The first time I worked on a job, it was not what I expected.
My First Job -
Schrafft's
by Lloyd A. Green
My feet grew heavy as the wet pavement of 23rd Street led me in an eastward direction. The walk seemed longer than it should have been. An unexpected drizzle clouded my glasses, making it difficult to see the correct building numbers. Regardless of the annoying misty veil hanging on my nose, I finally found my location.
I expected to see a cheery restaurant storefront in the shape of a high windowed palace, but instead, I found a weather-beaten doorway that held an even older-looking sign at 58 West 23rd Street. In dull gold letters, it spelled out Schrafft's Temporary Kitchen Help.
I expected to see a cheery restaurant storefront in the shape of a high windowed palace, but instead, I found a weather-beaten doorway that held an even older-looking sign at 58 West 23rd Street. In dull gold letters, it spelled out Schrafft's Temporary Kitchen Help.
I gazed up the steep steps toward the second-floor landing and took a deep breath. With each belabored step, a soggy mess trailed me as I climbed the stairs and drew nearer to the top.
A tall thin guy with dark hair suddenly burst out of the dimly lit open doorway. "Sorry," he said briskly as he ran past me down the stairs. As I watched his hurried descent toward the first-floor street entrance, minor panic gripped me. "What kind of a place is this I'm walking into?" I wondered.
Voices in the distance caught my attention as I entered. I glanced away from the rows of seats filled with more than a dozen tired-looking individuals because a rather large, beat-up-looking desk in the spacious office pulled my gaze. Behind it sat a well-dressed Black guy with a chiseled, pencil-thin mustache. After I approached the desk, I stood dripping on the wooden floor. As the seconds slowly passed, I fought to be patient. I was about to speak up when Mr. Mustache silently looked up. He motioned that I fill out a poorly copied page attached to a clipboard. While I uncomfortably stood at the corner of his desk, I wrote in my information. Because of my lack of job experience, I didn't have much to write, so I soon handed him back the form.
With a down-turned eyebrow, he glanced at what I had written and then looked up at me. "You worked anywhere before?" he asked with a definite New York accent.
"No. First time," I tried to say politely. "Is that a problem?" I'd heard that there would be no requirements for this work, but everything inside me said he was about to show me the door.
"It doesn't matter. Just take a seat," Mr. Mustache said, sounding impatient. After releasing the form from the clipboard's death grip, he tossed it into a nearby wire tray. "Without looking up from his other paperwork, the guy waved the back of his hand as if he were swatting at a very weak fly. His rude dismissal was his way of directing me towards the group of people sitting in rows of close-by wooden chairs.
Just ahead, in the second row, sat my girlfriend, Regina, and her younger sister, Theresa. They had probably arrived a short while before I had. To say that they were acting like giggling teenagers would be a kind way of describing the pair. This area was a workplace, so I thought they'd at least try to sit quietly, but Regina looked like she was about to bust a gut. She tried her best to hold back the laughter behind her huge smile.
I found my way to the empty seat next to her. While sitting, I waved hello to her sister, who gave me a friendly smile. Regina then grabbed my arm and brushed her nose close to my ear.
"No. First time. Is that a problem?" Regina chuckled with a low imitation voice, trying to sound as I did just a moment ago. She was making fun of how serious I was when I answered the guy at the desk, and she wasn't doing a good job keeping her voice down. I lightly placed my index finger on her lips and asked her, "What now?"
"Wait for him to call your name," Regina mumbled through my finger and flashed her lovely seventeen-year-old smile at me. She kissed my finger, withdrew it from her lips, and then placed my hand on her warm lap with one smooth motion.
I was about to say something off-color, but she quickly turned her head back to her younger sister to restart their earlier chatter. I took my glasses off so I could wipe them with a semi-dry tissue from my pocket, and I then took inventory of my surroundings.
The fluorescent lighting overhead was having a hard time fulfilling its purpose. The fixture at the other end of the high-ceiling room was flickering across the wall like an old-time picture show. I was thankful that the wind from the big stand-up fan in the corner could hardly find me. As my rain-soaked shirt slowly tried to dry, this windless area of the room was my salvation from catching a cold. I rubbed my goose-pimpled arm as I thought about how I happened into this office with the silly sisters.
Because of family outings, I avoided what many of my friends had done regularly every summer, which was working. I never even had to deal with working papers when I was younger. So on this fifth day of July 1971, my eighteen years had brought me to this place, and I could truthfully say that I had never worked a day in my life.
Regina had heard about a job site where if you get there at seven in the morning, you'd get sent out on work assignments, first come, first serve. You'd be temporarily filling in for anyone sick or on vacation in Schrafft's restaurants in the city, of which there were many. She described the work as washing dishes, lunch counterwork, and general cleaning. These duties sounded simple enough, and the need to break my leisurely summertime cycle was way overdue.
