Work, jobs, career - stories, experiences, rants?

[NikF]

Tell me about your first job(s)? Or favourite job? Or the worst place you ever worked? Feel free to post your resume/CV or your outrage at being overlooked for promotion. But please, refrain from detouring into any For twelve years, you have been asking: Who is John Galt? or sending children up chimneys Daily Mail kind of stuff.

Here's mine. There's a tl;dr

I went to work in the studio on a full time basis when I was 16. But at 15 I'd left school, had nowhere to live and needed money. Those qualifications don't offer great opportunities in the employment market.

On the other side of town there was a factory which produced paper sacks for vegetables and animal feed. The workforce consisted of people who had made poor life choices or had been through difficult circumstances or simply found it wise to try and stay under the radar. A blind eye was turned to all of this with no union rep, limited health and safety measures, and supervisors who in some cases were bullies. They didn't even interview. You were just told when to start.

My job was simple. A fork lift truck would dump a thick roll of paper about five feet/1.5 metres long in front of a machine. I'd take one part of a spindle and place it in the end of the paper roll and swing a sledgehammer to drive it in. Repeat on the other side. Then with someone taking the other end of the loaded spindle we'd deadlift it up and on to the machine. Hit the green button and it would begin the process which ended in the now cut and folded paper being deposited on to a rack, from where I'd lift it and stack on a trolley. They got heavy as the piles got higher, but there was no respite. Barring a foul up in the machinery once that green button was pressed it was constant until the roll was finished. That was it from 05:30 to 16:00 with a 20 minute break for lunch. And if you smoked you got two breaks five minutes either side of that.

I lasted almost one month. A supervisor was making advances to one of the young girls. His language was deplorable. I'm no white knight and I don't get involved in the problems of other people, so I limited myself to looking at him after I overheard it. He took me aside into an unused office, threatened me with violence and that he could have me 'fired and out the door within the hour'. I was wild in those days and so I needed a new job.

Finding new full time work was difficult. I took two part time jobs instead. Another early morning start for the first, as a barrow boy ("Cor blimey!") in the local fruit market pushing a barrow piled high with crates and sacks to the client's truck. Less back breaking, certainly cleaner and more safe than the previous gig. Bonus: during my break I'd sit near one of the vacant units and drink black coffee. There I'd open the little single serving tub of cream intended for the coffee and place it nearby. A number of semi feral cats lived in the building, tolerated for their usefulness in keeping the rodent population under control. Eventually a scruffy moggy would come over, walking slow and low, keeping eye contact on me throughout until it reached the cream. It would drink while watching me with suspicion. It got to the stage where I'd be at the canteen checkout with one cup of coffee and half a dozen tubs of cream and milk. But after questioning me and being given an answer, the nice lady let it go. I think she must have liked cats.

Shift finished, back to the home of a friend. He had cool and kind parents who allowed me to get a wash and crash for a few hours. In the evening a walk down to the river and the warehouse. Trucks would back up to the loading bay and we'd unload. That warehouse had its own ecosystem which meant it rained all the time. Fact.
Most of the boxes we shifted contained microwave ovens or (back then, CRT) televisions. Stuff got ripped off frequently, but I took no part of it. Also fact.
The work was nonstop and when break time came I'd go to the little fast food caravan and buy a bread roll filled with a fried egg and a tattie scone. I remember how easily an appetite was built.

All that was Monday to Friday, but at some point I started working on a Sunday in a stall in a market. We sold old and antiquarian books and maps, photos, postcards, playbills etc. An aside -

We had a section of paperback books of the 'romance' genre. In the UK most popular were those published by Mills & Boon. The same (mostly female) faces would come every Saturday and return the books they'd bought on a previous visit, for which half their purchase price would be returned. Then they'd browse through the doctor and nurse romances and all that crap. Regular among them was a mother and daughter, kind of posh and undeniably attractive. The daughter was about my age. At that time I'd already held hands with a number of girls, but none looked like her. With hindsight, it was mostly that she was so well groomed and her hair, makeup, clothing, jewellery - a little string of pearls - were all almost the same as her mother's. She would let me catch her looking at me, then she'd look back down at the books. It became like a game. This went on for weeks, but the only words we exchanged were when she'd pay for the books. One afternoon they came and browsed. Her mother walked away, leaving her pretty daughter to pay for the purchases. I took her money and handed her change in return. She stopped and smiled and said she'd like to ask me a question. Okay. She said "How is it that your voice is so deep, but that you're so very short?" and then kind of stifled a giggle. I was tempted to do one of two things -
1) Knock her out cold. But I don't hit girls.
2) Say "How is it that you look so much like your mother, only she has discernible breasts?" But I didn't. (Maybe because I'm a leg man?)
But I said nothing. And so her giggling changed to a sneer and a look of disgust. She never looked at me again.


