People & Jobs - 1969-1990, Part 2

 In my last installment (People & Jobs - 1969-1990, Part 1), I was heading back to Ottawa. For sure things are a bit fuzzy, so I'll patch things together as best I can.

My life in Ottawa was based around Carleton University. I took a couple of courses at Carleton - English Literature and Intro to Psychology. And I worked there as well. 

Before actually working in the Residence cafeteria, I'd sneak in through one of the exit doors. Then they got wise to that and posted "guards." So I found other ways to eat cheap.

If I remember correctly, if you didn't have a meal plan, it cost seventy-five cents for breakfast, which ran from 6 a.m. to 11 a.m. So I'd go in at 10:30, grap a coffee and a pastry, and sip it until 11:30 when lunch started. Lunch was $1.25 but they never chased me (or others) out. I'd have breakfast and lunch for $0.75!

The food service at Carleton was provided by Saga Corporation, an American company.

Then came a better deal, work in the cafeteria! Get paid and get fed! I started in the bake shop in the basement, just cleaning up. Later I went upstairs to the cafeteria as a dishwasher, and sometimes pot washer. I hated washing pots - scrubbing cooked on food was not my thing.

For a bit I worked overnight. The normal night guy was off for about a month. I started around 10 p.m., and worked until 6 a.m. The whole kitchen was my domain. I'd start cleaning the huge steam kettles.

There were maybe four of these. Sometimes they were easy to clean (something like canned peas), and sometimes scummy (gravy). I'd fill them with water, turn on the heat, scub, turn off the heat, drain and repeat. Probably the worst part was taking out the garbage. Bags, and bags full of food waste. All the garbage was taken to the basement loading dock. "Clean" food waste was sold for pig food (really) and the bags were set aside. The other garbage went into a bin for pickup. I'd finish the night (early a.m.) cleaning the floor with one of those power cleaning machines.

Once I finished with the machine, I'd go back over the floor with a mop to get it just right. If I did the job right I'd actually be done with time to spare, and with time to spare and a full kitchen I ate well. Bascially anything I wanted within reason.

I don't remember too many people in the cafeteria except for the normal pot washer. He was a middle-aged Portuguese man, and he spoke just about zero English. Until there was something wrong with his pay!

At some point I transferred over to the small cafeteria in the Student Union building. Saga was restarting the cafeteria with a complete new staff. Jimmy was the "chef."

Jimmy had been a cook on a Canadian Navy ship, so he was used to cooking for large numbers of people. Except we didn't get large numbers of people, at least not at first. And Jimmy was used to cooking food that wouldn't offend anyone. Blah food. 

Case in point was Jimmy's Mac 'n' Cheese. I'm not sure where Jimmy found flavorless cheese, but he did. Then Ken Hanson, a student who worked as the pot washer during lunch time, criticized the Mac 'n' Cheese! Huge argument, yelling on both sides, and Jimmy took off his apron, threw it Ken and walked out!

Jimmy eventually returned, Ken kept his mouth shut, and life went on.

I met Roger Aston while working in that cafeteria. I forgot what Roger did there; he was a student (he ended up with two bachelor's degrees). Roger was an easy going guy.

Oddly, Roger, Ken, and two French Canadians - Guy and Albert - moved into a house on Cambridge Street. Some guy named Randy found the place and he was supposed to move in, but he didn't. The house, a ramshackle place, and the brick house next door were slated for demolition but not immediately (eventually they were torn down and a multi-story apartment building was built). 

I moved in with them, and lived there for a couple of years.

I followed Roger to the Faculty Club at Carleton University. The hours were better, basically lunch time and the occasional party. I started off as the dishwasher and pot washer, aided by Skip (I don't remember his last name. Skip was a sax player and a heroin addict, but a nice guy.) 

Roger was like a sous chef or chef's helper. The chef was Richard Gunderson (sp?), who was around my age. The Faculty Club usually had a buffet or menu items - omelets and sandwiches mostly, but we had steaks as well. Richard G was a nice guy but he often clashed with the manager, Peter. Sometimes Richard G wouldn't show up on time, and then Roger would become the chef, and I would be his assistant! 

It really was a pretty cool place to work. They butchered their own beef, and I often would take home the bones to trim off the remaining meat. I could get over a pound of beef from a hip bone!

