So many topics from which to choose this month. Do I go with the tragedy in Lewiston or the indescribable beauty of the next morning’s sunrise? The carnage in Israel or the discovery that chicken feathers can replace PFAS chemicals in renewable hydrogen fuel cells? I imagine that my fondness for fried chicken contributes to the mountain of chicken feathers looking for another gig. I think it’s sunrises and chicken feathers, hands down, unless something more interesting comes along before the paper’s deadline, such as my honesty being questioned once upon a time.
One of the first jobs I landed as a teenoid with a new driver’s license and a ’56 Chevy was at Ambrose’s general store in Gurnet, now the location of Zach’s. With no gas money and with room and board expenses, I needed a winter job. While this one didn’t pay very much, thinking back, it was the perfect first job to teach a young man that the corporate ladder does not start on the top rung.
My duties were many and varied. Clams and quahogs were sold by the peck and bushel, gas by the gallon, beer by the bottle, and grinders by the cooler in back. I manned all those stations, sometimes washing my hands after making the grinders to get rid of the onion smell. Nobody seemed to mind the gas and mudflat scents. At 16, I was only vaguely familiar with beer.
My supervision was, well, spotty. Ambrose lived across the road and was fond of naps at home and warm Narragansett at the store. I remember one month-end, not long after starting the job, I was given a talking-to. It seems that his profit for that month was a little higher than expected. In a clear, accusing voice, he asked if I had an explanation for his store’s sudden improvement in financial performance.
I felt like he was accusing me of something Robin Hoodish at best, but had no idea why he might be unhappy with me if, in fact, he was making more money than expected. We agreed that this month might be just an anomaly and I was told to “stick with the prices as marked.” I’m pretty sure the word “anomaly” wasn’t used by either of us, though.
The trend continued in the following months. I had not been inflating prices nor shortchanging customers. If I had, would I have put the extra money in the till? Eventually it was decided that I was simply an honorable teenager under the payroll table. Ambrose went back to his hangout in the storeroom, where it was quiet and fully stocked with cases of warm beer and where he could relax a little between naps. I kept doing my job, getting more practical skill and knowledge in that little store than I ever got within the walls of BHS. Admittedly, my attendance and my attention was much more consistent at the store than at school. I never got a raise, though.
A couple of years and a few states later, I found myself working with a gentleman in the tile and flooring business. I was broke and unfocused, and Rex hired me to carry stuff and drive the van at the end of the day when both he and his helper of many years were too sloshed to drive.
The helper, “Red,” was a red-faced little man with a mean streak that left little room for civility. Incoherent until our lunch break, Red would perk up with the first beer and, over the next few hours, gradually morph from quiet-sullen to quiet-waspish with a hair trigger. Rex meted out Red’s pay incrementally during the week, assuming Red wouldn’t have enough at any one time to get into a situation requiring bail money. It was a humane idea, but not always successful.
In the periods during Red’s short vacations as a guest of the county because of another besotted altercation, I was promoted to Chief Grunt and King’s Driver for Rex. This honor was primarily owed to how I handled a screwdriver one day. The rear license plate on the van was about to fall off, so, while filling up at a gas station, I tightened up the plate using my Swiss army knife.
Obviously, Rex was easily impressed, plus I was less trouble than Red, if not quite the drinking buddy. In ensuing years, I would hone some impressively troublesome habits, but in those days, I was a young amateur with nothing to lose, watching life slip by a day at a time on a life-size screen with Rex and Red manning the projector.
No one would have thought that, nearly 60 years later, I would write a column beginning with a mention of chicken feathers, nor that anyone would read it.
Thanks to the chickens; peace to Lewiston and Israel; RIP Rex and Red. Thank you, Lord, for the sunrises.