I heard of a vacancy for a part time job on a Saturday. It involved something I loved. So an appointment was made for an interview. When that day came it was raining heavily and I decided not to go, because by the time I walked into town I'd be soaked through. Then I changed my mind, because... Just because. I don't know why.

Up the stairs and open a door and inside. A middle aged man said hello. Some glamorous bottle blonde dame asked my name and told me to take a seat. I sat next to a guy who was about 16 or 17, was all neat and tidy, appeared to have the same haircut he'd had since childhood, and the pink, soft face of someone who from the moment of his birth was wrapped in cotton wool and driven everywhere. He also had an air of what in later years I'd come to think of as 'President of the school camera club'. And held on his lap like a woman holds her handbag, a beige - beige, I tells ya! - bag with 'Nikon' printed on it. I'd a (fake) leather jacket, over the shoulder of which was a repurposed, woven guitar strap with a Nikkormat attached to it. He was interviewed first. Then it was my turn and I was offered the job on the spot. I tidied and cleaned and prepped the studio and darkroom and made sure there was a supply of tea and coffee. One year later my boss told me he wanted me to work full time.

tl;dr -

At 15, load a machine and carry heavy stuff.
Also at 15, in the early mornings push a barrow of heavy stuff, feed and have one way conversations with cats, then in the evenings lift heavy stuff in the rain.
Work as glorified teaboy in the studio on a Saturday, and on a market stall on a Sunday where I was sexually objectified.
16 - I started to work full time as an apprentice photographer in the studio and on being cool.
Looking back, the only thing I might have changed is if I had been given the opportunity to run away with the circus I might have taken it. Final fact of the day.

[Sergeant Rock]

Tell me about your first job(s)....Here's mine...

You had a Dickensian youth! How fortunate you eventually landed a decent job that set you on a proper course.

My first job, at age 16, was tending, and getting burned by, four massive deep fryers, cooking french fries non-stop for a chicken and fish restaurant on Sundays. Worked from 11 to 9 with one half hour break. A buck an hour. My sister picked me up at the end of the day. She hated it because I was coated in smelly grease Second job, at 18, over the three month summer school break, was a carhop for a drive-in restaurant: the Varsity in Barberton Ohio.





Six days a week 5 p.m. to 2 a.m., again for a dollar an hour. But working outdoors (instead of in a kitchen over hot grease) and with cute female carhops  and cooks (especially the flirtatious twins) was a comparative treat.

Sarge

[Baron Scarpia]

A buck an hour. With the standard inflation calculator, that is about $6.50 in 2018 dollars. Of course, there was nothing to buy in those days, right?

[Sergeant Rock]

A buck an hour. With the standard inflation calculator, that is about $6.50 in 2018 dollars. Of course, there was nothing to buy in those days, right?

Yes, there were things to buy (although it was mostly barter and trade in those ancient days  ) but some of those things were more expensive than they are today. For example, a full price LP was six dollars or the equivalent of 39 dollars today It explains why my record collection was minuscule in the 60s.

Sarge

[Karl Henning]

Tell me about your first job(s)? Or favourite job? Or the worst place you ever worked? Feel free to post your resume/CV or your outrage at being overlooked for promotion. But please, refrain from detouring into any For twelve years, you have been asking: Who is John Galt? or sending children up chimneys Daily Mail kind of stuff.

Here's mine. There's a tl;dr

I went to work in the studio on a full time basis when I was 16. But at 15 I'd left school, had nowhere to live and needed money. Those qualifications don't offer great opportunities in the employment market.

On the other side of town there was a factory which produced paper sacks for vegetables and animal feed. The workforce consisted of people who had made poor life choices or had been through difficult circumstances or simply found it wise to try and stay under the radar. A blind eye was turned to all of this with no union rep, limited health and safety measures, and supervisors who in some cases were bullies. They didn't even interview. You were just told when to start.

