📁 10-22

I started my first job at the age of seven. Our family dog (black labrador) had a litter of puppies, and I was tasked to care for them (which included shoveling). So, for a few months I moved around dog food, filled bowls, and crawled into the makeshift puppy kennel in our backyard to complete my daily waste extraction quest. Hawthorne, Florida circa early 90s. I believe I was payed $10 a week–not sure about those details–it was a little while ago.

The kennel was about double puppy height, because my dog Ninja learned that he could climb the chicken wire fence. With that knew discovery, Dad created the perfect puppy ambush box made of chicken wire (ambushed by puppy kisses everyday). I wanted to save for a Super Nintendo, and Dad said he would hold on to the money. “The lawn won’t mow itself.” “Put shit in one hand, and WANT in another, and what do you get?”

Wouldn’t you know it, around the same time all the puppies were adopted, a new beer brewing kit appeared in the house. I worked a few paying ‘jobs’ before I got a real job at the age of 15, but that first job stung a little. Dad was awesome when his pain levels were tolerable. He worked so hard that some of the rubber parts in his spine wore away. Alcohol probably eased the pain, but definitely wasn’t the best solution. Well, a bad solution to a problem that the military said wasn’t due to his two decades of service. It’s not that I didn’t have things. Oh I had things. It’s just–this is something I was working towards. I’d imagine there was a lot of shitty laundry to do too (ba dum tss).

I’m two years away from 40 now–which is fine–we all move out our own pace. Those that judge me harshly probably don’t have the time or energy to walk a mile in someone else’s Family Dollar shoes.