...everyone has had jobs. Well...ok...maybe not that one douchy relative that seems to perpetually be overqualified or "disagreeing on some things" with the boss. But ALMOST everyone has had jobs. And usually people roll through a few jobs before landing in one that they stay with long enough to call it a "career". I'm no different. My most impressionable, however, took place in a drive through Taco John's on West Villard in Dickinson.
That job came at the end of my senior year in high school. (No, I didn't work before that. I had a lot of really important shit to do during the day and Musicland closed at 9). But that summer I had the enviable position as "taco delivery boy" for the local franchise. This job was so goddamned rad that they don't even allow it to be DONE anymore. In reality, I was actually no different from any other poorly-uniformed, grease-covered, teen-aged, Mexican food service employee with a "girlfriend-boss" except that every half-hour or so I got to load up a Coleman cooler with fresh Mexican food along with some "warmers" and deliver it. I italicize "warmers" because they were less "highly advance works of restaurant technology" and more just two large re-purposed Gatorade bottles filled with boiling hot water. And if this seems like steam heat would be a bad idea under those circumstances, let me guarantee that it most certainly was. Not only did it cruelly transform many a delicious hard-shell taco into an inedible, rubbery not-so-hard shell mess some 5 minutes later. But it left my vehicle smelling like hot, wet meat. And trust me when I tell you that once that smell gets into blue and gray upholstery of a 1990 Chevy Cavalier...it's there to stay. Ozium may work for pot smell and puke, but it's nothing but a Valtrex prescription to that sort of vehicular herpes. It keeps it under wraps for a while but it doesn't go away permanently. That car had flare ups well into college.
I became very familiar with the delivery guys in town. Most people (obviously myself excluded) had nice cars. Some of them had good stereos. Some of the more notorious and edgy ones had cool nicknames. And some, like the Candyman, had all three. He had the name, a Thunderbird with a custom, bright metallic purple paint job and a bitchin' stereo. In the mob of delivery men, Candy was a made man. We showed respect to each other with a simple nod of the head or the subtle but effective lifting of two fingers from the steering wheel. And at times, the only thing a person could see as they drove by another driver were those fingers. This is because it seemed as though, in our profession, there was an unannounced race to see who could tilt his/her seat back the farthest and still possess the ability to operate a vehicle. A strongly-tanned driver's side arm was worn like a gang tat and a stark difference between it and a ghostly white right arm meant he/she had serious driver cred. The fact that we did our jobs and never...I mean NEVER...got a tip, lent itself to an air of superiority over the well-compensated pizza guys. It was a tight brotherhood.
It was our mission to deliver quickly. And not because there was some sort of 30-minute corporate mandate (yeah I said it, punks) but because we had pride in our work and a deep seeded hatred of reasonable speed limits on public right-of-ways. The trips got increasingly competitive and thusly, more dangerous. We rode without apprehension or regret. We knew the streets of Dickinson like a Garmin. I remember taking South States to 6th Ave for a delivery and getting back in less than 10 minutes. For you poor bastards that know Dickinson and where TJ's used to be....yeah...fast. For those of you who don't have a clue where that is, it's even faster. I remember one prospective driver...Dan... didn't have the same kind of gumption. He once stopped, while on a delivery, to watch a house fire. He didn't deliver after that. There are stories that simply cannot be told in this forum. Sex, drugs, nachos....I feel every teenager should work food service at least once.
However, only the best of the best could do what we did.
Obviously, I could have taken many paths after Taco Johns...chef, INDY driver, competitive eater...but I chose Lawyering. The skills I learned while shucking tacos for man have come in useful in that career. The ability to speak in public? Honed manning the drive-up speaker phone thingy. "Would you like to try a Chicken Fajita Burrito and a Small Coke?" Exactly. The ability to survive on a tight budget (every public defender must perfect this skill)? Must I repeat...no tips. NONE. The ability to deal with stressful situations? There is no greater stress on the planet earth than watching 78 billion cars leave directly from the 4th of July Fireworks show at the rodeo grounds and seeing all of their headlights coming to and turning into your drive through. The ability to handle difficult people? Most of the fireworks attendees were hammered. "No, sir, we don't have spaghetti". Those pizza delivery guys were rascals. And the dude who insisted on having his fajitas ROLLED? Come on. Makes your average meth addicts and drunks seem like guidance counselors.
I'm not sure I could perform my current job without having gained the skills I did working for the almighty John. When you think about it, delivery tacos for Taco Johns is like ITT Tech and Harvard Law all combined. Kinda.
Just think about. Harder. There you go.
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