There were two older waitresses (probably in their 40s), augmented with a couple of female students on busy days. 

Beside the faculty that ate lunch at the Club, some prominent politicians were honorary members (remember, this is Ottawa, Canada's capital). Among them were two former Prime Ministers, John Diefenbaker and Lester Pearson, and the then sitting PM, Pierre Trudeau. I can brag that I am the only auto mechanic who has cooked for three Prime Ministers.

I enjoyed my time in food service. Lunch time at the faculty club was fast-paced, and we all multitasked. When Richard G wasn't there Roger and I were a good team. We'd swap places; sometimes I'd be on the flattop, other times it would be Roger. When lunch was over we'd team up to clean. 

I especially enjoyed working special events, usually at night. I learned to make decorative tomatoes, radishes, and other veggies. I peeled and deveined more shrimp than I can count. I learned how to set up a buffet. And maybe most importantly there was always food to take home.

But all good (and bad) things come to an end. My then wife (now ex) graduated and we returned to Toronto.  We rented one half of a duplex, 66 Kerr Road. The rent was $200 a month. More thin walls.

There was a family in the other side (#68), and they were something else. One morning we were sitting in the kitchen when we heard the dad yell "I SAID PASS THE GOD DAMN BUTTER!"

Then there was the family that we shared a driveway with; the Battersbys lived at 64. The drive was narrow, but I was able to drive my '49 Chevy panel truck between the houses. The Battersbys were a retired British couple, and they drove an early '60s British car, I can't remember the make or model but it wasn't very big. One Sunday morning we were woken up by this horrendous noise - Mr. Battersby drove by Braille and was scraping the houses!

I went back to work for Norm Dunbar, but at a different location, 800 Lawrence Avenue at the corner with Leslie Street. It was a pretty busy location, and near to one of the wealthiest neighborhoods of Toronto, The Bridal Path. I worked there for about a year.

 

The clientele, even those who weren't really wealthy, were well off. Some were interesting, some were snobs. Some of the rich girls in the summer liked to tease us pump jockeys. This was the era of mini-skirts and halter tops. 

There was a poli-sci professor from the University of Toronto who liked to discuss current events with some of us. One middle-age guy came in driving this super low-slung sports coupe. The first Marcos I'd ever seen.

For those who don't know, Marcos was a small volume British car maker that used a variety of engines. The engine in this particular Marcos was a 3.0-liter, Volvo straight six. A Marcos GT stood all of 42.5" high. I thought it was a pretty cool car. 

At some point Esso decided the place should be a corporate-run business. They ousted Mr. Dunbar and put in a manager. It wasn't the same; the family atmosphere was gone. But I stayed.

I remember two people in particular that I worked with. One was a kid from Alabama, Danny. The thing I remember about Danny, outside of his drawl, was his racism. He claimed he wasn't a racist but he couldn't abide Jim Brown kissing Raquel Welch in 100 Rifles.

I cannot remember the name of the other guy; he was a bit older than even I was, and I was older than the teens who worked part-time. He was a bit of an odd duck - he was in his 30s (I was 23), lived at home with his mom, and was very quiet. No problem, he did his job, and he did it well. 

Then he had a seizure, just as he was inserting the gas nozzle into a fuel filler. He fell to the ground, his hand tight on the lever, gas was streaming from the nozzle, and he was spasming! I pulled the nozzle out of his hand, pulled him away from the pool of gasoline, and tried to make sure he was safe. 

The customer got out his car and started yelling about the gas that was sprayed on his car. I yelled at one of the kids to call an ambulance, and then get a hose to rinse down the guys car and the pool of gasoline.

The ambulance came and took the guy away. Someone called the manager, who eventually showed up. He explained to me that the employee had epilepsy. I was pissed, not because of the epilepsy but because no one warned us. I was the Shift Supervisor and I should have known, or at least that's what I thought. I felt like I had failed the guy because I had no idea how to handle a seizure.

I stayed at the Esso station for a few more months. Then we moved from Toronto to Pickering, Ontario. And I went looking for a job again.

