Summer memories: Jobs my father got me — and one other

My father found summer jobs for me without telling me ahead of time. He'd never ask, "How would you like to press sheet metal?" "… melt aluminum scrap?" "… crush cars?" Instead, he'd say, "You'll be pressing sheet metal this summer."

If (when) I whined, his response was: "Too bad. You're lucky you have a job."

Once, looking to find cushier work, I beat him to the punch.

Word had spread about a busboy job at the Lincoln Delicatessen. "The Del" was famous for its one-of-a-kind menu (don't get me started about their triple tootsie, grilled Rueben, grilled Rachel, cheese blintzes and cream cheese frosting), and for being THE place in our neck of the woods to see and be seen.

Working there would be a lark, I thought.

You didn't fill out an application to bus tables at the Del. What you needed was someone to vouch for you, like a neighborhood yenta or crony of Morrie, the owner. And it helped if Morrie knew (and liked) your father.

An interview with Morrie lasted 30 seconds whether he hired you or not.

"So you're Arnie Schwartz's kid?" (Uh, yeah.)

"You get good marks in school?" (They're OK.)

"Where'd you work last?" (I was a metal sheet presser last summer.)

"How'd you like that?" (Not much. I wasn't good at it.)

"What makes you think you won't screw up this job?" (Pause: I don't know … but I'll try not to …)

Not an hour into the job, Mrs. Cornbloom scolded me because her hot pastrami sandwich was "Ayz kalt kalt!" ("freezing cold!"). I pointed out to Mrs. Cornbloom I was "the busboy, not the cook." To Agnes that sounded smart-alecky, like, "Don't blame me, lady. I'm the busboy, not the cook."

That's when Agnes hustled me down a steep staircase and into a tiny office. "The customer is NEVER wrong …" she began. Then she had me apologize to Mrs. Cornbloom for pooh-poohing her complaint about the freezing-cold pastrami sandwich.

That didn't stop me from trying to make hotshot small talk with other diners. Until Agnes overheard. "Who do you think you are? Some bigshot schtarker? Keep your head down and do your job."

But that was nearly impossible when those pretty college girls home for the summer or a local hero like Hubert Humphrey, Sid Hartman or the Twins' Rod Carew walked into the Del. At times like those, Agnes warned me to stop gawking even before I started. "Let them be," she'd say.

Agnes pulled no punches. Like when she caught you standing still and broadcast from her post at the cash register, "You have nothing to do?" In the world according to Agnes, there was always one more thing to do. And you'd better do it before she had to tell you to do it.

If you don't think Agnes's demands rivaled those of the hard-boiled foremen of smelters, pressers or car crushers, think again.

One morning she said, "Morrie wants to see you in his office."

I assumed I was a soon-to-be-goner and Agnes was why.

Instead, Morrie handed me a blue canvas pouch.

"Take this to our bank. Say it's from me. Bring them a nosh. And don't wreck my car."

Each afternoon thereafter, Agnes handed me the canvas pouch stuffed with cash, Morrie's car key and a sack of bagels or pastries. Taking a circuitous route, I'd cruise my neighborhood, wearing the Del's snazzy red busboy jacket, snooty due to my good fortune and thinking with cocksure smugness, "I own this job."

Not quite.

It was a Saturday when Agnes said she needed me to work the next day, my usual day off. But my buddy Malcolm and I had finally persuaded two girls we'd met that summer to tube down the Apple River with us. All through my shift I pouted and kvetched about how Agnes was ruining my life, hoping she'd hear me and change her mind. She did hear me. But she didn't change her mind. And when she'd heard enough, down we walked to that tiny office.

"You're so fortunate to have a job," she said. "If you want to keep this one, be here tomorrow." She touched my shoulder then left me alone down there to think about it …