The office manager with the mustache fumbled noisily through the stacks of papers on his desk, and the racket became annoying. After a bit more noise, one of those papers he located must have had my name on it because he suddenly looked in my direction.
"Mr. Green?" he said, louder than necessary. The room was large, but I doubt that any of the twenty of us would miss a whisper as we sat waiting.
Before I could respond, Regina broke the silence. "Hey," she protested. "We were here fifteen minutes before you. No fair." She obviously wanted to be heard by more than just me.
Theresa tugged on her sister's arm. "Don't be so loud," She said. "You don't know what he's calling him for."
As I rose from the chair, I bent over and whispered to Regina. "Guess they need the help of somebody strong and good-looking."
"Then why did he call you?" she quickly responded. Regina covered her mouth with both hands to unsuccessfully hold back her response to her joke. It was easy to hear the air bursting from between her fingers.
As I walked towards the desk, I heard a complaint from a close-by soul. In this office lottery, it seemed that I won, and he chose me first, and others weren't happy about it.
"You know how to get to Flatbush Avenue and Church Street from here?" Mr. Mustache asked me when I finally got to his desk.
"Yeah. You take the B Train into Brooklyn and get off at Church Street."
He nodded and continued his instructions. "They need you to work over there for the rest of the day. When you've finished working, you'll get paid in cash. About two dollars an hour. Any questions?"
After I shook my head, Mr. Mustache gave me a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it and thirty cents for train fare. I turned quickly to wave goodbye to the women folk, who seemed about as shocked as I was at how quickly everything happened.
I felt proud as I descended the stairs towards the street. After today, I'd be able to independently feed the hungry masses, even if that only meant me.
Raindrops were no longer painting odd shapes on the sidewalks. The heat from the early morning sun crawled down the back of my shirt, reminding me that it might be better to have the rain, but the clouds had decided to scatter.
The fifteen-minute subway ride underground was cool and thankfully away from the sun. When I got to my stop, I hopped upstairs, and the building I sought was easy to find. I'd heard about Schrafft's restaurants all my life and the look of this building on 912 Flatbush Avenue was more in line with what I had expected from the company. Colorful street signs and cheery television commercials always depicted their stores as upscale eateries. They were most famous for their breakfast, dinners, ice cream, and candy assortments.
A tall thin guy with dark hair suddenly burst out of the dimly lit open doorway. "Sorry," he said briskly as he ran past me down the stairs. As I watched his hurried descent toward the first-floor street entrance, minor panic gripped me. "What kind of a place is this I'm walking into?" I wondered.
Voices in the distance caught my attention as I entered. I glanced away from the rows of seats filled with more than a dozen tired-looking individuals because a rather large, beat-up-looking desk in the spacious office pulled my gaze. Behind it sat a well-dressed Black guy with a chiseled, pencil-thin mustache. After I approached the desk, I stood dripping on the wooden floor. As the seconds slowly passed, I fought to be patient. I was about to speak up when Mr. Mustache silently looked up. He motioned that I fill out a poorly copied page attached to a clipboard. While I uncomfortably stood at the corner of his desk, I wrote in my information. Because of my lack of job experience, I didn't have much to write, so I soon handed him back the form.
With a down-turned eyebrow, he glanced at what I had written and then looked up at me. "You worked anywhere before?" he asked with a definite New York accent.
"No. First time," I tried to say politely. "Is that a problem?" I'd heard that there would be no requirements for this work, but everything inside me said he was about to show me the door.
"It doesn't matter. Just take a seat," Mr. Mustache said, sounding impatient. After releasing the form from the clipboard's death grip, he tossed it into a nearby wire tray. "Without looking up from his other paperwork, the guy waved the back of his hand as if he were swatting at a very weak fly. His rude dismissal was his way of directing me towards the group of people sitting in rows of close-by wooden chairs.
Just ahead, in the second row, sat my girlfriend, Regina, and her younger sister, Theresa. They had probably arrived a short while before I had. To say that they were acting like giggling teenagers would be a kind way of describing the pair. This area was a workplace, so I thought they'd at least try to sit quietly, but Regina looked like she was about to bust a gut. She tried her best to hold back the laughter behind her huge smile.
I found my way to the empty seat next to her. While sitting, I waved hello to her sister, who gave me a friendly smile. Regina then grabbed my arm and brushed her nose close to my ear.
"No. First time. Is that a problem?" Regina chuckled with a low imitation voice, trying to sound as I did just a moment ago. She was making fun of how serious I was when I answered the guy at the desk, and she wasn't doing a good job keeping her voice down. I lightly placed my index finger on her lips and asked her, "What now?"
