Job Queen




My best friend, Carol , and I joke about being Job Queens. And it’s the truth -- I’ve had so many jobs. Not until my thirties did I find the job that turned into a career. I had jobs that were dull. Some jobs that required uniforms or special gear. Jobs that were mastered after the first hour and others that I never did get the hang of.

And with those jobs came my dance partners - the bosses, managers assistants, payroll clerks, personnel directors and regional managers and their secretaries -- lackeys and stooges waltzing around this dance floor, a floor littered with insurance forms, company policy papers, invoices, supply requests , shortages, voting stats and productivity figures that had to be noted, recorded, filed , signed and mailed.

My parents thought college wasn’t for me and a good move would be waitressing. I could “make real money” said my mother.

I do remember my first job with fondness. I folded pizza boxes at Nunzio’s on Hyland Boulevard in Midland Beach on Staten Island.

Google it. It’s still there. My boss was the owner, Nunzio, a rotund man with a wooden peg leg. I was eleven. He just gave me cash from his pocket and I sat in the back of the dining area and folded dozens and dozens of those boxes. He used to wear a white apron . The cord was stretched to the limit and he could only make a small knot in the front to fasten it. He sucked in and tied the knot and released his breath -- his girth pushed forward and the apron stayed in place. I didn’t ask Nunzio for the job. He just asked me to do it. He fed me hot, thin slices. He put extra oil on the top of the slice so that I would , he claimed, have nice shiny hair.

At this time in my life my parents were fighting all the time. Terrible arguments. Now, as an only child, I thought every family except mine was happy. Everybody had mothers like Harriet Nelson. She was a mom who went to a club, played cards and wore lovely, tidy clothing. The Nelson family had dinner together. They poked fun, played board games and even went to dances together. In my world my mother drowned herself in vodka. She was so lonely.

My father was gone most of the time. And when he came home everything spun out of control and one ugly word would lead to a violent fight. Our apartment was the upstairs of a small house. What did our neighbors think? They felt so sorry for me. I could tell because they were always so kind and lovely to me. One thing you learn as an only child -- how to read adults and how to converse with them. I was a master. So charming. So “mature for my age”. My conversational skills hid all the upset and ugliness in my life - or so I thought.

Nunzio would speak in Italian to my mother. My mom never spoke Italian because she was first generation and she didn’t want it out that she was Italian. Excuse me - have you seen a photo of my mom? Poster child for Naples. Immigrant shame I guess. Anyway, he saw her loaded plenty of times and he would sneer at her. Lecture her. Feed me. Glare at her. I sat with my back to the front and my mother would smoke while I ate. I could hear his peg leg thump as he approached the table. He petted my head while he spoke to her. He asked me to fold the boxes. And so I did. I walked home from school with a latch key friend and she peeled off in one direction and I strolled thru the back door of Nunzio’s and hauled a mound of boxes to the back table and went to work. That first week I earned $10.00.

Years go by … … …

In high school all of us had jobs. Girls and boys, all had jobs. This is no exaggeration. It was unheard of to go to camp, unless it was a bible school or maybe sailing school. Some kids worked with their dads clamming or fishing. Girls were waitresses, chamber maids or baby sitters. Some guys were life guards or a version of a soda jerk.

I was a waitress.

Fourteen and holding my Workers Permit, I interviewed, aced it and landed my first waitress job as a counter girl at the Atlas Diner in Wildwood, New Jersey. On the first day I was bombarded with directions, requests and got yelled at by the grill man. They supplied the uniform and apron. I learned how to place an order, when to refill the cook’s can with ice and gin, and how to dodge fresh customers. All the cooks drank the same thing. Go figure.

I couldn’t take the cook‘s barking. I quit.

At 16 my second waitress job was at the Guernsey Restaurant in Rio Grande, NJ. I was a Guernsey Girl. I worked with my best friend Roxy and her Aunt Dot was the hostess. In the 1960’s there were many reasonably priced options in which to dine. You could eat at a hoagie shop, roadhouse, tavern, a hot dog /custard stand , diner or a family style restaurant.

Family style meant cheap good eats and loads of it. Whole families lined up for the early bird specials. Grandparents to infants. Everybody smacking their lips. We brought out massive amounts of food on large trays -- platters of chicken with a giant bowl or two of veggies next to it. Back and forth we went . Rhythm and timing with two swinging doors swishing all evening. The table got dangerously crowded.

