Odd Jobs

In an effort to achieve a lifestyle which I aspire to, but have yet to reach, I have labored at several other jobs during the past century. More or less in chronological order:

Professional singer: While living in the big city, at the tender age of 8, my mother answered an ad for young boys to sing in the choir at the local Episcopal Church. Child labor laws aside, I auditioned and was accepted into the group. Practices were Wednesdays after school with the performance on Sunday, of course. After donning my white choir robe and singing like an angel, I was given an envelope containing my wages for the week, a crisp one dollar bill.

Pseudo paper boy: When I was about 10, some entrepreneur came up with a scheme to enlist young boys to deliver a “Newspaper” (mostly ads) to every house and then try to collect from the “subscribers.” Most of us were so pitiful that many little old ladies would actually cough up a dime. All money was turned in to the manager and we earned points toward valuable gifts, such as a baseball or a model airplane kit. The business folded before I earned enough to score a prize.

Real paper boy: After we moved to the “burbs” I got hired to deliver a real newspaper, the Baltimore Sun. In those days the “Sun” had two issues a day, the morning and evening. I only delivered the “evening” and actually earned a small salary.

Factory worker: On my summer vacations from high school, my father was able to get me employment at his place of work, the Federal Tin Company, a subsidiary of R J. Reynolds. They produced cans of various sizes, mostly, as you would suspect, for tobacco products. My job was to set up the boxes that the empty cans were placed in as they came off the assembly line, then stack them where they awaited loading on to a railroad boxcar. I also helped with the loading. My starting salary was $40 a week with a $1 raise after 30 days. Coincidently, after 30 days, membership in the United Steelworkers of America was mandatory. Dues were $1 a week. Dad was a lithograph pressman. He ran the machine that put the colors on the raw metal sheets before they were cut, rolled and made into cans. This “press” included high heat needed to set the colors. There was no air conditioning. Hot as I imagined hell might be.

Cab Driver: My first second job while a full time employee of the telephone company was as a cab driver for Pikesville Cab Company. This was a very loosely run organization headed by a triumvirate of mechanics who kept a fleet of 7 or 8 1953 Chevys running. They tried to avoid actual work as much as possible. Drivers were required to maintain a log, but times and mileage were never checked - which led to a lot of hanky-panky by the drivers. The big thrill was to catch a run to the Airport, a big $5 fare, plus the hoped for $1 tip.

Newspaper Editor: As a telephone company employee, I became a member of the Communications Workers of America Union. Following in Dad’s footsteps, who was Secretary/Treasurer of his local Union, I soon became a union “steward.” I was responsible for local recruiting and filing grievances when management was perceived to have overstepped their authority. The reports that I filed caught the eye of the union officers, who thought I had a way with words. I became editor of the local union newspaper, to the delight of the members and the dismay of management.

Professional Musician: Momma’s promise of me thanking her one day for persisting in my piano lessons comes true. Gigs playing honky-tonk piano of various lengths of time added to the money vault. I also doubled as piano man and banjo strummer in a Dixieland band.

Bridge Club Owner: Then, sometime in the mid ‘70s, I thought I would learn the game of Bridge. As most of you reading this know, it can become an addiction which becomes an itch that no amount of scratching can cure. My interest skyrocketed and I quickly became a certified director and before I had 50 masterpoints I was the owner of my own Bridge Club, “Ron’s Bridge Room.” I rented a little storefront space, bought 15 tables and four times that many chairs, a used refrigerator and away we go! Three months after the grand opening, my masters at the telephone company transferred me to a location some 200 miles away. The Club was sold closing that chapter in my series of adventures. As any Club owner will attest, it was a tough way to make a buck.

Telemarketer: There came a time after I had retired from telephone work and moved to Houston that I sought part-time work that would not be too boring. I was hired by “Colorado Prime” to make “cold calls” and try to sell people on prime beef and other frozen products. They liked the sound of my voice and were sure I would be a big hit. I worked four hours a day in a small room with 6 or 7 other callers, mostly women, for a small salary plus commission. Occasionally, the manager would offer an incentive, usually 2 steaks, to the person who closed the next deal. The salesperson of the month also got some kind of bonus. The average caller closed 2 or 3 deals a day. I worked there for three weeks and did not make a sale. Believe it or not, I retired before they fired me. Evidently, my verbal skills are limited to the written word, not spoken.

Delivery boy: Moving on to a job where my verbal skills were limited to announcing what company I was delivering for, I worked for the American Thermography Co. delivering business cards. Starting at high noon, six or seven drivers zoomed all around Houston to various businesses that advertised next day delivery of business cards picking up orders and delivering the next day. I had to provide my own car and gas. This job lasted a few months while I was figuring out that the bottom line was that I was getting roughly “minimum wage.”

