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Ridgeline Country Club
1976
By: David K. Every
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May 05,2003
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 y parents have issues, as all parents do. My parents were very into "things" and working, and social stuff; they were yuppies a few years before the term was invented. While I was never into the social scene, and much less concerned with the "things", some did rub off. And I definitely saw a lot of self worth in working and what I did. So I started working at a young age.
I remember washing cars, selling lemonade, mowing lawns, and doing things like that. Mostly, when I was young, work was just an annoying waste of time. I was trading off a little boredom for some rewards, which I'd spend as soon as I got. Estate planning is not high on a 8-13 year olds list of priorities. I remember working for my allowance; but had many jobs that were just expected of me, either way. But the lesson I learned was that my time was worth money.
By the time I was 12-14 I started doing more serious part-time or summer jobs. One of my first big ones, was I remember being a bus-boy and dish-kid at the local country club, that also did some food prep work and various odd jobs (like collecting the balls from the driving range, and so on). Sounds very posh, but Ridgeline was a little pitch and putt (with a few par 4's), that was out past the burbs, and not exactly Pebble Beach. Still, I'd learned to golf as a kid, and one of the perks was free green fees; and my boss, Skippy, was a Presidential Chef. Which means at least once he cooked a meal for the President; Gerald Ford.
Skippy was a hoot, and could make a sailor blush. Certainly a 13-year-old kid was no match. And by today's standards, he'd be locked up for political incorrectness. I still remember that asked for my lunch sandwich dry (no mayo), and he said, "Yeah, after the first time I jerked off, I could never eat mayo on my sandwiches again"; for some reason, that image scarred me for life. I'm still trying to claw out my mind's eye over that one.
I'd worked the food counter all during Junior High School before - but that was just basically pushing pre-made snacks and lunches across the counter and counting change. This was the closest to fast-food that I got; but after hearing all my friends horror stories, and about the disgusting things they did, I'm not sorry that I missed those experience. Plus I'd come in and help friends close and clean occasionally, or stuff like that; so I got a little by proxy.
After working there, I seemed to get the movie Caddy-Shack much more than my contemporaries. I still have flashbacks of Bill Murray, that I confuse with my memory; was that the movie, or was that real? We used to night golf, midnight swim, or do other strange things. I remember when I used to hunt on the golf course after dusk; mostly rabbit with a pellet pistol I had. For some reason, they love golf courses. But I remember this one time, I'd shot (wounded this rabbit) that was scrambling off and jumped over a row of bushes. I was chasing it and jumped over the row of bushes. The rabbit had jumped into a cactus patch. I had jumped into a cactus patch. Rabbits are immune to the needles. Humans are not. It had its last act of defiance. I'd made it a good 6' into the patch, and it took a while to get out. When I got out, I picked hundreds or thousands of needles out of myself. I'd had to take off my pants. I couldn't put them back on, because they were full of needles. So I walked the mile home without my pants. I also learned that when you get quills in you, if you don't get them all out, some of them will go completely through. They'll keep working their way through your body, until they get dissolved (most), or come out the other side (a few). It was weird getting these needles popping out for what seemed like weeks or months.
The job only lasted like 6 months or so; which is a lifetime to a teen. But it was a good experience, and I was imprinted by the experience. One of the best things, and worst things, about working is the people you work with. The other bits of wisdom were that meat slicers do what they say, industrial dishwashers get hot, and working at a country club sometimes means good take-home food that's about to go to scrap. 
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