We wore countrified uniforms and had to keep our hair pulled back. The owner was the chef. He got mad when I cut my hair and couldn’t pull it back. I got fired.

Onward and upward! By now some of my friends were trying to convince me that being a chambermaid was the way to go. Sure you had to get up early but you were finished by one or so and you could go to the beach after that. I thought about it but chose those large tips on the dinner shift and those gorgeous uniforms.

My next job was really great. I was the youngest waitress at a very large hotel in Wildwood, The Manor Hotel. An art deco gem. Since I was the baby and newbie I was given station 10. Which was a hellish walk from the kitchen all the way to the other side of the restaurant.

And it was a lulu of a walk. Dodging patrons, bus boys and guests while carrying trays.

I was trained in carrying large trays of platters. Within a week I could handle ten platters and a few stacked monkey dishes. The oldest waitress, Jewel, showed me how to dip down, slide the tray on to my shoulder and lift from my knees, straight up. One hand under and one hand on the front rim. Leaving the kitchen involved a well placed kick of the door and a small ramp gave me some speed. I had to pay the older girls to serve my liquor, beer and wine because I was under age. I had to pay the bus boys to clear, fill water glasses and clean up any mess. And get a load of this -- I made 53 cents an hour plus tips.

This was the first professional crew I worked with that did the East Coast circuit. They moved up and down from Florida to the Catskills. They were tough, knew the ropes and I was happy to learn. Jewel also showed me how to wear my paper cap and pin a hanky to my bosom. The first “flair” pin. I learned fast and added some tricks to the trade like taping up the hem of my skirt, strapping a watch to my thigh -- go ahead and ask me for the time. A guaranteed good tip from a table of ten conventioneers.

Going out with those girls after work was my introduction to some really bad behavior. They were professionals at that, too.

The Manor Hotel had a floor show. The place was hopping. We offered two meal plans - The American and the European. I must have explained those options 10 times a night. It was difficult to explain the fruit cup option and the difference between New England clam chowder and Manhattan clam chowder during the Ink Spots rendition of Stormy Weather or Vince Edwards singing Some Enchanted Evening. Yep, those were some of the headliners.

The hostess, a surly, deep voiced blonde, told me to always greet the wife first. Get her order first. Make sure the bar man knew to give me a clean, unchipped glass for her. She determined my tip. I listened , learned and seemed to do all right.

Canadians did not tip. But they always got on stage before a show and sat at the piano and the group would sing. It was fun working there.

Fun until the kitchen crew had a knife fight or the cook was too drunk to do much. I remember one fight -- the cook threw the dishwasher into the dishwashing unit itself. Cookie rolled him along the conveyer and shoved him through and pushed the start switch. I was at the salad station picking up an order. Back in the day, a salad was an iceberg wedge. Anyway, I couldn’t stay to watch the end of the cycle. Cookie was not a mean man. Just tired, I think. He drank from a No. 10 can. All night long. It was filled with gin and water. Half and half. A No. 10 holds a hell of a lot of ounces. He would say, “Baby, get Daddy some mo ”. It was amazing! He was still standing at the end of service.

We had a very famous Wednesday option . It was the Smorgasbord. People were floored at the presentation. A long buffet piled high with stunning , ornamental food. One women was in charge of it. She was the mother of most, or so it seemed, of the kitchen staff. Petite and unflappable she was. Fish stared at the customers, eyes oiled so it looked really fresh. Shrimp galore, corn heaped high. More types of bread and crackers to go with herring and smelts. Most everything was cold or room temperature. Rumor had it that’s the way they eat in Sweden. We were never allowed food from the Smorgasbord. We had our dinner before service, memorized the menu changes, smoked one last cigarette and straightened our caps and aprons.

I loved hitting that swinging door and shooting down the ramp to my party who were happy and smiling because I also learned to pay the bar man extra to make all my drinks doubles.

I was now a professional. I was seventeen.

                     Radio Days, Records and Record Players

I love that Woody Allen movie, Radio Days. He recalls his youth, family life, the times and everyday routines of his household . Great music in the movie - radio music and radio shows.

