That One Summer ...

My parents had this rule that while I was living under their roof, I could not actually live under said roof as an adult unless I was either in college, and/or gainfully employed.

They believed, that - in the words of St. Benedict -"Idleness is the enemy of the soul." For anyone unfamiliar with the founder of Western monasticism, this early Christian thinker and reformer was born in the fourth century, one that apparently dedicated much thought to
the evils of idleness, a notion borne centuries even earlier.

Indeed, the stoic Benedict was not the first to renounce idleness. This state of being is sullied throughout the Bible in both old and new testaments which state "Idle hands (and/or minds, according to which version of the holy book one adheres) are the devil's workshop."

Yes, we were Catholic. On steroids.

But I digress...

Of course, the "living under roof" rule applied to summer breaks during my years at university.

Since my college break occurred in early June, rather than in mid- or late May as did other institutions of higher learning, summer jobs were exceedingly difficult to find. I had to settle, so to speak, for leftovers, many of which were quite weird.

Fortunately, the weirdest jobs were very temporary as fill-ins for vacationing employees.

One of my first forays into the summer temp work force was as a watcher. More specifically, I watched paint dry on a variety of surfaces. This position is often referred to jokingly, as in a book review, perhaps. "The book was as exciting as watching paint dry."

Be assured the position of 'drying paint watcher' is real; boring, yes, but nevertheless, real. I watched paint dry on a variety of surfaces both indoors and out including plaster, stucco, sheetrock, wood, cinder block, brick, shingles, and, yes, even cardboard.

To accomplish successful watching, I was given an elaborate timepiece that measured hours, minutes, seconds, and split seconds. This watch, one might suppose was a forerunner of today's Apple watch, except much larger and heavier. It was more the size of the iconic timepiece carried by Alice in Wonderland's White Rabbit. Relatively speaking, that is.

The problem with this position was that I could never take my eyes off drying paint, lest I miss a nanosecond of drying. There was no glancing around to see how others were doing, or to see additional paint colors that were being watched. This, I assure you, can make a person very drowsy...staring at a singular point for a great length of time, even hours at a time.

At first, I was fascinated watching paint dry on a surface, noting how it changed color compared with the first brush stroke. Sometimes the color became more brilliant, sometimes lighter, or even darker. And it was somewhat of a learning experience watching how paint dried adhering to different surfaces.

But the job definitely made one drowsy. Several times I sensed my own head bobbing, or I was jarred into full consciousness by the sound of my own loud snore, which was actually more of a snort than a snore.

After my three-week tenure as a paint drying watcher, it was my good fortune to secure another temporary position: money-laundering. Now, although this money laundering was not of the felonious type, it was, however, a dirty business as well. I washed coins at an extremely
busy take-out deli/diner that shall remain nameless.

It is common knowledge that money, by its very nature, is dirty; filthy even. A single coin can be handled by 100 different individuals in just 24 hours, resulting in that coin being covered with heaven only knows how many numbers of germs. Although one can, I suppose, attempt
to do the math. Hundreds of coins multiplied by hundreds of people can turn a cash register into a veritable petri dish. Several petri dishes in fact.

The eatery's manager, who was a bit OCD-ish if you ask me, required money laundering every hour on the hour. The position involved removing all coins from every cash register and replacing them with paper-wrapped coins.

As a money launderer, I would - wearing surgical quality latex gloves, of course - empty a register of all coins and put them in a collection basket similar to ones seen in churches. I would then empty the basket into one half of a double sink situated in a secluded section of the kitchen dedicated to the laundering task.

Prior to the collection, I would fill the sink with hot soapy water. I sloshed the coins around in the water and then transferred the cleansed coins into the other half of the sink, which I had also previously prepped, but not with
soap. I filled it with thirty-eight ounces of disinfecting bleach added to the water.

Following the coin sloshing around in disinfected water, I placed the coins out to dry on a table covered with cotton bath towels. I jostled the coins around a bit to quickly dry them.

Next, I separated the coins according to their denominations. Following this, I stacked each denomination into the appropriate paper wrappers provided by a local bank. After doing so, I distributed the cleansed and wrapped coins to the cashiers and transferred their register's filthy coins into the church baskets.

Believe me, there was very little down time on this job, and absolutely no time to become drowsy. I did get free food though - which one might rightfully consider a perk. The type of food depended on the time of my shifts: breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

If I worked the closing shift, I got to bring home remains of the day that mostly included stale donuts and cookies, but never, ever a slice of the luscious-looking lemon merengue pie over which I lusted daily.


No, I was not awarded with the proverbial 'piece of the pie' that summer, but I sure did get a weird slice of life!