My first job kindled heartache – and hard lessons

In my childhood, the working-class homes on my New Jersey street were wedged pretty close together. This meant that the free-standing, flat-roofed garages behind these houses were also lined up in inviting fashion, with just enough space between them for an energetic, long-legged boy like me to bound from roof to roof.

One late afternoon, when I was 12 years old, I took a great leap onto the next-door neighbor’s garage. Mrs. Strenger, her hair in curlers, came out with a broom and tried to swat me as I crested the gap onto the next roof. She complained to my father, who sat me down that evening and suggested that I look for a job, in the interest of dissipating some of my misdirected energy.

Truth to tell, I had long wanted to be a working adult so that I could have some disposable income of my own.

And so I began the search, going from business to business along the main shopping street, offering to sweep, deliver, clean – anything to earn a few bucks. But it was a no-go.

“Too young” was the repeated refrain.

My last hope was a small pet store run by the no-nonsense Mr. Timmerman. Mustering my courage, I begged him for a job, any job. It was near Easter, and he had just obtained a large number of baby chicks, which were chirping nonstop in the background. Surely he needed help with those. Mr. Timmerman looked me over. “You’re young,” he said with a hint of disapproval in his voice. But my pleading expression must have won him over, because he sighed and nodded. “Come back after school tomorrow.” I was ecstatic. A job! I ran home and told my father the good news.

The next day after school I hightailed it to Mr. Timmerman’s. He pointed me toward a mountain of cardboard shoeboxes in the backroom. Then he handed me a penknife. “Cut a slit in every box for the chicks,” he said. “That should keep you busy for a while.”

I worked apace, nonstop, cutting slit after slit until my fingers were cramped. But with every box I cut, my mind flew like a boy leaping across garage roofs. What would I buy? Sneakers? A BB gun? A skateboard? The possibilities were endless!

After two hours of diligent labor, I returned, glowing, to the front desk. “Done, Mr. Timmerman,” I said as I handed over the penknife, making sure to display my sorely taxed hands. He thanked me, and I watched as he reached into his shirt pocket. Then he handed me my pay: a pen inscribed with the name of the pet store.

I was shattered. But what could I do? I went home, where my father was waiting. “How was work?” he asked.

When I told him my tale of woe, he pulled me in close and put his arm around me. “Did you learn any lessons?”

Lessons? Was that the point of work? I looked up at my dad and said, “Yeah, always agree on the pay ahead of time.”

He smiled. “Let me tell you how I see it. You showed up. You finished something you started. And you did a good job. You can take pride in that.” The last thing he said was, “And it will get better.”

He was right. It did get better. Mr. Timmerman told another proprietor that I was a reliable, hardworking kid, and I picked up some after-school hours for real pay. That first job, then, had been an investment. It enabled me to create something I had never thought about – a reputation.

And it kept me off Mrs. Strenger’s roof.