My job was simple. A fork lift truck would dump a thick roll of paper about five feet/1.5 metres long in front of a machine. I'd take one part of a spindle and place it in the end of the paper roll and swing a sledgehammer to drive it in. Repeat on the other side. Then with someone taking the other end of the loaded spindle we'd deadlift it up and on to the machine. Hit the green button and it would begin the process which ended in the now cut and folded paper being deposited on to a rack, from where I'd lift it and stack on a trolley. They got heavy as the piles got higher, but there was no respite. Barring a foul up in the machinery once that green button was pressed it was constant until the roll was finished. That was it from 05:30 to 16:00 with a 20 minute break for lunch. And if you smoked you got two breaks five minutes either side of that.

I lasted almost one month. A supervisor was making advances to one of the young girls. His language was deplorable. I'm no white knight and I don't get involved in the problems of other people, so I limited myself to looking at him after I overheard it. He took me aside into an unused office, threatened me with violence and that he could have me 'fired and out the door within the hour'. I was wild in those days and so I needed a new job.

Finding new full time work was difficult. I took two part time jobs instead. Another early morning start for the first, as a barrow boy ("Cor blimey!") in the local fruit market pushing a barrow piled high with crates and sacks to the client's truck. Less back breaking, certainly cleaner and more safe than the previous gig. Bonus: during my break I'd sit near one of the vacant units and drink black coffee. There I'd open the little single serving tub of cream intended for the coffee and place it nearby. A number of semi feral cats lived in the building, tolerated for their usefulness in keeping the rodent population under control. Eventually a scruffy moggy would come over, walking slow and low, keeping eye contact on me throughout until it reached the cream. It would drink while watching me with suspicion. It got to the stage where I'd be at the canteen checkout with one cup of coffee and half a dozen tubs of cream and milk. But after questioning me and being given an answer, the nice lady let it go. I think she must have liked cats.

Shift finished, back to the home of a friend. He had cool and kind parents who allowed me to get a wash and crash for a few hours. In the evening a walk down to the river and the warehouse. Trucks would back up to the loading bay and we'd unload. That warehouse had its own ecosystem which meant it rained all the time. Fact.
Most of the boxes we shifted contained microwave ovens or (back then, CRT) televisions. Stuff got ripped off frequently, but I took no part of it. Also fact.
The work was nonstop and when break time came I'd go to the little fast food caravan and buy a bread roll filled with a fried egg and a tattie scone. I remember how easily an appetite was built.

All that was Monday to Friday, but at some point I started working on a Sunday in a stall in a market. We sold old and antiquarian books and maps, photos, postcards, playbills etc. An aside -

We had a section of paperback books of the 'romance' genre. In the UK most popular were those published by Mills & Boon. The same (mostly female) faces would come every Saturday and return the books they'd bought on a previous visit, for which half their purchase price would be returned. Then they'd browse through the doctor and nurse romances and all that crap. Regular among them was a mother and daughter, kind of posh and undeniably attractive. The daughter was about my age. At that time I'd already held hands with a number of girls, but none looked like her. With hindsight, it was mostly that she was so well groomed and her hair, makeup, clothing, jewellery - a little string of pearls - were all almost the same as her mother's. She would let me catch her looking at me, then she'd look back down at the books. It became like a game. This went on for weeks, but the only words we exchanged were when she'd pay for the books. One afternoon they came and browsed. Her mother walked away, leaving her pretty daughter to pay for the purchases. I took her money and handed her change in return. She stopped and smiled and said she'd like to ask me a question. Okay. She said "How is it that your voice is so deep, but that you're so very short?" and then kind of stifled a giggle. I was tempted to do one of two things -
1) Knock her out cold. But I don't hit girls.
2) Say "How is it that you look so much like your mother, only she has discernible breasts?" But I didn't. (Maybe because I'm a leg man?)
But I said nothing. And so her giggling changed to a sneer and a look of disgust. She never looked at me again.


I heard of a vacancy for a part time job on a Saturday. It involved something I loved. So an appointment was made for an interview. When that day came it was raining heavily and I decided not to go, because by the time I walked into town I'd be soaked through. Then I changed my mind, because... Just because. I don't know why.

