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He said it would be easy work, taking orders and handing them out. And no dressing up either. Just show up, put on a funny hat and apron, and that was it.

When I turned 16 years old, my dad strongly urged me to find a part-time job. This was also happening to most of my buddies. The problem was that none of us wanted to work. Our game plan was: surf, party — mostly in TJ — and do just enough to keep from flunking out of high school. My good friend Dave said it was our parents’ responsibility to support their children until their children had their own families. This made perfect sense to me. Dad disagreed.

Illustration by Casey Beifuss

Dave and I reluctantly discussed the matter and came to the conclusion that we should try to get jobs together at the same place, preferably near the beach and not too far from the border. That way, we would always be around each other for laughs, and it wouldn’t seem so much like work.

There were plenty of part-time jobs in the early ‘60s around Chula Vista and San Diego, so we knew we could easily find work. Of course, we couldn’t work during school hours. And definitely not early in the morning on the weekends, because that would mess up our surfing. And no late-night work, because that would interfere with our party life. (Happily, TJ was open 24/7, so even after midnight we could still get a pitcher of beer and a bowl of Spanish peanuts for .25 cents at the Jungle Club.) Also, we didn’t want to drive too far. And we most definitely didn’t want anything that required hard labor, like construction. Or a job that required us to think too much. My oldest brother had joined the Peace Corps and was in Africa. My middle brother, who was still living at home, had a job in a men’s clothing store. He liked it, but for that type of job, you needed to dress up. Plus the morning hours on Saturdays would mess up our surfing.

Burger boys

When we were driving home from our favorite surf break between the jetties in Imperial Beach, we liked to stop at a little fast-food restaurant on Palm Avenue. It had tables outside and a drive-up window to order and pick-up food. The selection included hamburgers, fries, shakes, soft-serve ice cream cones, sundaes, and a variety of soft drinks. This looked like a good place to work for Dave and me. We figured we could work the lunch shift after our morning surf sessions. We also figured it would mean free food for us, and a hefty discount for our friends.

When we stopped in, there was an older guy taking orders at the drive-up window. I straight out asked him, “Are you hiring?” and he said yes. I told him my friend needed work too, and he said, “I can use all the help I can get.” As it turned out, he was the owner. His wife did the cooking and he and his kids took orders and cleaned up. Two days later, Dave and I showed up at noon for our first shift.

Dave was all fired up. He said we would get tips. He said it would be easy work, taking orders and handing them out. And no dressing up either. Just show up, put on a funny hat and apron, and that was it. Dave did say that he was concerned about our ability to make correct change and spell orders correctly. I reminded him that while we had flunked out of pre-algebra, we had gotten Cs in arithmetic, and said the cook would know what we meant.

Within an hour, we were hard at it. I was taking orders, and Dave was helping the cook. By about 2 pm, things slowed down some and we had worked up an appetite. I put an order in for us, and we took a break and sat outside at one of the tables. We thought we didn’t need to pay because we were employees. One of the owners’ kids was inside, so we figured he could cover for us. We didn’t see the owner anywhere around, but he showed up out of nowhere and told us we couldn’t just take a break when we wanted. Also that we had to pay for our meals. He was unhappy. So were we. But we hurried through our lunch and got back to work. Then, at about 3 pm, a carload of our surf buddies drove up to the drive through and ordered all kinds of food and drinks. We had seen them that morning at the Imperial Beach jetties and told them about our new jobs.

I got their order all packaged up, and as I handed everything out the window, I said I was going to give them a discount. They said thanks, flipped me off, and drove off without paying. Dave was laughing. The cook and the owner were not. The next thing I heard, loud and clear, was “Get out of here.” We both took off our aprons, set them on the counter, and quickly removed ourselves from the premises. We never stopped by that place again.

Hoses and hijinks

Our first foray into the world of work taught us that working around food made us hungry. Also that we should not tell our friends where we were working. I thought they were jealous of us; Dave said they were just messing around. Either way, we were out of a job.

One of our friends, whose father was in the Navy, told us that the Navy was switching over to civilian hires for some work, and so good part-time jobs were available at Navy Bases around San Diego. We figured that government work would allow for second chances if we screwed up again. Still, it took us about a week of surfing and cheap beer in TJ to get over the trauma of getting fired. Dave kept calling it a learning experience.

One day on the way home from surfing at North Beach Coronado, we stopped at the Navy Amphibious Base on the Silver Strand. The guard at the security gate gave us a pass to go to an employment office, and after filling out an application and turning it in, a guy in a military uniform came out from an office behind the counter and hired us right on the spot to wash pots and pans. We were still in our bathing suits, wearing t-shirts and Mexican huaraches, but that didn’t seem to matter. I was glad there was no dress code.

The best thing about our new job was the hours, 5 am to 8 am, five days a week. The pay was good too, something like $1 an hour. Plus we could eat breakfast there for free when we finished work. The biggest bonus was that this fit our surf schedule perfectly: go to work, eat a big breakfast, head to North Beach Coronado to surf while it was still glassy, then play volleyball on the beach, take a nap in the sand dunes, and return to Chula Vista to get ready for party time in TJ.