I ended up as an Assistant Manager of the Automotive Department at a Woolco store in Agincourt, 3850 Sheppard Avenue East, Toronto. For those who don't know, Woolco was an offshoot of Woolworth's (kind of like Kmart or Walmart). Looking back, I have to admit that being an Assistant Manager was a crap job. I was a combination stockboy and service writer. And no one liked me; at least at first.

This is the actual Woolco I worked at.

Eventually, I was accepted and became friends with the guy who should have been Assistant Manager, Jim Whitehead. I think he was actually paid more than I was.

Working at Woolco became a rather wild time. At least once a week, when I worked until closing, a group of us would go out drinking. Not exactly the smartest thing to do when you live about 20 miles away.

Our car at that time was a 1971 Toyota KE17 Sprinter. I really liked that car but its 1.2-liter, 4-cylinder really wasn't happy on the highway, and the quickest way from home to work was on 401. I think I replaced the head gasket four times, resurfacing the aluminum head twice. But I kept it for about four years.

During my time at Woolco, one of the regional managers was a man named Eberhardt. He was from Manitoba; he had a car he wanted to sell. 

I bought his Mercury, a Canadian model 1963 Mercury 400. It was a low-priced model - rubber flooring instead of carpets, and the rear window was fixed. It was a gas hog but it loved the highway. 

One event stands out in my memory from my time at Woolco. The Store Manager owned a red, 1969 Buick Wildcat convertible.

It was his pride and joy; he only drove it during the summer. One day he wanted the oil changed. I decided to drive it in, but figured I'd do a burnout. The Wildcat disagreed. The left motor mount snapped, the throttle stuck wide open, and I almost ran through the garage door before I got it stopped. I was lucky that the engine fan didn't chew through the radiator. I replaced the motor mount, paying out of my own pocket. 

Eventually, I left Woolco and went on the dole (unemployment) for a few months. When it was time to go back to work, I made the decision to try to become a mechanic. In Ontario and other provinces, to become a journeyman mechanic you have to serve an apprenticeship that is overseen by the province. But first you have to find a shop willing to take you on.

I found a spot at a Gulf gas station in Bay Ridges, Pickering, Ontario. There were two new owners, Dave (I can't remember his last name) and Ken Coppin, and I was their first employee. Soon, they hired a licensed mechanic, Mike Thomas, who became my mentor. As soon as I could, I registered for the apprenticeship program. 

If I remember correctly at that time (it's since changed), there were three school sessions spaced out throughout the term of the apprenticeship. I was officially enrolled in the program towards the end of 1972. I took the final, written exam and was issued my Certificate of Qualification, with an InterProvincial seal, on July 18, 1977. 

I think I was at the Bay Ridges Gulf station through the winter of '72/'73. Then there was a split between Dave and Ken. Ken took over Pickering Gulf, at 550 Kingston Road West, Pickering. Mike and I went with him. 

Pickering Gulf as it now stands - a Gulf no more.

I was at Pickering Gulf when I got my Certificate. Working for Ken had its ups and downs. Ken was slick, maybe too slick - as we later found out.

I lived about 15 minutes away from Pickering Gulf. The house is gone now. For the next few years, I worked in this general area.

There were four of us at Pickering Gulf - Ken, Mike, me, and Joe. Joe came with the place; he had worked for the previous owner (a man named Disney, the Disney family owned a Dodge dealership, the Gulf station, and other property). At first, we viewed Joe as a bit odd, but over time we saw him as a valued employee. He was short, had a humped back, rarely shaved, but he worked the gas pumps like the pro he was, in addition to changing tires and other small jobs. He was born and raised just down the street from the station; in fact he still lived in the house he was born in, and he knew just about everyone in the village (as opposed to the more rural parts of Pickering).

I think I worked at Pickering Gulf until the fall of '77, when Ken went bankrupt. By that time Mike was gone, and Boris, a transplant from a wrecking yard, was the "mechanic." I don't know if Boris was certified but he sure wasn't a good mechanic. He did a brake job on a car and put the brake pads on one side in backwards - metal side to the rotor! I had to fix it. Then there was the time he sent me out to test drive a Dodge Charger with a shimmy. Oh boy did it shake. I brought it back, put it up on the lift and found an outer tie-rod end about ready to give up the ghost. Boris had never even checked the darn car!

After Pickerng Gulf I don't remember for sure where I went. Mike and I worked at Jack Young Motors, a Ford and Subaru dealer that took over one of the Disney places in Pickering village.