Up the stairs and open a door and inside. A middle aged man said hello. Some glamorous bottle blonde dame asked my name and told me to take a seat. I sat next to a guy who was about 16 or 17, was all neat and tidy, appeared to have the same haircut he'd had since childhood, and the pink, soft face of someone who from the moment of his birth was wrapped in cotton wool and driven everywhere. He also had an air of what in later years I'd come to think of as 'President of the school camera club'. And held on his lap like a woman holds her handbag, a beige - beige, I tells ya! - bag with 'Nikon' printed on it. I'd a (fake) leather jacket, over the shoulder of which was a repurposed, woven guitar strap with a Nikkormat attached to it. He was interviewed first. Then it was my turn and I was offered the job on the spot. I tidied and cleaned and prepped the studio and darkroom and made sure there was a supply of tea and coffee. One year later my boss told me he wanted me to work full time.

tl;dr -

At 15, load a machine and carry heavy stuff.
Also at 15, in the early mornings push a barrow of heavy stuff, feed and have one way conversations with cats, then in the evenings lift heavy stuff in the rain.
Work as glorified teaboy in the studio on a Saturday, and on a market stall on a Sunday where I was sexually objectified.
16 - I started to work full time as an apprentice photographer in the studio and on being cool.
Looking back, the only thing I might have changed is if I had been given the opportunity to run away with the circus I might have taken it. Final fact of the day.

Per the Sarge, aye, your experience reads like Dickens.  I have no rant to vie with thine.

[Archaic Torso of Apollo]

We did a thread on this ("Jobs you hated") a while ago:

http://www.good-music-guide.com/community/index.php/topic,18149.msg497114.html#msg497114

[NikF]

Yeah, Dickensian, although it wasn't my intention to highlight that aspect. My upbringing was what it was. Having said that, I am reading Dickens just now! It's more about how at this point things seem to going full circle for me and I'm thinking back.
Also, I like stories of how people got where they are, stages along the way, maybe characters they encountered or local colour experienced. I think part time or temporary work can kind of lend itself to that. And when relating that stuff, what might seem ordinary or mundane to one person, is often informative or exotica to another.

Sarge, that sounds cool. Chicken/Shrimp in the basket - hold me back! Hahaha. And there must be a tale or two about the flirtatious twins? In any case, that's the kind of thing I was asking about. So thanks for posting it and the photos.

We did a thread on this ("Jobs you hated") a while ago:

http://www.good-music-guide.com/community/index.php/topic,18149.msg497114.html#msg497114

Cheers, I'll have a browse of that at my leisure.

[Sergeant Rock]

Sarge, that sounds cool. Chicken/Shrimp in the basket - hold me back! Hahaha.

It was a greasy spoon but the owner/manager actually offered some decent food. It was a popular spot, especially with teens cruising on weekends (a la American Graffiti).

And there must be a tale or two about the flirtatious twins?

There are twin tales but not the kind I can or should post here 

Sarge

[Baron Scarpia]

Yeah, Dickensian, although it wasn't my intention to highlight that aspect. My upbringing was what it was. Having said that, I am reading Dickens just now! It's more about how at this point things seem to going full circle for me and I'm thinking back.
Also, I like stories of how people got where they are, stages along the way, maybe characters they encountered or local colour experienced. I think part time or temporary work can kind of lend itself to that. And when relating that stuff, what might seem ordinary or mundane to one person, is often informative or exotica to another.

Sarge, that sounds cool. Chicken/Shrimp in the basket - hold me back! Hahaha. And there must be a tale or two about the flirtatious twins? In any case, that's the kind of thing I was asking about. So thanks for posting it and the photos.

My origin story is pretty dull in its outlines, raised mostly in the suburbs under ordinary circumstances.

We had a plumber who told us a story that had some similarities to yours. Came to the U.S. as a boy from Slovakia, his mother became involved with drugs and starting at age 15 or so he lived alone on the streets, knowing little English, working to make his way. In the end he became the prosperous owner of a successful plumbing company (went to community college along the way I think).

You might get the impression that the way to make successful people is to throw them out on the streets, but it doesn't normally work out so well.

[Baron Scarpia]

It was a greasy spoon but the owner/manager actually offered some decent food. It was a popular spot, especially with teens cruising on weekends (a la American Graffiti).

