I Was a Teenage Mascot 01 : One Tough Tomato

All I wanted was a job. I had spent a couple of summers picking up aluminum cans along roadsides, and while I did enjoy the fruits of my labor, at 15 years old, I was ready for the big time; the kind of big time that only three-dollars and thirty-five cents an hour would bring. A boy my age with that kind of summer money was surely just one step away from a mustache, muscle car, and all the girls he could ask for.

My first attempt to secure employment was unsuccessful. A man by the name of Mr. Turbeville raised tomatoes on a plot of land just a block or so from my house. He'd turned his panache for gardening into a thriving, roadside enterprise that required several summer employees. He provided my older brother with his first job, so I thought I'd give it a try.

I'd always heard that Mr. Turbeville was a bit on the rough and tough side. He was a hard-as-nails tomato man, so its no wonder I don't remember meeting the man. My mom walked me over to the Turbeville field, and that's when my memory goes blank. I can imagine him hunched over me in his dungy, fatigued overalls while pointing his cricked, dirt caked finger nail at my nose. Looking at my chubby cheeks, my soft, rotund body, and clean hands, me must have looked at me and said, "So, ya think ya can pick my tomatoes, huh?"

"Uh… well, I… uh…," I responded.

"I bet you're in the school band, ain't ya?" he taunted.

Well, as a matter of fact… yeah, I was in the band. But I played the trombone. I mean my right arm was exercised everyday in the tomato picking motion. But that didn't matter. I wasn't Turbeville material. I'm sure I walked away from that field slouch-shouldered and dejected. In the end, however, it was probably best for us all.

While being the type of kid that was in the school bad was a detriment to working for Mr. Turbeville, it was an in for another money making opportunity. The local Amvets owned a building in town that was once a mid-size grocery store. They held bingo games there five nights a week and needed floor workers to sell pull-tab games and bingo cards for extra rounds. I don't know about the legality of it all, but the Amvets had worked out a deal with our school band where they donated funds, and band members volunteered to work the floor at the bingo hall. We weren't employed, per se, but anyone who volunteered did get a little kick back.

"It's bingo, right? How hard can it be?" I thought. I remember my mom driving me over to the bingo hall and dropping me off by the front door. I pulled it open wide and couldn't believe what I saw on the other side.