It was at Jack Young's that I injured my left hand, requiring some time off, and eventually my stay at Fort Carson, Colorado. I was trying to separate a tie-rod end using a pickle-fork. The fork was jammed, I hung my left hand off the front sway bar, took a mighty swing, and the end of the fork splintered, sending a shard into the center of my left palm.

After an operation, and the news that I'd be off on compensation for a month, I thought I'd join Mike in Colorado hunting for primo old cars in junk yards. I did eventually make it to Colorado, but only after a short stay at Fort Sheridan, Illinois, and Great Lakes Naval Station. All in all my stay with the military lasted just about a month. I collected my Workers' Comp and some military pay.

Shortly after getting back home, driving a 1960 Oldsmobile that Mike had left behind in Pueblo, Colorado. The Olds didn't put out much heat, the speedometer was wacko so I never knew how fast I was going, and somewhere on the trip the right front tire shed part of its tread. But I made it home safe and sound.

I don't remember if I went back to Jack Young's or not. I know it took me some time to convince the Workers' Comp doctor to let me go back to work. I once again found myself without a job. 

For about a year, I worked at a Lincoln-Mercury dealer in Whitby. It was a flat-rate shop, meaning if "the book" said a job took four hours, that was what you got paid, regardless if you did it faster or slower. I often got the shit jobs, warranty jobs that usually paid poorly. Like changing dashboards in Mercury Monarchs (yeah, that was a thing).

Things slowed way down at the L-M shop and it was time to move on again. 

I think Mike went to a Kmart in Whitby, Ontario, and at his suggestion, I got hired at the Kmart at the Pickering Mall. I worked there for maybe a couple of years. 

After Kmart, I foolishly accepted an offer to work for Ken Copin once again, this time at a Gulf station on Edward Street, between Yonge and Bay Streets, in downtown Toronto. It was a hellhole. The riffraff of Toronto hung out in this area, and it was almost a 30 mile drive to and from home. Once again, Ken didn't fail to disappoint. And once again, I was out of work.

My next stop was the Canadian Automobile Association Vehicle Inspection Center. It wasn't a bad job, and eventually it led to a more corporate job. I was at the Inspection Center for a couple of years when there was an opening at the CAA-Toronto HQ, at Carleton and Yonge. I was the Technical Advisor for the F.A.C.T.S. (Free Automotive and Consumer Technical Services) department. I wore a jacket, shirt, and tie. Most importantly it was my opening to writing car reviews.

After a few years I did a stupid thing, I thought I was good for a more "prestigious" position. I applied for, and won, a position at the CAA national office in Ottawa. I only lasted a couple of months. I just wasn't the right person for the job. Plus I was away from home. I left before they let me go.

It took me a couple of months to find my next position (there was no going back to CAA-Toronto). I applied for so many jobs with no luck. Then I got called in for an interview at Peterson, Howell, & Heather, a fleet management company. I was one of four mechanics who approved repairs for leased vehicles. It was a decent job. But as usual, I wanted more.

One day I saw and ad in AutoWeek for a writer. The job was in San Jose, California. Gousha/Chek-Chart was the company. They made maps, lubrication guides, and repair manuals. Once again I overstepped. Between my lack of ability and knowledge, and poor supervision, I just didn't cut it. I was at Chek-Chart for a few months. 

Strange thing is, that although I was only there a few months, I made two long time friends, Rick Dupuy and Mark Polomik. I often felt like a stranger in a strange land. Rick, Mark, and my landlady Gladys Hoge, I at least had friends. 

Gladys was a hoot. She lived at 756 Chestnut Street. She was in her 80s, retired from the Naval Air Base at Moffett Field, Mountain View. She was a cook. I rented a room from Gladys, but soon became like family. It was at Gladys' that I felt my first true earthquake (there was an earthquake when I was at PH&H but I didn't feel it). It was early in the morning. I was sitting in the living room watching the morning news when Gladys' cat took off like a bat out of hell. Then I felt the house shake, and I watched a ripple go up a solid wall!

I was fired from Chek-Chart, the first time I'd been fired from a job since I was a teenager. I packed everything I had with me into a 1972 Plymouth Duster I had bought. It was a bare bones, 6-cylinder, auto trans model. I drove back to Toronto with my tail between my legs.

