My First Job

My father decided it was time for me to get a job. I was sixteen, could drive and had an entire summer ahead of me with nothing in particular to do. Dad believed strongly in the moral value of work which meant that money was the least of the matter. Lessons learned such as "the value of a dollar" or "the early bird gets the worm" or "a job worth doing is worth doing well" was the real point. I am sure he got his values from his father who fixed brakes for the Burlington Northern trains and from growing up a child of the Great Depression. Dad was smart. He got one of the first chemical engineering degrees when the field was just beginning to be studied systematically, and he started working for Standard Oil of New Jersey even before he finished his degree. This was just after the great stock market crash. Dad was wise. He worked for Standard Oil his entire career and climbed the ladder to ultimately be offered the position of CEO of a subsidiary of Standard Oil called International Petroleum Company located in Bogota, Colombia. Dad could take a risk. This disposition is evident from the fact that his career took him from Aruba to Baton Rouge to Colombia. From a small town, Nebraska boy to international businessman was not a common path in the 1930's: it took courage. Given a slightly different set of choices, he could have done a stint in prison for robbing gas stations like his brother, my uncle Bob. Bob was also a smart man but his love was for the easy money and the walk on the wild side. I knew of his past, but it was far behind him by the time I was an adolescent. By then, Bob had had a long career working in the maintenance department of a hospital. But even so, he still loved making a "deal" that was greatly to his advantage. I remember how I suffered on the short end of several "trades" with him for cool stuff my maternal grandmother had willed to me. But I digress.

Dad handed me the want ads of the newspaper and said, "Here Tommy, look for a job." Reluctantly but dutifully (which is how I did most things he suggested) I browsed the ads. One stood out. It was how I became "The man who wears the star." The Texaco Star that is. My first job was pumping gas at a filling station at 48th and Vine, Lincoln, Nebraska. Those were the days when all filling stations had attendants who ran out to fill it up, wash the windows and check the oil. Self-service stations were yet to materialize. I followed the ad and met Heine Knaub, proprietor. He worked the station every day himself. He was a short, wiry man who wore the arms of his well-pressed short sleeve shirts rolled and drove a Cadillac. His graying hair was also wiry and always perfectly in place. He frequently hitched up his pants and adjusted the collar of his shirt by lifting his right shoulder and stretching his neck. The two mechanics who worked for Heine were Polish immigrant brothers, Mel and Johan. Mel was the elder and walked with a limp. They didn't resemble each other except for their accents. They enjoyed razzing each other about all manner of things. Mel had a problem with flatulence and Johann would complain loudly with mock horror whenever his brother would let one rip. Mel always responded, "A farting man never quits."

My job was two-fold: I was to watch like an eagle for customers driving up to a pump, to run out and ask how I could help, pump the requested gas, wash the windows and ask if I could check the oil, and second I was tasked with keeping the bathroom clean. Heine handled the management, talked with customers who needed mechanical service, watched the cash register and was careful that everything ran like a top. I was outfitted (at my expense) with two acid and stain resistant uniforms, one to wear and one to wash. The fabric was heavy, dark-green twill that was probably also bullet-proof. I was proud of the Texaco Star logo above my left shirt pocket. After all, I was now the man who wore the star. Heady status for a sixteen year old.

Heine was shrewd. He employed me for 39 hours per week at a dollar and fifteen cents an hour. Had I worked 40 hours, he would have had to pay me the minimum wage which was a dollar and twenty-five cents per hour, thereby saving himself four dollars a week, sixteen dollars a month or one hundred and ninety-two dollars per year. For me, this contract was a real bargain considering the lessons I learned and the dignity gained.