Work

My Personal History of Jobs

Photo by CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash

I’m one of those people who’s had “a million jobs.” Think of Charles Bukowski, Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac. I’ve never exactly liked work, if I’m honest with myself (and you). But work has certainly shaped me in myriad ways, and I’m including writing when I refer to “work.”

The first job I ever had was probably my most interesting. I grew up in Ojai, a small mountain town 90 miles northeast of Los Angeles filled with snow-capped peaks, a usually-dry river, thousands of orange trees, and a thriving arts community. The job was a summer gig called The C.R.E.W.—Concerned Resource and Environmental Workers. It was a fancy way of saying: Non-rangers who go up into the mountains and clear trails, cut down trees and brush, and add steps to steep sections of trail, etc.

I was 14.

We made minimum wage. (Around $6-something back then, the mid-late 90s.) What made the C.R.E.W. interesting was first off the work: We had to hike as a large group (20 or 30 of us) up into the mountains and work for eight hours doing hard labor in gorgeous nature. Even better, we sometimes did “Spike-outs” where we’d hike up to a base camp and stay several nights, trudging with our tools out a couple miles each day, working, and then camping at base camp each night. I remember the licking, popping flames of the fire. Wild stories. A black bear once. Coyote howls deep into the night. And glorious silence.

But also: Many of the “leaders” who were in their late teens or early twenties, who led groups of we boys around and told us what to do, were ex-felons fresh out of jail and prison who were working at The C.R.E.W. for free as part of their community service/release/probation protocol. They were often somewhat terrifying but always intriguing. One guy sticks out in my mind. I can partially picture him. He was tall, thin, bearded, unkempt. He always reeked of sweat, but we all did. It was high double digits, sometimes triple. Shimmering desert-like heat. Dry heat. Much of the mountainside was exposed.

Anyway I remember this guy telling us a story round the fire one night and then one of us asked what he’d done to end up in prison (he’d been in for several years) and then he told us the story of how he’d been drunk at some bar in Salinas and how he’d gotten into a row with some other drunk guy and one thing led to another and our leader had stabbed the guy. The guy lived but he was permanently damaged. We all sat around the fire in awe, eyes agape, staring at this older dude who’d taken someone’s life into his own hands and nearly ended it. I felt afraid and yet drawn to this man. He wasn’t a hero in my mind, but he was mystifyingly profound.

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Over the years I had many more jobs before leaving home at 19. I worked at Ojai’s Lake Casitas, showing tourists how to use the little motorboats. I was 16, I think. That was a fun job. My best friend Jake worked there with me. Sometimes older guys would hand us a six pack of cold beer as a tip when they returned from fishing. We’d tie the cans with fishing line to the end of the little pier to keep the brew cold and then we’d drink when work was finished. I remember the hot beating summer sun. Washing the dirty boats out with soap and the hose after using the little mechanical lift to raise the small metal boat. I remember the smell of beer and cigarettes. I remember hitting on girls my age when their parents weren’t looking. I remember the stink of wafting sunscreen. I remember the smell of gasoline in the water. The sound of the little buzzing motors.