As I endured four rather mixed years of high school, I didn’t need much incentive to pursue college. It was probably in my DNA since both parents and one grandparent had degrees. However, working two crappy, minimum-wage service jobs that Summer made me wish for the shortest Summer of my life.
After graduation I had to move to Bloomington-Normal, live at Grandma’s and find some work to help pay for attending Marquette.
The job choices weren’t much better than North Dakota’s lack of options. (When I moved back to the “Twin Cities” during the early Nineties, they hadn’t improved.) I spent the first few weeks packing plants (most were often dead) at Owen’s Nursery. This place was run by a taskmaster whose screechy voice could make paint peel whenever she cracked her virtual whip over the intercom. I lied to Mom about getting laid off so I could stop going. My respite was short lived since she signed me up to interview with a new Shakey’s Pizza & Buffet. Initially I was cool with it. The managers hired me to be a dishwasher/busboy, the same gig I had with Farrell’s. Had I known about the place’s disastrous setup and management’s plans to “cross-train” me for even crappier work (pizza cutter, salad bar stocker, fry cook, etc.), I would’ve begged to attend Summer classes at a community college. Dishwashing for Shakedown’s (the name we employees gave it after the owner ordered us to clock in 10 minutes early…without pay, which is also illegal) quickly turned into Dante’s tenth circle. The joint had a machine only capable of washing one loaded tray at a time with a one-minute cycle time. I may have been a 17-year-old knowitall but I learned how to wash dishes efficiently at Farrell’s. My previous employer had a larger system which operated like a car wash: trays went in one end, came out another; thus, you could have up to three going through at different stages and more importantly, a skilled dishwasher didn’t have to stand around waiting for a cycle to finish. These idiots installed a system adequate for a coffee shop, not a stuff-your-face carbohydrate bar.
A couple days before I turned 18, I had my final shift of doing dishes until 4 AM and just stopped going to work. The assistant manager called the house a week later to ask why I had bailed. I didn’t hold back my anger on the guy; man did it feel good. Mom took my side for a change on this, especially after I told her about the owner paying us in quarter-hour intervals (Illinois law required it to be five or six minutes). She called the department of labor and Shakedown’s was eventually busted in a surprise audit.
By this day 25 years ago, I didn’t care any longer. Marquette was going to begin in less than a month and toiling away at $3.35/hour in Pharaoh Reagan’s America wasn’t going to make a dent on my tuition. I got to kick back, enjoy being a teenager again: read comic books, play video games, listen to records on Brian’s stereo and write what would be my last letters for many years (college has many distractions). Turning 18 was a rather laid back affair. Mom dropped me off at Eastland Mall so I could see Aliens which continues to hold up 25 years later. I think there was a nice meal, something Grandma insists on.
The better, more personal celebration happened a couple weeks afterwards. Dad came down from North Dakota and brought the portable color TV with our VCR. Then my parents took Brian on a trip or something, leaving me alone with Grandma and Grandpa. I took advantage of the opportunity to watch movies upstairs without having to hear Grandma complain about me hoarding her set. Thanks to a video store being down the street, I scored as many tapes I was allowed (four) in a night and bought junk food at the grocery store. Today, I don’t think I could even eat a third of what I devoured that evening: a small cheesecake, a bag of Cheetos, a couple sandwiches and a two liters of Sunkist soda. The list is a guess since I had a higher metabolism. I do remember the movies clearly: Lost in America, Monty Python’s Holy Grail, Commando and Heaven Help Us.
Making the transition to semi-adulthood (can’t buy a beer yet you can vote for one asshole or another and buy a gun) wasn’t much of a letdown for me though. Mom and Dad had already ruined being a teenager for me with our move to Indianapolis. However, the more casual way of celebrating became the norm and it started in 1986.