The worst day of work I ever had was my very first day at my very first job.
I was hired by a wonderful man named Reggie Chambers, who was the co-owner of the Green Turtle Restaurant, located at 1529 Kapiolani Boulevard, Honolulu. Sadly, both Reggie - who might have been the best boss I ever had - and the restaurant are long gone.
I was 16. It was a wonderful and exciting place to work for a fellow my age. KGMB was directly across the street, and many of its TV and radio personalities gathered daily at the bar and resolved all of Hawaii's problems. And then they'd return the next day and resolve them all over again, often with an entirely different solution. But it was all fun.
The Green Turtle had two floors. The restaurant and bar were on the bottom floor, and the second floor had an office, storage rooms and a large banquet room. I was usually found on the second floor, setting up the banquet room or cleaning the bathroom, and, on busy days, I went downstairs and helped the parking attendant maneuver cars through the lot. There was a bathroom downstairs, but most of the help used the upstairs bathroom.
On my first day, Reggie escorted me through the premises and introduced me to the various people who would be my co-workers. Then I was sent upstairs to my work area. I picked up a broom and, with the first swish of the bristles across the floor, I embarked on a half-century working career. It was menial work, but I was thrilled. I was on my own and making money, a whopping $1.60 an hour. If I worked eight hours, I could pocket $12.80. Big money! A current of excitement ran through me. I could do this; I had an entire future ahead of me . . . or so I thought. Little did I know that before the day was done, I would be wondering if I might be happier giving it all up and collecting cans by the side of the road, unshaven, unwashed and throwing stones at the sun.
About two hours later, I was mopping the floor when I noticed one of the waitresses had come upstairs and was waiting to get my attention. Most of the waitresses were Asian or Filipino and middle-aged. Unlike today, I was not too hard to look at 50 years ago, so I laid aside my mop and smiled, assuming she wanted to introduce herself. She did not.
She pointedly informed me that one of the other waitresses was in the habit of leaving her diamond wedding ring in the second floor bathroom while she worked. She had been doing this for many years. Today, which she was quick to remind me, happened to be my first day on the job, the ring had disappeared. It was quite clear who she suspected of taking it.
I was stunned. I had no idea what to say other than to stammer that I had not done it. I certainly did little to advance my cause.
She watched me a while in silence, as though she knew that if she waited long enough, I would eventually crack and drop to the floor, throw my arms around her legs and beg forgiveness. To my relief, she finally turned on her heel and clattered loudly back downstairs. I was left shaken. Something inside me had died. The thrill I had experienced at being a member of the workforce was gone . . . and I still hadn't even worked a half-day.
Before long, I looked up and another waitress was standing there. She was a hard-looking lady, and she wasted no time in getting down to brass tacks.
She looked at me long and hard and said, “You didn’t take it, did you?”
I didn’t need my Captain Midnight decoder ring to know that she was actually saying, “You did take it, didn’t you, you little puke.”
Now I was really rattled.
Before long, I heard the sharp staccato of another pair of shoes coming quickly up the stairs. This one did not want to introduce herself, either. She told me how much the ring meant to the waitress and how broken-hearted she was to have lost it. And she said that if I would just return it, everything would be fine. Believe me, I wanted to return it. But you can’t return what you don’t have.
For the next two hours, they filed up the stairs, one by one. It was as though they were taking turns, each trying to break me. When one would come down, I'd imagine them turning to another and saying, “OK, Martha, it’s your turn next. See if you can get Vito Corleone to talk.” One of them even flat-out asked me, “Did you take it?"
And they would have broken me. I felt terrible, and I wanted to confess . . . but I had nothing to confess. I was innocent. I was brought up in a good home, and I was taught not to steal. I even went to the bathroom, the scene of the crime, and tore it apart trying to find the lady’s ring, sweat dripping from my forehead as I sifted through the slimy balls of matted hair in the drain, hoping for the feel of something hard or the shiny glimmer of a diamond. Nothing.
As each one left to return downstairs, I felt lower and lower. I was 16, it was my first day of work, and my co-workers had no doubt I was a thieving punk. And I could easily understand why they held that opinion. I probably would have thought the same. I was miserable. My face was contorted, and I wanted to cry. There are few things worse than being accused of something when you are innocent.
To his credit, Reggie never spoke to me about it. I admired the man, and I felt I had let him down on my first day on the job. I’m sure all his employees were wondering why he had hired a hoodlum. Every time I walked into the office, I could feel the secretary’s eyes burning silently into my back. Earlier in the day, she had been personable and talkative. Now . . . nothing. That left me feeling worse. I wanted to quit, but I was too embarrassed to quit on my first day.
Sometime in the afternoon, things took a sudden turn. I saw a policeman enter the restaurant through the back door, and I assumed he would be heading upstairs to interrogate me. But he didn't.
It turns out that one of the regular customers had heard about the missing ring that the new worthless guy upstairs - the puke - had stolen, and he announced, hey, he had seen a guy going up the steps to the second floor who did not seem like he belonged upstairs. He described the guy, and his description did not fit me. He said the guy was dressed like an auto mechanic, so the police, the wonderful police, were quick to check the nearest garage . . . and they found him. Somehow, they got him to confess. (This was more than a half-century ago, and I don’t even want to know how they got him to confess.) They arrested him, he returned the ring, and I was vindicated.
I waited for my accusers to file back up the stairs and tell me how sorry they were. None of them did. Did I care? No. I didn’t give a rat’s ass if they ever said they were sorry. Within the space of an hour, I had gone from being a low-life, thieving thug to being, well, the young boy who mops the floor. And I was quite happy with that. Thrilled, actually.
END
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