"Wait for him to call your name," Regina mumbled through my finger and flashed her lovely seventeen-year-old smile at me. She kissed my finger, withdrew it from her lips, and then placed my hand on her warm lap with one smooth motion.
I was about to say something off-color, but she quickly turned her head back to her younger sister to restart their earlier chatter. I took my glasses off so I could wipe them with a semi-dry tissue from my pocket, and I then took inventory of my surroundings.
The fluorescent lighting overhead was having a hard time fulfilling its purpose. The fixture at the other end of the high-ceiling room was flickering across the wall like an old-time picture show. I was thankful that the wind from the big stand-up fan in the corner could hardly find me. As my rain-soaked shirt slowly tried to dry, this windless area of the room was my salvation from catching a cold. I rubbed my goose-pimpled arm as I thought about how I happened into this office with the silly sisters.
Because of family outings, I avoided what many of my friends had done regularly every summer, which was working. I never even had to deal with working papers when I was younger. So on this fifth day of July 1971, my eighteen years had brought me to this place, and I could truthfully say that I had never worked a day in my life.
Regina had heard about a job site where if you get there at seven in the morning, you'd get sent out on work assignments, first come, first serve. You'd be temporarily filling in for anyone sick or on vacation in Schrafft's restaurants in the city, of which there were many. She described the work as washing dishes, lunch counterwork, and general cleaning. These duties sounded simple enough, and the need to break my leisurely summertime cycle was way overdue.
The office manager with the mustache fumbled noisily through the stacks of papers on his desk, and the racket became annoying. After a bit more noise, one of those papers he located must have had my name on it because he suddenly looked in my direction.
"Mr. Green?" he said, louder than necessary. The room was large, but I doubt that any of the twenty of us would miss a whisper as we sat waiting.
Before I could respond, Regina broke the silence. "Hey," she protested. "We were here fifteen minutes before you. No fair." She obviously wanted to be heard by more than just me.
Theresa tugged on her sister's arm. "Don't be so loud," She said. "You don't know what he's calling him for."
As I rose from the chair, I bent over and whispered to Regina. "Guess they need the help of somebody strong and good-looking."
"Then why did he call you?" she quickly responded. Regina covered her mouth with both hands to unsuccessfully hold back her response to her joke. It was easy to hear the air bursting from between her fingers.
As I walked towards the desk, I heard a complaint from a close-by soul. In this office lottery, it seemed that I won, and he chose me first, and others weren't happy about it.
"You know how to get to Flatbush Avenue and Church Street from here?" Mr. Mustache asked me when I finally got to his desk.
"Yeah. You take the B Train into Brooklyn and get off at Church Street."
He nodded and continued his instructions. "They need you to work over there for the rest of the day. When you've finished working, you'll get paid in cash. About two dollars an hour. Any questions?"
After I shook my head, Mr. Mustache gave me a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it and thirty cents for train fare. I turned quickly to wave goodbye to the women folk, who seemed about as shocked as I was at how quickly everything happened.
I felt proud as I descended the stairs towards the street. After today, I'd be able to independently feed the hungry masses, even if that only meant me.
Raindrops were no longer painting odd shapes on the sidewalks. The heat from the early morning sun crawled down the back of my shirt, reminding me that it might be better to have the rain, but the clouds had decided to scatter.
The fifteen-minute subway ride underground was cool and thankfully away from the sun. When I got to my stop, I hopped upstairs, and the building I sought was easy to find. I'd heard about Schrafft's restaurants all my life and the look of this building on 912 Flatbush Avenue was more in line with what I had expected from the company. Colorful street signs and cheery television commercials always depicted their stores as upscale eateries. They were most famous for their breakfast, dinners, ice cream, and candy assortments.
Schrafft's - 912 Flatbush Avenue, Bklyn, NY
I gratefully smiled as I entered the air-conditioned store. On my left was a long cocktail bar with stools; on the right were glass cases filled with cookies, pastries, gift baskets, and various boxes of chocolates. Further into the restaurant, I saw a woman seated alone at a table, and she was eating what looked like a tall hot fudge sundae. I held back a pang of jealousy and began to plan for the pay I had not yet received.
Working behind the lunch counter or maybe in the kitchen that I could not yet see might be challenging, but I felt I could enjoy working in these surroundings. I approached the counter nearest the front door and was surprised by who was standing there. It was the same tall guy who had passed me when I first entered the 27th street office. As I got close, I could hear him saying what I was about to.
"The Temporary Help office sent me. Who do I see?"
The neatly dressed young woman behind the counter called for a guy named Frank, who quickly appeared from a side door. I told her I was here for the same reason by the time he reached the counter. The tall guy politely waved at me but looked as confused as I did about why we were both here.
