My first job, when I was in high school, was cleaning rat cages at the pet store for $2.00 an hour. The cages were filthy beyond belief and at the age of 16 I felt as trapped as the rats, but I stuck it out until I was promoted to bird cages. Looking back, this was not the worst job I have ever had.
The worst job I ever had was selling health club memberships for a gym in Hollywood. The job market in the late 1980’s was tight and I had taken an aptitude test that showed I was not bright enough to sell copiers and that I lacked the personal integrity to sell used cars so I ended up selling health club memberships.
It was an extremely high-pressure environment and to this day I am amazed that when I would ask a customer for their driver’s license they would say, “Sure!” clearly not knowing they were not going to it back until they bought a membership. The club was owned by Roger and Kellee, a couple in their mid-50’s who had each had so much work done they no longer looked human. Roger was so juiced up on steroids that even his eyelids were buff; Kellee had had so many breast augmentations that there was a very real possibility that one day she was just going to float away like a human helium balloon.
Roger and Kellee had one son, Barry, who was about my age. Barry was the club’s ”Business Manager.” This meant he was responsible for keeping the books and making deposits. Barry was soft and whiny and, given the opportunity, would snort coke through a garden hose. Barry is the main reason why the club had cash flow problems: Everyone in the building, except Roger and Kellee, knew that the club’s profits were going right up Barry’s nose.
It was in the spring of 1987 that the club was almost out of cash. Paychecks were bouncing, vendors were not delivering, equipment was not being repaired. Desperate, Barry convinced his parents to host an open house on a fine spring Saturday and sell “lifetime” memberships for $99– cash only. Roger used the little bit of credit he had left to convince the Miami Herald to sell him a full page newspaper ad. Kellee used her charms, both of them, to convince a caterer to supply the club with bottled water and snacks for the multitudes. Barry solemnly met with the sales team and told us to expect the busiest day of our life.
Personally, I was in a quandary. On one hand, I had no problem selling memberships to gullible people who believed that they could get something for nothing, but on the other hand I knew intuitively that if Barry was raking in piles of cash, the odds that I would ever see a commission check were remote. I quit the night before the open house and took a job waiting tables at Bennigan’s which, coincidentally, was the second worst job I ever had.
At 7 AM Saturday morning there was a line of people that circled the parking lot, desperate to buy their lifetime memberships. I was told that customers were literally throwing $100 bills at the sales staff. Without any doubt, the promotion was a success beyond Barry’s wildest expectations but the bonanza came to a screeching halt Saturday afternoon when the Broward Sherriff’s Office showed up. Barry thought they were there to control traffic but in reality they raided the club, confiscated both all the cash and a fair amount of cocaine, and carted the family away.
Roger and Kellee were soon released, their main crime being stupidity, but Barry faced a multitude of different charges. Surprisingly, since we had never been close, he called me several weeks later. I had just finished a lunch shift at Bennigan’s and had been reflecting that, given the choice, I preferred feeding the rats at the pet shop. Now, however, Barry told me he was in jail awaiting trial and wondered if I could bring him some magazines.
“I’m goin’ nuts,” Barry said. “I feel like a rat in a cage.”
Sighing, I wondered if at the age of 28 my “career” had already come full circle. “I know just how you feel,” I said.