We were so eager to get things right that we slept in the parking lot outside the main entrance gate the night before our start date so we wouldn’t be late. We checked in and got our badges at the gate, and a guy in a fancy military uniform took us into a room next to the kitchen. It was like a big shower, with a trough area at one end for the cooks to deposit the large pots and pans to be cleaned. There were big open doors at each end of the room with hanging clear plastic sheeting covering the doors. The guy in the uniform showed us how to use the big, high-pressure water hoses to power spray the dirty pots and pans. The water coming out of those hoses was hot as hell.

We put on heavy waterproof aprons and waited for the first load of pots and pans to arrive. As we waited, we both lit up a cigarette. We were ordered to extinguish them, which rankled — we didn’t like being told what to do. About 5:30 am, the pots and pans started to come in — and they stacked up quickly. We hosed them down, and it was going great for a while — until I went to remove the clean pots and pans, and Dave squirted me. He acted like it was a mistake, but I knew better. Shortly thereafter, I gave him a taste of his own medicine. It wasn’t long before we were having a full-on water fight. Then Dave dropped his hose with the valve fully opened and the nozzle pointed toward the kitchen area. The cooks got a good drenching, along with their huge pans of scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls. Within ten minutes, we were at the front gate, this time exiting the base. Dave was upset about not getting breakfast. Another learning experience.

Flowers and fast cars

Mother’s Day came, and my brothers and I went in on buying some flowers for Mom. When I went to pick them up at the local florist in Chula Vista, I asked the guy at the counter if they needed any help. He was the owner of the shop, and after sizing me up some, he said he could use someone to help clean up at the end of the day. I took the job and told Dave I would try to get him hired as soon as possible. The shop’s owner asked me if I could also make deliveries, using the florist’s van. The van had a nice radio, so I picked up Dave and we cruised around making deliveries. When those deliveries were in San Diego, we checked out the surf at our favorite spots.

The owner and his wife ran the entire business, and they had a baby they would bring to work. The owner had learned floral design somewhere in Europe, and he was like an artist with those flowers, and on my first day he was showing me how to design a simple small floral arrangement. On the second day he had me doing a little sales, both on the phone and in the shop’s showroom. But mostly I was cleaning up. I liked these folks, and they liked me. They let me run miscellaneous errands, including making bank deposits. I picked up Dave on one of the bank runs. He said we needed to count the cash to make sure the teller was accurate when they counted. Dave promptly opened the pouch and counted the money. Then I recounted it but came up with a different total, but I figured it was close enough. Then Dave asked me if I thought the owner knew exactly how much was in the pouch. I didn’t answer, but we did have a serious stare at each other.

When the regular delivery guy got sick, I began doing all the deliveries. I would load up the van — mostly with floral sprays for delivery to mortuaries all around San Diego County — pick up Dave, and off we would go with the radio blasting. Once we were on the road, we were our own bosses. We could stop to eat when we wanted. And after we got to be friends with the people at the mortuaries, we could pop in and see the dead bodies. I recall that the sweet pickle-like smell of embalming fluid made me feel like I had taken a few shots of tequila in quick succession. Dave would say that the people didn’t look dead, and once, he nudged a body to see if it would respond. Our friends thought this was the coolest thing ever.

I had been there about a week when the owner asked me if I knew someone else who could do some of the deliveries, because he needed me to help him more with sales and some of the basic floral arrangements as well as do the clean-up. I called Dave immediately, and he came right over. I had a hunch the owner knew Dave had been doing some ride along with me for deliveries, but he didn’t ever say anything. The team was back together, and Dave was handling the deliveries right quick. He could deliver to a mortuary in San Diego, view a couple of dead bodies, and be back in Chula Vista in less than an hour.

The owner started getting a little concerned at how fast Dave could make deliveries and asked me if Dave was a good driver. I told him “Oh yes, he has never been in an accident or gotten a ticket that I know about.” This was false. I knew Dave was not a safe driver. Driving was like a race to him. I think he held the record for Chula Vista to TJ: 10 minutes in his parents’ V8 Rambler Ambassador. On his third or fourth day, Dave took off on a San Diego delivery, but he didn’t return in his normal timeframe. After a couple of hours, the phone rang. I picked up and said, “Good afternoon, thank you for calling!” But it was Dave. He said, “Act like this is a normal call, I am in San Diego, and I had a wreck, and the whole side of the van is messed up, but it’s still drivable.” I responded by saying the hours the shop was open.

Within an hour, I saw Dave backing up the van into a far corner of the parking lot. We never backed into the lot, so I knew he was trying to hide the damage. He came inside and the owner said he had one more quick local delivery, but Dave said he had homework to do, and would it be okay if Jerry made the delivery? I almost laughed out loud when Dave said homework, because we never did homework. We thought homework was for people who weren’t smart enough to learn during the day when they were in school. Dave left and I made the delivery in the damaged van. The entire driver’s side was crushed in, and you couldn’t even open the driver’s side door. But it ran okay, and I made the local delivery and returned the van to its normal parking place, backing it in like Dave did. I said good night to the owner and his wife and quickly left.