Frank eyed the two of us with a half-smile and then asked for our names. The tall guy said Ray, and after I responded, Frank asked that we follow him through the same side door that he had entered from, and we passed through the kitchen.
The giant dishwashing machine, which dominated the side of one wall, shocked me. People were standing to its left, feeding dirty dishes and trays onto the noisy monster's conveyor belt. And on the machine's right, others were removing the steaming hot and quickly drying remains. Spread throughout the rest of the kitchen were sinks and food preparation counters. I took for granted where we'd be working, but to my surprise, we walked past this area and headed through another door that led us down a poorly lit staircase. When the three of us moved past the door that opened up to an expansive basement, I was shocked and disgusted, all at the same time.
|
They had thrown every unwanted piece of junk down here that wasn't being used upstairs, and judging by the massive amount of stuff; this wasn't recent garbage. I don't mean anyone threw bags of food downstairs, but employees had discarded everything else imaginable into the massive basement area. The floor was damp, which probably caused the mildew odor hanging in the air. It seemed like this badly neglected 40-square foot area place had filled up for years.
Hesitantly, Frank finally asked, "Well. What do you guys think?" |
Before giving my answer, many revelations flashed through my head.
One. This guy sounded like he was giving us a choice instead of saying, "Get started working." I was sure that Frank had asked many others the same question, and they non-apologetically gave the response, "Are you out of your mind. This is disgusting. I can't do this."
Two. Back at the 27th street office, the office manager picked me ahead of many others. This situation had to be the horrible job that Mr. Mustashe first gave to any newbie that walked in, on the chance that the dirty work would finally get done. Had they been running this same question to people for months? Was this, at the least, a year's worth of refuse in front of me? Couldn't they hire some company to clear this out instead of waiting for lowly paid shmucks to do it?
Three. On the brighter side, how bad could it really be? A little hard word work never hurt anybody. It wasn't in my nature to go back and complain even though I was sure others had.
And four. This occasion was the first time anyone offered me pay for a job. My first job. "What the Hell," I thought. I could go home with nothing or ride this through and have a few bucks of spending money in my pocket. In addition, I would challenge myself and maybe even feel like a winner.
After what seemed like minutes but was only an instant, I responded. "Okay. I'll stay." I looked over at Ray. "Want to get started?"
After a moment of rolling his eyes, Ray slowly gave his response. "Okay, okay. I guess I'll stay too."
I could tell that if I had said no, Ray would have been out the door too. After I patted myself on the back for being a good crew leader, Frank gave us brooms, work gloves, and plastic bags and then left us to work.
Within the first half-hour, the wetness soaked through my gloves, but I kept them on so that I at least didn't have direct contact with the refuse. There were metal containers, broken wooden panels, lots of soggy boxes, and more empty cans and bottles than I cared to see for a lifetime. If you imagine these things placed in a watery under-soup and you have a recipe for a disgusting afternoon.
The more we worked, the more humid our surroundings became. As I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my bare arm, I tried desperately not to come close to having my gloves touch my face. When I noticed that Ray had removed his glove so he could remove the hair that had fallen into his face, I felt my skin crawl. The guy was wearing the same cloth gloves I was, and I hoped nothing strange crawled into his scalp as he carefully replaced his wet glove.
"What the hell is this," Ray said suddenly. As I walked over to where he stood, he placed into a bag what looked like a scary plastic something that had an enormous amount of mole and fungus growing on it. The sticky mildew on its surface was in the shape of a grotesque smiling face, and its broken edges looked like fragmented legs.
"I really don't know. Maybe it fell or jumped off the ceiling and landed close by because it was happy to see you. Seal that thing up in the bag and suffocate it before it gets away."
My sense of humor was making the torture a bit bearable. Humorous conversations like these helped distract us as we worked to find the bottom of the slimy cluttered mess.
It took us about three hours to separate and bag the stuff and another hour to clean up the floor, so the place looked like a basement again. The original beige color of the floor surface slowly spread across the dark stone since it was now drying. The floor had not seen the light of the overhead bulbs for a very long time.
Frank had walked downstairs once before, probably to check if we were sitting down crying. When he came down the second time, he seemed genuinely amazed as we came close to completing the work. He heartily congratulated us for work well done. Management used us shoddily, but the praise felt good. Regardless, I smiled and said thanks.
Ray and I said bye after each of us got ten bucks for our trouble. I decided not to hang around for that fudge sundae. Considering my need to clean up, the store probably would have lost customers if I had stayed. Before finding steadier work, I traveled back to Schrafft's Temporary Kitchen Help most mornings that summer. I did dishwashing and various kitchen tasks, but during all of my assignments throughout the city, never was I presented with a similar jaw-dropping challenge as I had been on my first day of work
The End
