by Peter Yezukevich

My first boss was a guy who took ice cream way too seriously. I was sixteen and had managed to stave off the inevitable no longer: I needed a job. My friend Fred worked at the local ice cream stand and it seemed like easy enough work. Within weeks of working there, I took to calling the boss The Mustachioed Bastard. He was thick-headed and barrel-chested, with massive arms like a wrestler, so he looked and sounded ridiculous saying things like “Butter crunch is low, better get another!” or “Bananas first, then heavy cream, c’mon!” Because of his attitude and because I was shiftless, I felt no guilt when I called in sick for the first time, on a hot Friday night in the summer.

“What are they gonna do, fire you?” said Fred.

He should know, I thought, and so I went for it.

That night I came home to two unhappy parents.

“Your boss called, he said not to come back,” said my father. 

What happened? I thought. Who squealed? It turned out The Mustachioed Bastard had called hoping somehow I could make it in to work that night, as the place was overflowing with customers. My father unwittingly let him know my sickness was a lie (“He’s out with his friends”), and The Mustachioed Bastard asked him to relay the message. Before I even knew it, I was fired.

The next day my father drove me all around town and I filled out application after application. Supermarkets, restaurants, flower shops, the movie theater, convenience stores, we went everywhere. As if driving alone with my father was not awkward enough at that age, the added stress made the situation unbearable. It only got worse when I mentioned halfway through the day that I’d been writing “Welcome Cow Ice Cream” as a reference. My father just stared at me, confounded by my ignorance of the job world.

The pressure ended that day when I walked out of the Chowder House with a $3.10 an hour job as dishwasher, to begin later that night. I had hesitated when the owner of the restaurant gave me the take-it-or-leave-it option of working that night, imagining being held captive in the hot, steaming kitchen while I could be out riding my bike or playing basketball. But common sense kicked in for once, and I agreed to return as soon as possible to begin training.

The less-than-fond memory of riding around town with my father that day took a stranglehold on my sensibilities, and I ended up working at the Chowder House washing dishes for the next four-plus years. The boss there, Jack, was much easier to work for than The M.B. For one thing, he was no genius, and he admitted as much to me as we cleaned out the walk-in fridge one day.

Apropos of nothing, Jack suddenly said: “I got my head stuck in my parents’ car window when I was a kid. Lost oxygen to my brain for five minutes. That’s why I’m kinda dumb.”

I looked up from the containers of chicory and said “Oh, that’s okay.”

That was all I could come up with. I didn’t care what I said though; I was just excited to realize I had a boss who could never have been a drill sergeant.   

But the panic-inducing after-effects of working for The M.B. would kick in from time to time. The night I asked for my first raise, Jack was driving me home from work. After some squirming, I blurted out the question. Jack sighed, then agreed to raise my wage to the state minimum. After a second of relief, I felt like jumping from the car and robbing a bank. I didn’t like the road ahead of me in the world of moneymaking. Cowering to bosses for little bits of money, who decided this was the way to live? I thought. Coming home reeking of fish, still can’t buy anything I want, this is stupid!

I got so worked up I didn’t realize we had long ago passed my street.

“Oh, shoot! My house is way back there,” I said, pointing with my thumb.

“I don’t know where you live, Pete, you gotta tell me,” Jack said, no doubt wondering if I was actually worth the minimum wage. I cringed, realizing I still had a lot to learn about playing the job game.

My next job after the Chowder House was at that mecca of flame-licked goods, Building #19. I worked in the rug department, which was like a separate store from the surrounding departments. With a stash of old copies of Playboy in the backroom and disgusting made-up stories about everyone (particularly the women) in the store, the rug department served as a surrogate for a fraternity in my college years. The department manager was a gregarious round man who loved to talk about movies and girls, and he loved his friends in the band Murphy’s Law. More than twice I heard him call their singer “the salt of the earth.”

The manager of the store was another story. Middle-aged, tall and in love with himself in spite of looking severely depressed, Mike had a frog’s mouth that was constantly garnished with a lit cigarette. He was the most efficient smoker I’d ever seen. He’d take a drag and before a whiff of smoke could escape his lips, he’d suck it all in, deeply. It made me wonder if there was Hoover motor installed in his chest.

I would not remember Mike so clearly if he didn’t dislike me so much, and for no good reason. When I found out that the new guy in the rug department was making fifty cents more per hour than I was, I visited Mike in his sprawling mess of an office, which overlooked the entire store.

“Mike, I wanted to talk about my pay. I think I should get at least as much as the new guy.” I was disgusted with the weakness creeping into my voice. I was still intimidated, even knowing how much of a tool this guy was.  The legacy of The M.B. was still in effect.

He talked like a gangster and sounded twice as doltish. “Peter, what are you saying? You’re saying that you think that my method of paying my employees is no good. My hard work that’s gone on for years in putting together a system where people get paid what they deserve doesn’t mean anything to you, I guess. You think you deserve special treatment.”

And he went on and on like this. I don’t remember if I disappeared down the stairs as he continued or if he dismissed me while I was fantasizing about tearing up his beef jerky lips with my rug knife.  I just remember feeling more hatred than I had for anyone since the first time I saw a New Kids On the Block video.

To be continued…