Why do I teach music? Well, for one, I have no other job skills. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t try. In fact, I tried as soon as I moved out and got my own place, and the next day walked into every business on my block filling out applications.
The next day my roommate said “dude, just apply at a fast food place, they’ll hire anybody”.
So I applied at Kentucky Fried Chicken, and got hired the next day. The manager was a rosy faced over-achiever with too much mousse in his thinning hair.
“I knew exactly what job you would be great at, the minute I talked to you..” he enthused, leaning toward me across his cluttered desk. “We’re going to put YOU, on the Assembly line!”
I nodded smugly. “Awesome…?” I whispered. Assembly line? That actually sounded kind of cool, almost like a real job. I followed him back though the rubber curtains and past the vats of boiling grease. Pale, silent figures stared glumly back at me, mechanically performing various motions. An acne faced teen shook clumps of frozen fries into vats of oil, while his hunchbacked assistant stirred the cauldron and poured the fries onto racks to drip dry.
A short troll-like creature pushed a broom across the floor, muttering under his breath and glaring at me. I shuddered and tore my gaze away. The manager charged ahead, and I followed.
He stopped at a dirty conveyor belt, rattling and squealing along. On top was a procession of tiny hamburgers, like a line of doughy ants. He pulled a grimy lever, and the line ground to a stop.
“This…” he said, his voice full of pride, “is the Chicken Little Assembly Line!”
I stood and stared, not quite comprehending what I was seeing.
“And this…” he bellowed, picking up what appeared to be an enormous grease gun, “is your mayonnaise applicator!”
I was speechless.
“And it is your job…is to apply a squirt of mayonnaise to each bun as it passes by you. Got it?” “um…OK…but, what exactly is a Chicken Little??” I stuttered.
“Oh, it’s one of our more popular items!” the manager chortled. “a miniature chicken burger, small enough to eat in one gulp!”
He snatched one up and tossed it into his mouth, holding his finger up as he struggled to swallow.
“Love these things!” He gurgled.
I nodded mutely as he handed me the mayonnaise gun. It looked like an AK 47, smeared with stale mayo and bread crumbs. I caught it, feeling strangely Rambo-like, and sighted down the barrel.
“You ready son?” He bellowed.
“Yes sir!” I said, feeling a surge of adrenaline.
The manager yanked the lever, and the assembly line shuddered back to life.
“Good luck!” he said, and disappeared.
I must have squirted blobs of mayonnaise on a thousand accursed buns that day, and it was one of the longest days of my life. When the time clock finally hit 5, i was cross eyed from staring at Chicken Little buns and my trigger finger was raw. As I climbed onto my bike and rode numbly away, I mouthed my new job title: “Mayonnaise Applicator for the Chicken Little Assembly Line”.
It definitely had a ring to it. Two days later I took off my paper hat, lay down my trusty mayo gun, and walked off the job. I didn’t even look back.
But now I had “Mayonnaise Applicator for Chicken Little Assembly Line” on my resume. I was unstoppable!
So I called up my friend Matt the Roofer. He was a sun wizened character who loved to show up to my gigs and get plastered, but in real life was the owner of Matt’s Roofing.
“Waaaaaz uuuuup?!” he drawled.
“Dude, I need a job. Think you can get me help me?” I pleaded.
“Well, what’s your experience bro?”
“Dude, you don’t even want to know.”
There was a long pause, and then Matt burst into his trademark Sottish belly-laugh.
“Of course I can! I’ll come get ya tomorrow and we’ll put ya to work lad!”
The next morning he picked me up in his dilapidated Ford and we drove out to the job site, a large farmhouse with a swarm of tanned men scampering around on the roof.
Matt handed me a nail belt.
“Here, you’ll need this too” he said, tossing me an ancient tar covered hammer.
I strapped into the gear, and put my hands in the ladder.
“So, what do I do?” I said, trying to sound confident.
Matt emitted another deafening laugh.
“Laddy…” He rasped. “Just get up there, and don’t fall off, whatever you do!” I clambered up the wobbly ladder, clawing my way onto the shingles. What met my eyes was like a scene from a pirate movie. Half a dozen tanned and tattooed men, hammers and shovels in hand, turned and glared at me. One of them smiled, revealing a large solitary tooth.
“Oh looky here!” it cackled, pointing a nobby finger. “Looks like we got us a newbie!” I made a dumb hand sign and nodded, trying desperately to appear cool.
“I’m ready to go bro’s…” I said. “”Where do I start?”
A huge Hispanic man with a teardrop tattoo under his eye stomped up to me.
“Jou. Take this. Jou see that dumpster, meng?” He threw a shovel at me and pointed. I looked, and suddenly realized how high up I was. Far down in the distance I saw the dumpster, and felt a wave of vertigo.
“Jour job is to throw shit in that, meng, OK?”
I nodded. The other men where already clambering around the roof like monkeys, hacking, tearing, hammering and yelling. I took a step, and then sat immediately down. “I don’t wanna die” I heard myself whisper. The shingles burned like lava, and the smell or tar was intoxicating. I looked around, trying to understand my role. it didn’t seem to complicated: tear off chunks of the roof and throw it into the dumpster, just like the scary man had said. I wobbled to my feet and mimicked what the others were doing. Pry up a corner of hot tar paper with my hammer, peel it off, then hurl it off the roof. I could do this.
Soon I was in the groove. Hack, peel, toss. Hack, peel, toss. The sun glared down and sweat dripped from my eyebrows. Hack, peel, toss. Hack, peel, toss. Then it was lunch. We clambered off the roof and grabbed our sandwiches. I leaned against the van and panted. The fellow with the big tooth plopped down on the grass next to me.
“You new round here?” he warbled, spraying me with sandwich flecks.
I was finally getting my breath back.
“yeah..”” I panted.
“We had a new kid few months ago, name of Jessie. Was a nice kid. Miss im…”
The wizened character shook his head sadly, chewing slowly.
“what happened?” I asked, sitting down next to him.
“Well…” the old man said, inspecting his sandwich. “He went skiing; really too bad. He was a good worker.”
“Skiiing?”
“You never heard of that huh? Boy, you are a greenhorn..” He swallowed noisily and took another bite.
“Skiiing is what we roofers call it when you step on a loose piece of tar paper… and ski right off the roof,”
“What?” I gulped.
“Yep.” the old man said, nodding sadly. “he ain’t never been the same since. Now he talks kinda funny, and has to wear diapers!”
I shivered. “that really sucks man!”
“Yeah, it happens to all the newbies. You’ll wanna watch your feet son.”
The old timer staggered up and headed toward the ladder.
“see ya on the roof!”
I shook my head. This was no good. I was going to have to come up with an alternate plan, because i didn’t want to go “skiing”, or be a “Chicken Littles Mayonnaise Applicator” anymore. So I made a poster advertising guitar lessons and hung it in a music store, and the rest was, as they say, history…
Read more stories of music teaching at the See You Next Week Blog…feel free to share it!