Bridge Teacher: Beginning in the mid ‘70s, when I thought I knew enough about bridge to impart my knowledge to others, I started offering lessons. I expect this will be my final endeavor. Currently, I limit my teaching to one or two days a week and spend the remainder of my bridge time playing with my favorite partners.
Good times.

One Ringy-Dingy

My Vocation

Although my parents had great hopes for my future since I had scored well in assorted aptitude and IQ tests, I found the 12 years of school to be the most boring thing I could imagine and successfully resisted their pleas that I continue my formal education. After all, I could get a job at the Telephone Company where my big brother worked and get the magnificent sum of $1 an hour.

When I went to work at the Chesapeake and Potomac (C&P) Telephone Company in 1956, service hadn’t grown much from the time of Alexander Graham Bell. Party lines where the norm, mostly 4 parties to one line and up to 8 in rural areas. That meant that if any one of the parties was on the phone, no one else could use it. Also, if you picked up the receiver, you heard what the other people were saying. They could hear a “click” of course, and if another “click” indicating you had hung up was not heard quickly, you might be asked politely to “get off the line.” Incoming calls were also blocked. Your hope was that you got on a line with other people who didn’t use the phone much.

C&P was a subsidiary of AT&T (Ma Bell), the communications giant of the time, which has pretty much been slain by regulation and competition. Those were the days when ANY trouble with your phone service was fixed rather swiftly at no extra charge. Later, C&P became Bell Atlantic and then, sometime after I retired, has become part of Verizon.

In June of 1956 I was hired to be a “cable splicer’s helper”, one of those workers who hang on a pole or work in manholes putting wires together. Before I got to my first job location, someone in personnel discovered I was only 17, thus too young (by law) to be out on the streets. I became a “mail boy” by default. My career as a mail clerk was interrupted by a six month stint in the Air Force Reserves where I was trained to be an Air Policeman. Basic training and AP school were both at Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas. That took 4 months and the last 2 were spent at on-the-job training at Manhattan Beach Air Force Station, New York City. No, I never shot anyone.

Upon returning to C&P, I was sent to do maintenance work of various sorts in “Central Offices.” These are the places your dial tone comes from. Ten years later, I was tested for management potential, passed, and subsequently promoted into the land of bosses.
About three years later, I was promoted for the last time to the “second level” of management, where I was a boss of bosses. There I remained until my retirement at the ripe old age of 47, free to pursue my next career, bridge bum.

Free at last

Bridge Players Only

Let me go

To whom it may concern at the ACBL:

I would like to propose a new wrinkle for pair games; namely, the “Opt-Out” or “O-O” for short. It is similar to team “knock-outs”, only it is voluntary.
Here is the way it works: Typically, there is a (smoke) break at the end of rounds four and nine in a thirteen round event. If, during the first few rounds a pair feels they have been “fixed” or played badly enough, they may “Opt-Out.” They must apply prior to the beginning of the first break and will be released only if there is another pair or pairs opting out so as not to cause a sit-out. The same option would again be available prior to the break at round nine. The computer can reassign those pairs needed to move so no “holes” appear.
The “O-O” pairs are relieved of meaningless tedium (for them) and they may return to real life for other pursuits. If they are forced to continue, they play sloppy bridge, providing an advantage to those who subsequently play them. The remaining contestants are serious and a high level of skill is maintained providing a more enjoyable contest. No one likes getting eight or eleven hundred from some pair who just bids willy-nilly so they get to be declarer.
I feel certain the geniuses that created ACBLSCORE could knock out a program for this on their lunch break.
I’m tired and I want to go home.

Anachronism

I’ve got Gas

Remember “Service” stations? Where you would drive up to the gas pump and wait for the uniformed attendant to inquire about your desires for this visit? How much gas? Check your oil? Air pressure on your tires OK? Cleaning your windshield was not optional, it was DONE or you would not return to a place that was so lacadaisical about service. Minor, and sometimes major, mechanical repairs were done on site. There was competition among companies over who could produce the best FREE maps.

Today? Well, you know about today. You’re lucky if there’s a cashier who speaks English. Pump your own gas, BUY air for 50 cents and a map for $2.95. Apparently, some folks make a living hanging around busy intersections and “cleaning” your windshield.

How much money spent on signs at millions of gas stations would be saved if they did away with the ridiculous ever-present price ending with 9/10 of a cent? This has been going on for at least a half a century. Consumers are numb to it. I will not change brands or stations if my choice is between $2.21 9/10 versus $2.22. If I pump EXACTLY one gallon of gas will I get one mill change? Duh. Even in colonial days, Ben Franklin never said "A mill saved is a mill earned."

Happy trails to you