It was quite a trip. I think it was in February '86. It was brutally cold in the Prairies. As I passed through Cheyanne, Wyoming, the alternator light came on. I made it to a motel, checked in and worried about what I was going to do. I had not tools, nothing to diagnose the issue. 

In the morning I guessed the most likely cause was the alternator. I found a Napa Auto Parts store, bought an alternator and a few hand tools, and changed the alternator in their parking lot. My hands were numb from the cold as I put the key in the ignition, started the car, and Viola the bright red alternator light was out!

I made it back to Toronto without any further issues. The old Duster ran like a champ. Now it was time to find a job - again.

You have to remember that back in pre-Internet days you perused the want ads in your local newspapers for jobs. Every single day I'd carefully read the ads in the Toronto Star, looking for anything that might be a fit. One day an ad from American Motors Canada Ltd. caught my eye. It listed two positions I thought I might be qualified for - Customer Relations and District Service Manager. I sent in my cover letter, got an interview, and was hired for the Customer Relations position.

The position was in Mississauga, an hour from our home. But it was a job. AMC was not a happy place at the time (was it ever?). Money was tight, and to be honest, the product was terrible, especially so under Renault ownership. It seemed to me that my prime directive was to say no. And then AMC was bought by Chrysler.

Chrysler was also in Mississauga, only further by maybe ten miles. And Chrysler's products weren't much better. My job was still to say no. One of the few times I felt like I actually helped someone was when I arranged for a Chevrolet dealer to replace the engine in a Jeep Cherokee.

A young soldier (Canadian) had purchased a brand new 1987 Jeep Cherokee with the 4.0-liter, 6-cylinder in Edmonton, Alberta. He was station somewhere in the Yukon. The engine threw a rod outside of Whitehorse. There was no AMC dealer in the Yukon. I arranged to have a new engine shipped as quickly as possible to the Chevrolet dealer, made arrangements to pay them, and got the soldier (and his new bride) on the road. It cost Chrysler a fair bit of money, probably more than the Cherokee had cost, but for once I solved a problem.

The commute and my supervisor really wore me down, and I wanted to find something better, more suited to my qualifications. I answered an ad for a "Service Engineer" at Honda Canada Inc. The ad sounded like I would be a good fit. And no more dealing with customers.

The office was at 715 Milner Avenue, Scarborough, Ontario, much closer to home, although it sometimes took an hour to get there or home. Part of the interview was to measure some transmission parts with a micrometer, something I had not done since being in school to get my mechanic's license. Somehow, I did it, I guess because they hired me.

Honda Canada Inc. was like a family in some ways, and Service Engineering was my home. Sometimes I think I should have stayed there.

In my short two years there I made friends with some great people. Two guys that were/are way smarter than I am are Warren Milner (he went on to a VP position) and Walter Geisler. They built a race bike, a 650 cc Honda Hawk, that was really something. Paul Mooney was the small engine technical guy. Nao Aoki was our translator. 

I hadn't been a fan of winter since I was a kid. Sledding and snowball fights are one thing, slipping and sliding my way to work and watching my cars be eaten by the salt and slush was something else. Then I had a "slip and fall."

It was late November 1989; I went out to walk my dog. It was raining. But what I didn't realize was that it was below freezing - black ice! As I stepped onto the front stoop, my feet came out from under me. I grabbed the railing, and that twisted my body so that I fell on the top step, landing on my right side. Five broken ribs and the wind knocked out of me. I couldn't talk, I couldn't reach the doorbell, and the dog had taken off down the street. I finally got enough breath to call out loud enough for my wife to hear me. She came out, got the dog, helped me into the foyer, and called 911.

That really was the straw that broke the camel's back. I was done with winter. My search for a job in warmer climes was on. I applied for every job in California I good find an ad for. I got an interview with Laforza, an Italian/Ford mashup that was based on the full-size Bronco.

Thankfully I didn't get the job. Laforza didn't last very long. 

One of my California friends, Mark Polomik, would mail me leads. One was for a State of California job with the Bureau of Automotive Repair. I applied, and after a long, arduous journey, I was hired. I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area in December 1990 and started with the state in January 1991. I found a home.