I suffer from radio addiction. My mother got me hooked. I was very little when I was introduced to the magical air waves. We turned on the radio and waited for it to warm up. Our mornings began with the Breakfast Club .
Our home radio was a large ,brown Bakelite number. It sat on the kitchen counter. Several dials on the front. One for tuning, one for some kind of sound adjustment and finally the station tuner. It was a beauty. The dial had a soft yellow light. The body of the radio, the size of a large bread box would get dangerously hot. The tubes, visible from the open back of the radio would radiate red. The tubes looked delicate but could take serious abuse like the thumping of protest when the program was lost during an important broadcast like the World Series. And my father aided my listening skills and musical knowledge with all our car trips. I could play with the radio!

I can recall turning the dial ever so slowly to find a station with a better , stronger signal. What satisfaction when I heard a clear voice come thru the speaker and how far I could sink ,disappointed, into the bench seat of that 47 Chevy when the signal was lost and the station turned to static as we drove into a hollow or rounded a bend. Shucks!

Some of the morning shows that we heard were recorded the day before but sometimes we had live broadcasts. We were stationed here and there and didn’t always have good reception or we had interference from the receivers on the Coast Guard base. We didn’t care - as long as that radio was on , it meant that we were connected to the rest of the world. My mother could hear music from nightclubs and big cities and my father could hear Life of Riley or Amos and Andy or before it was called Country - we listened to his Hillbilly stations.

Older broadcasts were a hit too. Even though the productions of some of programs no longer starred the original cast - they were good enough for me. I heard the Lone Ranger, The Shadow and a few quiz shows. I liked the Breakfast Club the best. And the Arthur Godfrey Show. “ Hawhy Ya Hawhy Ya Hawhy Ya” he would say at the start of each broadcast. Plus he wore Hawaiian shirts. He played the ukulele , told jokes and had a side kick , Derwood Kirby, who introduced the singers. It was so corny.

The Breakfast Club discussed this and that. A host and hostess. A live audience applauding here and there. Small topics. A few jokes. Harmless chats about right and wrong ways to entertain people at a luncheon etc. How wonderful I thought! You can invite people to your house and have LUNCH? Who knew? There seemed to be loads of House and Garden kind of shows. And also The Bickersons. A husband and wife who cracked wise all the time. They were so mean. I didn’t get it - but my mom and her girlfriends drank coffee and laughed .

Sometimes a gal , given the authoritative title of a home economist, would make, step by step , a dish. You had to listen to the prior broadcast to get your ingredients ready. Listeners had to have everything at hand. The hostess would start. “Ladies, one cup scalded milk…” Well, of course there goes half the audience. Scalded milk! Yikes! All the while my mom is running around the kitchen trying to find the matches to light the burner and dashing around to get a pan to put the cold milk into…the voice keeps , very calmly, giving instructions … “two tablespoons molasses, one cup packed brown sugar…” Still NO DAMN MATCHES! The corner of the my mom’s apron was frayed and gets caught on the pantry door and she is now stuck, with milk, matches and pan in hands when the calm voice slips from the radio …“and bake until it springs back to the touch”.

So we determined that music stations were a better choice after some very unsettling mornings with The Morning Show Home Economist.





I still listen to the radio all the time. I start the day with the radio. I have an XM radio in my car. Pandora comes through Squeezebox sets I own. Can’t get enough of the radio. When I travel to other countries I take a small radio with me - just so I can hear the local music. Have you ever heard Italian Rappers?
They actually say Yo. I will never forget my first trip to Italy .I missed American music so much , that during a brief stay in Naples, I bought a small transistor radio just to  hear the BBC and Voice of America broadcasts. The BBC had a great show called, Desert Island Discs. Celebrities came to the studio and discussed their favorite recordings. I loved it. The first time I heard that program the guest was Keith Richards! No kidding! I pictured him smoking, slouched over and difficult - but he was charming and lovely.

Anyway, I was in Amalfi, in Southern Italy, it was fall and still quite warm there. I spent the evenings with my little radio on a balcony that faced Capri. The radio waves were bouncing around - I could hear music from North Africa. Most were haunting and seemed tied to ancient times. I heard a vocalist that was so interesting. Her name was Om Kalsoum . I still listen to her recordings.



Which brings me to records and record players.

Part 2 soon. . .