Working in America

If you've ever had to take a job you didn't particularly want just to survive, this might interest you. Back in May 1984, I walked across the stage at Stetson University Commencement and took an M. A. degree in English. I was sufficiently impressed, but after the ceremony I still had no job! I counseled with an older and definitely wiser friend, the result of which I became willing to take what I could get in order to contribute my fair share. There was no room for choosy at this point.

I don't why I applied at Yellow Cab of Orlando, Florida, but I did, and they hired me. I worked for a division of the company, Winter Park Cab, which I thought would provide a slightly higher level clientele, as Winter Park is a very upscale neighbor of Orlando (snobbish even when out of work). Thus began one of the most interesting work segments of my life. Twelve hour shifts were the norm, as one simply couldn't earn enough money to make it worthwhile if he worked fewer hours, and I arose at 3 or 4 A.M. each day so I could have a choice of cabs before everybody else on the day shift got to work.

Each driver was considered an "independent contractor," which meant a couple of important things to the worker. First of all, he rented his cab for a fixed amount of money per day, paid for the gasoline, and kept what was left. On a good day back then, it could exceed $100.00, the emphasis on "could." An "independent contractor" also received no benefits whatsoever. So the family that owned the largest taxi company in Orange County, Florida, made piles and piles of money while the drivers toiled for what was often pennies. Nothing new here.

Now here I was working out of a very well-to-do little town, expecting to receive tips that reflected the affluence all around me. I would carry suitcases up stairs, help old folks in their walkers and wheelchairs, anything I could do to not only be of assistance, but generate a decent tip. One trip I still remember which was filled with difficulty resulted in a tip of ten cents, a dime! What I learned in this job was that the people who seemed to be doing well were no better tippers than the people who weren't.

One enjoyable part of my job, however, was talking to people, drawing them out, then letting them tell me about their lives. The older people, in particular, loved having someone to whom to tell their stories. It was living history for me and a chance for them to be recognized. One couple I remember clearly had lived all their working lives in Manhattan during the '30s, '40s, and '50s. They were theatre goers and had seen all the great actors of their day. They talked of their former lives with warmth and not a little bit of nostalgia.

So, because of my work as a hack, I always tip well when I get good service. Even if the service isn't sterling, I still tip. Only when it's truly horrible will I forgo leaving a respectable amount. Once, at DuPar's Restaurant in Studio City, California, I left one cent, a penny. I'm not proud of it, but that meal was the worst instance of lousy service I had ever encountered up until that time. But I know what it is to work for tips. So I rarely forget those who do. And you shouldn't either!