heading for the "emergency off" lever for the lift — if I could get to it, I could cut the power, turn the lift off and save what was left of the day.
But heroes can't be everywhere — they can't know everything. Like the fact that Bennie already had the lift under control. Until the power suddenly cut off. Causing the lift to jerk to a stop. Which toppled the truck and camper off the lift. Onto the car in the next stall.
I left my hat on Bennie's desk along with the keys to the door. I think he's still looking for me — the car in the next stall was his. A classic pink T-Bird Coupe. Real Cute. Real Dead. Real flat.
I can't wait until my daughter gets her first real job. Working for somebody else. Hey, heredity is nothing to fool around with.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then you get a job. And then you do exactly what the boss tells you. And then it gets worse. And then it's your fault. Always.