I thank the kind folks who bought books on Bay Parkway, and Mother Nature for giving us a respite from the gloom of the past five days. Here's an excerpt from an unpublished story titled Change, probably written in the early '80's:
I never thought I'd work there again. Funny how life worked. I was a stock-boy in Gimbel's the summer of 1968, as Vietnam was increasing its stranglehold on the nation, as ghettos were erupting in flames, as sexual mores were changing, as America was doubting, questioning itself. Abortion had yet to be legalized. Drug use was not nearly as prevalent.
I'd just completed my freshman year, one-quarter of a degree in Physical Education that would serve no purpose save the biding of time and the realization that teaching and coaching would not be my life. I turned 18 in May. My father, 68, was still alive. The store, at the time the world's second largest, provided my first job. Minimum wage was $1.60 per hour. I avoided joining the union. I did not understand the need, as the job was temporary. Besides, I could not imagine allowing others to make decisions for me, telling me when to work and when not.
To my surprise, employees in 1982 were still required to sign in and out of work. There was no time-card to punch. This seemed the only remaining similarity, however. In '68 I often left at 5:30, signing 6:00, in order to be home in time to play softball. I would arrive late most of the time, which forced me to be a spectator rather than a participant. It was one of my first tastes of the disappointments of adulthood.
I was reprimanded by a manager once or twice, but was not deterred. After having put in a hard day under Mr. Gold, my cheating was easily rationalized. My friend Bill had recommended me for the job. He'd entered the store's Career Development Program upon graduation from high school. 15 years later, he remained, a monument to loyalty, although he hadn't risen above salesman. In fact, it was his recommendation that saw me hired during the Christmas season of 1982. Minimum wage had increased to $3.35. I guess there were things more absurd than an intelligent, hard-working man of 32 earning minimum wage, but not from his own perspective. At times I would laugh about it, at times cry. I was nearly in dire straights, having managed to get myself fired from a bar tending job because of a personality clash with the boss, then squandering my savings anticipating the opening of a restaurant in which I'd been promised employment by a man who appreciated honesty, punctuality and ability. I gladly accepted the sales position offered me, although I knew nothing about salesmanship. I'd always believed I was capable of adapting to anything.
Read Vic's stories, free: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
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