TOD:
First jobs I had were in summer working for my father's home improvement company. My supervisor for two summers was Mr. Heaton...a pleasant guy with a bulbous nose...and an ever-present drop of perspiration at the tip of that nose.
He was a salty guy, to me, in the summers of 1963 and 64. He was interesting, as well. Whenever we accomplished something earlier than he anticipated, he'd say, "I'm satisfied yadda-yadda-yadda...". He was also always "satisfied" that it would rain, that the rain would clear, that it would be a hot day, that the day would be overcast and, also, that the week had been a good one.
I'm satisfied that I still remember him fondly.
In the summer of 1965, my first "got-it-myself" job was -- wait for it -- as a theater usher at the Mall Cinema, Wade Hampton Mall, Greenville SC.
That, of course, was a "dream job" for a rising high school senior who was movie mad. The Mall Cinema didn't really get the "top" draws, but the perks included getting free admission to other theaters in town (except for roadshow engagements). It was also just a 10-minute walk from my house which was several streets behind the mall. I retained that job into the school year up until December when I broke my ankle backstage at the school's Christmas theatrical presentation. The job was waiting for me when I got better, but we moved far enough way for it not to be convenient/feasible for me to work there any longer before graduation or during the summer before I went to college.
That summer of 1966 I was hired by the owner/manager of the apartment complex we had moved to (my parents sold our house to pay off bills and finance my education). I emptied trash from each floor (two floors on four corners) into big bins in the back; I hosed down all the sidewalks. I maintained the pool I cut grass and used an edger to keep grass from growing over the sidewalks. Etc., etc., etc. It was "okay"...but not a vocation I wanted to pursue again.
When I was in college, my summer jobs were in various facilities of Dan River Mills (which used to have vast holdings in the Greenville area). I worked in a cotton warehouse two summers moving cotton bales (but, alas, there were no barges). Another summer I spent in a cotton testing laboratory.
The summer of 69 saw a myriad of jobs...a one-day construction job (and calling it a day was generous); a month-long stint working dead man's shift in an ice cream warehouse; a one-week gig as a chaperone for a Church group's boys at Camp Old Indian; and, finally, the ultimate job at a Pizza Hut.
My first night at the Pizza Hut, the manager took me to a back room and explained that it was where all the supplies were kept and where the dough was made. It was a medium-sized room with high windows and painted concrete walls. In the middle of the floor was this large stainless steel machine that mixed the dough. There was dough spatter (in various stages of dryness/deterioration) all over the place, including on the linoleum floor and on the walls. The machine was the most important thing to clean, she told me. Anything else I might be able to do would be appreciated. I was told what to use to clean the machine and shown where all the supplies were.
To hear my mother tell it these days, I was a good son, but not one to complete a job to her satisfaction. For the manager of the Pizza Hut, however, the story was different. At some point during the shank of the evening, my new boss sat down with one of the pizza makers and talked about how busy the evening had been. The worker asked her what happened to the new guy. She had totally forgotten me. She figured I must have baled, but she went to the back room and opened the door. I'm not sure what she had expected, but I didn't expect that she would stand there transfixed.
Of course, I had cleaned the dough-making machine...to within an inch of its life, apparently. It shone. The walls were cleaned. The surfaces were cleaned. All the containers on all the shelves had been cleaned, arranged according to content and aligned so you could read what was in each one. I was on the floor at that time putting on the last coat of wax.
Her name was Ann. Ann cried. The next night, I was taught how to make pizzas and that's what I did for the rest of the summer...and again on my Christmas vacation. Ann wanted me to go the Pizza Hut's management school. I wanted to be an actor. She suggested I think about it.
That was summer of 1969 (and December '69). By summer 1970, Uncle Sam had other plans for my future. I didn't look for a job again until January 1994.