HUMOR

By Tucker Golladay

Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons user Andypandy.UK.

It was a humid spring evening. Aside from my chicken vibrating its way across my plate in small bursts, leading me to believe it was still alive, dinner was like any other night in my household. All was well until my father walked in the door and said, “Son, I think it is about time you become a man and get a summer job.” How could this be? It felt like yesterday that I was flying around the jungle gym and learning fractions. My palms moistened, and I got unreasonably nervous. “Fine,” I blurted out, as I sulked into my room.

The idea of a job was not the issue. Yes, it would take up valuable relaxation time from my well-deserved summer, but I was more worried about the potential responsibilities associated with the job. Not only was I told to apply and get a position with an employer, alone, but a job also meant taxes. Taxes are scary.

I searched around various open positions that would fulfill the rebelliousness of a teenage boy, and I soon came across the Holy Grail: a country club golf-cart boy. It seems like every young man’s dream to get layers of unregulated green fairway powder caked under their fingernails while conversing with old men that are inclined to sauce five dollars, depending on the quality of service. Is it embarrassing to note the tears of excitement that glistened from the glare of moonlight through my window?

I sent an email that night and got a response several days later with the date and time of an interview.   

The day of the interview, the slight, crisp smell of singed pants filled my bedroom. I turned the corner and saw sweat dripping from my mother’s forehead as she ferociously ironed my pants. The day of my first job interview marked a monumental milestone in my life. At the time, I did not understand the purpose of ironing the pants, because although they were crinkled, they required nothing more than a shake. I wondered why people cared about minor imperfections.

As I opened the front door to my house, my mom nervously caressed my jacket. I ducked out, muttering that my jacket was fine, and that I thought that ironing my pants was overkill. As I arrived at my interview, I found myself subconsciously smoothing my clothes. During the interview, I was certain my boss was taking more stock of what I was wearing than what I was saying, which surprised me, because it wasn’t exactly a position in the fashion industry.

In hindsight, the country club members did end up appreciating fashionable touches to the heat-trapping uniforms the boys and me wore. These bonus pieces included small touches, like a flag pin on the right shoulder, a headband strangling a hat, and a pocket square dangling intelligently out of the back pocket. Aside from the bonus pieces, everyone wore a required light-blue collared shirt and khaki shorts that failed to conceal the gallons of sweat produced by hours spent in the intense, beating, mid-summer sunlight out on the shadeless fairways.

The interview finished, and we exchanged handshakes. As I scrambled up from my chair, he blurted, “I usually give more time to think about hiring someone.” I started to say thank you before he continued, “You’re hired because your pants are ironed. You just don’t see that every day anymore.”

A week after the interview, I was on the job. After a few shifts, I realized the life of a cart boy is an incredibly lenient position. I nearly hit a Porsche with a golf ball, I caught part of a desk on fire, I hit and shattered a light in a putting competition, I was in the middle of practicing drifting a cart around a pole when my boss walked in and saw me hit the pole, and I fell asleep for three hours during a busy shift. Yet my boss approached me and said, “I really appreciate your hard work on this golf course. The respect you show members, and the enthusiasm you bring to the course is unparalleled to other workers. You are a fantastic worker, Tucker. Your next boss will be lucky to have you.” I was shook.

I still wonder how much my ironed pants influenced my chances of being hired. My mom had been right. The fire of the iron had made all the difference: a testament to the one time when “pants on fire” actually helped someone. Not every molehill needs to be made into a mountain, but as the shadows of creases on my khakis prove, some do.

Featured photo courtesy of Markus Spiske.