First Job
Posted: Friday, November 25, 2011
by Patricia Barbee
http://www.patriciabarbee.com
I was not happy!
This princess had her own way of earning money. I was the neighborhood personal shopper for the elders. They tipped me well. Mom squirreled money and I learned from her. Culture and experiences taught her not to trust banks. I had a bank account in high school, because a local bank was a patron to our school. Every Wednesday was banking day. I held that account at least seven years. We had a small culture clash in the house. I had gotten a Social Security Card without Mom's permission. She thought she had to sign for me. Then she learned, I had just gone
In April after all the prerequisites are met all the seniors are released until graduation rehearsal day. I was the baby of the class by years except for two who were older than me. They could leave school and did.
The guidance counselor had to get me a work permit to leave the building and I was
not allowed to be on any street in Boston between nine and three. The school did not want the paper troubles of dealing with a truant officer.
I was stuck in the house watching television, reading and awaiting the mailman to slip the mail through the slot in the door. Mom had me on an "electronic" monitor called the telephone and I never knew when it would ring. Mom did not want to explain my not being in school to the truant officer either.
Please know going to a world renown unit of higher education on Saturdays while in high school, I completed those studies and graduated before high school!
R-i-n-g, sounded the telephone. I knew it was Mom aggravating me in my comfortable jailbird surroundings. Not this time, it was the high school guidance counselor. She was calling to tell me I had a job in downtown Boston on the eleventh floor.
I was mandated to take the Social Security Card to the job.
I had to dress in a professional manner. With instructions jotted, I was to report the
next morning at eight. I was used to going to college on the weekends and leaving home at seven, I was not bothered by the early hour. The weather was now warm for Boston and I wore a becoming dress, one of Mom's designs, hose, heels with nice purse and gloves.
I went to work for a mailing service. The view over the harbor was fantastic. Most
of the employees looked like they'd just come in from a day at the race track or the
backyard garden. I was overdressed for that place.
My first assignment was to get boxes from a room and bring them to the work table. In the boxes were peppermint candy canes wrapped in cellophane and crack them against the edge of the work table. I was so thrilled to be there standing in heels for eight hours. Yes, I am being factitious!
I had about seven weeks of cracking candy canes and would trade off with others at
the work table and stuff the canes in small brown boxes. They were part of an early Christmas shipping campaign to begin in six months for a now extinct company.
When I left the job forever for the graduation rehearsal, I was dressing like the others at the work table. Yes, I was an embarrassment to my Mom and her clothing designs.
Candy is not a desired taste for me. The peppermints did not kill my taste for candy. Those taste buds died when I was a little sprout from allergies to other candies.
Patricia Barbee © 2011
Patricia Barbee
WryteStuff.com
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