The Best Job I Ever Had

The worst job I ever had was also the shortest. One summer when I was in college, I went to stay with my father and his wife in Stone Mountain, GA. Stone Mountain is basically known for one thing: you guessed it, a big ole mountain of stone with a chiseled bas relief picture of some Civil War guys on horses. Oh, also known for the laser light show which I never saw. Anyway, I applied for a job as a housekeeper at the inn there and, much to my chagrin, I got the job. I should have known I was in trouble when the lady interviewing me asked, "So, do you like to clean toilets?" Oh yes, I said with big eyes, there's nothing more satisfying than a squeaky clean bowl. I got a polo shirt with a logo on it and a pair of khakis. I went along with another housekeeper, a small Mexican woman, to learn the ropes. I don't remember much about cleaning rooms; there's a scrap that has to do with pot-bellied executive types leering while I ran the vacuum under the bed, but that could have been something I saw in a movie once.

The thing that made me quit after two days and two hours on the job was pulling laundry duty. The laundry room was in the bowels of the inn, a dark, cavernous, creepy basement where the sound of industrial washers and dryers was deafening -- like the moans of beasts from the Pleistocene. My job was to load the maws of the monstrous washing machines with dirty linen from the banquet rooms upstairs. The smell of wet linen combined with nasty, half-masticated food was too much. I gave notice. "You think you can find something better," my boss asked and it was not a question, but a bald-faced statement. With two years of college already behind me, I suddenly realized my destiny was NOT to be a housekeeper. I applied at a discount store non unlike Target and became a cashier. My new job involved diligently checking the lower baskets of shopping carts for merchandise customers were smuggling out, and picking up the store after the doors closed. At this job I also heard one of the black girls I worked with talk about "weed" for the first time. It was an education.

But what I wanted to tell you about was the best job I ever had. When I moved to Waldport nine years ago, I moved into the guest house of a newly acquired friend who became my landlady and employer. She owned a tiny independent bookstore in town and eventually asked if I would help her out at the store now and again. Since I was working part time at my other job and afternoons were free, I'd sometimes pull a 1-5 shift, work for her on a Saturday or a Sunday afternoon. The bookstore was a good walk from where I lived. I walked to and from work whenever I could and got rock hard calf muscles climbing the hill coming home.

Before starting work at the bookstore, I went to a Food Handler's class and got my license. I don't remember much about the course, but there were slides of what happens when you leave food out and then serve it to people. It wasn't pretty. Mostly, I remember a friend who had worked in fast food telling me that Hepatitis is that "disease you get when you don't wash your hands after wiping your butt." The license allowed me to embark on my new career at the bookstore: barista extraordinaire. I'm making that last part up. I just learned how to make espresso drinks and how to froth milk. One of the cool things about working at the bookstore was that I could drink all the coffee my bladder and nerves could stand. I made cappucinos, lattes, double espressos, breves -- and when I goofed I got to "get rid of" the mistakes. It was like being a part of the Barista Mafia.

Of course, the main pleasure of working in a bookstore if you're a reader is that you can read on the job. People would wander in and out. Sometimes, I'd sit there for an hour or two and see no one. I'd look out the window and watch the gray pelicans on the bay. I'd sip on a latte and listen to Ella Fitzgerald or Dinah Washington. I'd read a book from the shelves or the latest copy of the New York Times Book Review; I'd found a place in Newport where I could pick it up free every week. At the time, I also played around with putting out my own book review, a two-sided newsletter with short opinionated views on books I'd recently read. I enjoyed the solitude of working at the store, but I also enjoyed visiting with folks that came in -- colorful locals and weary tourists, mystery readers and non-fiction aficionados. For someone new to the community, this was a great way to meet people, especially people who shared a common interest in and love for good books. The owner of the store once told me that she had never had much of a problem with bounced checks. We tallied that up to the clientele. People who read, it seems to me, are generally decent, honest folk. That was my experience at the store, anyway.

When I was in college, I had a work study at the library. That didn't last long. I think the problem was I kept getting caught reading in the stacks when I was supposed to be shelving. I wasn't "fired" but somehow the job ended too soon. If you put a reader in a setting like that and ask her not to read . . . well, isn't that like giving a bottle of Mad Dog to a wino? At the bookstore, I didn't have such small minded supervisors. I read to my heart's content, then became a talking book jacket when people came in looking for something good. Reading, in this context, was a good thing.

The bookstore where I worked is no more. My friend had done significant remodeling to turn it into a store, and the person who owned the building afterwards turned it back into a residence. My friend wanted more freedom than owning the store allowed and, we had to face it, business was not so good. Our "geezly" (as one friend called it) little town on the Oregon Coast is perhaps best known for it's flea market. Locals hang out at the deli of the grocery store or get free books from the library. I had bright, swirly, fantastic dreams about buying the bookstore from my friend and making it successful; I could live in the small space upstairs with my cat and a futon, looking out at the bridge that spans the bay. But, realistically, what did I know about running a bookstore or a business? A small part of me was afraid that my passion for books and reading would sour when it came down to the brass tacks of making books my business. So, the store closed. The inventory was told at deep discounts or went back to a warehouse somewhere. The espresso equipment was liquidized. I said goodbye to the best job I ever had.

But I still have my friend and we still enjoy talking about books. She's moved on to other interests that she now has the time and leisure to enjoy. I'd like to say thanks for the job. I won't forget your trust in me and your generosity. Free coffee and day-old scones rock.