Work EthicFebruary 23, 2009
By W R Jones
I’m a hard working guy. The kind MOST women like to take care of. For example here is a charcoal drawing featuring the brother of the drawing I had in my last post. Their names are Jonathon and Michael Shahandeh (the name on the back of the baseball player). That makes two drawings, are you with me here, Carol? Two drawings is twice as much work as one drawing.
I wasn’t always such a hard worker – wow, it just struck me how taken aback you all must be by that statement. But it is true; in my younger years, let’s say, oh from age 0 to 64.5, I was somewhat of a slacker.
I had a friend in high school who had a job cleaning the country club building on Mondays when the clubhouse was closed. He convinced the club manager, who lived in a house next to the clubhouse, that he needed help cleaning since the building was large. The manager went for it.
In winter no one played golf (this was Iowa). On Monday, his day off, the manager and his wife usually went to Omaha for the day. This left my friend and I alone at the country club. Turns out, and you do the math here, that with two of us it took twice as long to clean as when my friend worked alone.
I remember one long day spent trying to coax the juke box in the playing White Sport Coat without requiring a nickel every damn time. So part of the day went into different methods of putting something down the slot that would trigger the song but could then be reused. The rest of the day we worked on getting the gum out of that slot so the machine would work at all. So I strongly recommend against chewing gum on the edge of a nickel attached to a string.
The clubhouse had a fully stocked bar. This was a time and place where the bottles were privately owned. We knew who the heavy drinkers were. They would never remember how much was in their bottles. There were also cigarettes and cigars aplenty. There was a large commercial kitchen.
One Monday, starting early (as soon as the manager drove away), we entered the kitchen, picked out some good steaks and turned on the deep fryer to make some french fries with the skin still on the potatoes (so good). Had a fine meal then moseyed into the bar where we selected a couple of cigars and poured ourselves a glass of bourbon.
After a sip or two on the bourbon it came to us we had never seen a fire extinguisher work. Taking one down from the wall we started a fire in a wastebasket that quickly grew big enough to make us uncomfortable with the situation. We threw the waste basket out the door into a snow bank then went outside to use the extinguisher.
At this point the manager returned early and witnessed the small blaze, damn near having a heart attack as he drove down the long road to the clubhouse. We, being the reluctant heros, explained slowly and carefully, and repeatedly how we had saved the clubhouse from being burned down.
The following Monday he called us into his office, had us sit down and went over the accounting: “You boys owe me $3.25 to refill the fire extinguisher and 20 cents for cigars.”