I went right over to Dave’s house to ask him what had happened. He told me he had misjudged a turn and hit both a lamppost and a fire hydrant in Hillcrest. He said he may have been going a little too fast. I thought maybe he had also spent too much time in the embalming room. About an hour after I got home, the phone rang. It was the owner, and he was pissed. First, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a wreck?” Then he said, “You will have to pay me for the repairs.” I said I didn’t have any money to do that and was just about to tell him I was quitting when he said, “I don’t want to ever see you again, and tell Dave he is fired too.”

I had lasted a little over two weeks, which was a big improvement. I blamed losing the job on Dave, but it was a lot of fun while it lasted. We were owed a little money for wages, which Dave thought we should demand. He said the owner must have insurance so he would not have to pay for the repairs. Further, he didn’t think it was his fault; the van should have had bigger mirrors.

Liquor in the lobby

One morning after surfing, one of our surf buddies told us there were some theaters in San Diego that did special events. He said that you could just show up a couple of hours before an event with a white shirt and tie on, ask for the manager, and tell them you wanted to usher. We didn’t like the idea of dressing up, but we thought it might be worth it, especially when we heard there might be tips. We hit the Goodwill for the shirts, and showed up at the California Theater on Fourth Avenue around 5 pm on the night of a classical music concert. Sure enough, we were hired for the night: all we had to do was stand at the doors direct people to their seats. We got paid with cash in advance, and both of us got some tips.

After the show started, we sat in the lobby with the other ushers and waited to do our jobs again at intermission. No one else was around. We noticed a small bar at one end of the lobby. I moseyed over to get a couple of Cokes. But when I got behind the bar, I noticed that there was plenty of booze as well. I remembered that my aunt liked something called a highball, made with whiskey and ginger ale. There was no ginger ale, so I used 7-Up. I offered drinks to all my fellow hard-working ushers, and no one said no. A few minutes later, I made everyone another round, this time a little stronger. By the time intermission came along, we were in no shape to tell anyone how to find their seats.

A couple of the ushers just left. Dave suggested we do the same, but not until after intermission. Then, as a bonus for our hard work, we could take a bottle or two of whiskey with us. But the bartender who showed up for intermission figured out what we had done and threatened to tell the manager. We promptly told him to get screwed, and left — but not empty-handed. Dave had somehow gotten a full unopened bottle of whiskey from the bar. After getting out of the theater, we each took a chug and laughed like crazy. We couldn’t hold down a job, but we were having a good time. And the usher job had not been a fair test of our abilities. Besides, what young person would pass up a free cocktail?

Charger concessionaires

A week or so later while attending a San Diego Charger game in Balboa Stadium, we spotted a job that looked perfect for us. If we sold goodies as in the bleachers, we could get into the game for free and make money at the same time. We asked one of the vendors how we could get hired. He told us to just show up really early in the day and go to the concessionaire and player’s entrance. He emphasized that we needed to get there really early because a lot of people wanted to sell stuff.

At the next Charger home game, that is exactly what we did. We borrowed Dave’s dad’s 4-cylinder rear engine Renault, which Dave treated like a race car, and parked it near the stadium on a residential street. Although there was a big crowd at the entrance, we got a couple of spots. I sold little packages of shelled peanuts and Dave sold Cokes that were pre-poured into paper cups.

The Chargers lost to the Oilers that day, but sales were good for all the vendors, including me and Dave. But making change was tricky, and it was tiring going up and down the stairs to make sales. We quickly determined that if you stood just a little ways from the over-the-counter concession sales area, you could easily sell your wares to people walking by — no walking up and down stairs, and it was easier to make change. We did bang-up business in our spots, and if we told customers we didn’t have change, they usually said, “That’s okay, forget it,” because they were eager to get back to their seats. We figured the extra money was either a tip or a reward for our business savvy.

Everything was going great until the guy that hired us showed up and told us we had to sell things in the stands like the other concession salespeople and not stand anywhere. We followed his orders and moved on, but not to the stands. We headed to the other side of the stadium and continued on with our sales method. This time, when the boss showed up, he said, “Both of you get out of here.” Dave placed his Coke tray on the floor, and I followed suit with my peanuts.

We each had about $12 in change in our pockets, and we were feeling pretty good until we got to the spot where we had left the Renault. A guy who lived in the house by the spot said that the city put up “No parking for Charger game” signs around 9 am on game days. They hadn’t been there when we arrived early, but we got towed all the same. We walked to a wrecking yard all the way over in Logan Heights, and it cost every cent we had to get the Renault back. Dave drove me straight home and then went home himself. No celebrating in TJ that night.

The next day, Dave and I talked about why we couldn’t hold down a job. I think he thought I was a bad influence on him. I thought he was a bad influence on me. Our parents were getting suspicious. We decided to go our separate ways, employment-wise. Dave got a job selling used cars. My brother persuaded me to go back to the florist shop, tell the owner what had actually happened, apologize as best I could, and ask for a second chance. Surprisingly I got my job back — including making deliveries.