I was imagining Judge Reinhold's job in Fast Times at Ridgemont High

[NikF]

It was a greasy spoon but the owner/manager actually offered some decent food. It was a popular spot, especially with teens cruising on weekends (a la American Graffiti).

Sounds even cooler. 

There are twin tales but not the kind I can or should post here 

Sarge

I understand. I've those types of stories too, and there's a reason they were never posted along with other tales from my past in the dating thread. 

[NikF]

My origin story is pretty dull in its outlines, raised mostly in the suburbs under ordinary circumstances.

We had a plumber who told us a story that had some similarities to yours. Came to the U.S. as a boy from Slovakia, his mother became involved with drugs and starting at age 15 or so he lived alone on the streets, knowing little English, working to make his way. In the end he became the prosperous owner of a successful plumbing company (went to community college along the way I think).

You might get the impression that the way to make successful people is to throw them out on the streets, but it doesn't normally work out so well.

I bet your origin story would still seem exotic to me. Heh.

When growing up in my area drugs were still fairly under control. The biggest problem with adults was alcohol, whereas with teenagers it was substance abuse (aka 'glue sniffing') but in the sack factory I spoke of there were drugs available. The supervisors turned a blind eye to the use of amphetamines by employees trying to work as many hours as possible.

And while I was never anywhere near the big names/jobs in the fashion world, I've worked with more models than I can mention who regularly use the Peruvian marching powder. It's rife in the industry, but you're not supposed to mention it.

Yeah, you're right about the 'sink or swim' being BS. I still see people telling others to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. It doesn't work.
e: I want to expand on that last part. In some cases it's possible to improve your circumstances. But jobs don't create themselves just because you want one.

[vandermolen]

At the age of 22 I was briefly emplyed in a sculpure foundry in Peckham, London - it was situated under a railway bridge and the whole place shook whenever a train went across. I remember a (fortunately) very small piece of molten bronze landing on my head. I was sacked (fired) for incompetence after about a month. The nose of a swordfish fell off whilst I was working on it and after a similar experience with the tail of a rhinoceros I was asked to leave.

[Sergeant Rock]

The nose of a swordfish fell off whilst I was working on it and after a similar experience with the tail of a rhinoceros I was asked to leave.

  ...well, probably not funny at the time, but rather amusing today.

Sarge

[Karl Henning]

At the age of 22 I was briefly emplyed in a sculpure foundry in Peckham, London - it was situated under a railway bridge and the whole place shook whenever a train went across. I remember a (fortunately) very small piece of molten bronze landing on my head. I was sacked (fired) for incompetence after about a month. The nose of a swordfish fell off whilst I was working on it and after a similar experience with the tail of a rhinoceros I was asked to leave.

If only you had deliberately sabotaged these . . . .

[NikF]

At the age of 22 I was briefly emplyed in a sculpure foundry in Peckham, London - it was situated under a railway bridge and the whole place shook whenever a train went across. I remember a (fortunately) very small piece of molten bronze landing on my head. I was sacked (fired) for incompetence after about a month. The nose of a swordfish fell off whilst I was working on it and after a similar experience with the tail of a rhinoceros I was asked to leave.

Parts of your life resemble an Ealing comedy. 

[vandermolen]

Parts of your life resemble an Ealing comedy. 

Most of it actually.

[vandermolen]

  ...well, probably not funny at the time, but rather amusing today.

Sarge

The boss, his wife and the foreman were not very nice. When I left, after a month, instead of skulking out I decided to make a big point of going round to all the staff shaking everyone's hand as if I was leaving after thirty years of golden service. They looked suitably uncomfortable.

[Karl Henning]

The boss, his wife and the foreman were not very nice. When I left, after a month, instead of skulking out I decided to make a big point of going round to all the staff shaking everyone's hand as if I was leaving after thirty years of golden service. They looked suitably uncomfortable.

Well played!

[Baron Scarpia]

The boss, his wife and the foreman were not very nice. When I left, after a month, instead of skulking out I decided to make a big point of going round to all the staff shaking everyone's hand as if I was leaving after thirty years of golden service. They looked suitably uncomfortable.

...muttering under their breath, "is that the wanker that knocked the tail off the rino?"