I graduated college in December 1987 (I’d started a semester late, hence my out of cycle completion). After college I worked through the spring, saved up some money, and then moved to Sacramento to once again live with my father and see if I could get something going. I rented the finished garage for $150 a month.
I had it in my mind to get into the fitness industry. At the time (1988), there was no such thing as a personal trainer. I’d been into fitness for a while, was young and lean, and looked as though I knew about exercise and nutrition. So it only took knocking on a couple of doors before I landed a spot as a Nautilus instructor at ATA Fitness for a whopping $5 an hour.
It didn’t take me long to figure out working in fitness (at least there) sucked. The instructors made squat. The money was in selling memberships and that’s where the club put its focus. It had a sales staff of around 10 people who did nothing but beat the phones all day trying to get people into the club for a “free” 2 weeks, only to hit them up and hard sell them a membership. Once the cash was in hand, the sales people — and the club — couldn’t care less if you ever came back or worked out a day in your life.
So here are the sales people earning around $100 for every member they signed while the fitness folks (me and 3 others) earned $5 an hour for actually showing people how to work out and improve their health.
ATA Fitness was on the second floor; the first floor was occupied by a Mexican restaurant and some office spaces. The Mexican place ran a special every day starting at 5:00 in the evening: $1 dollar draft beer with a basket of tortilla chips with salsa. I was so broke, that was my dinner pretty much every night.
I worked there around 3 months, but the money was too low. I left for the dreaded retail sector, to a sporting goods store, where I worked until joining the Air Force in 1989.
One wall of the workout room at ATA Fitness was all windows looking out over a busy road. I remember standing there, looking out the window, this song playing through the ceiling speakers. A college graduate at 22, I was living in a garage, making $5 an hour, and already nostalgic for the carefree life I’d just left and knew I’d never experience again.
One summer I worked at a place named the Rod ‘n Reel, located in Chesapeake Beach, MD. The Rod ‘n Reel was a restaurant, tackle shop, marina and more. My job was the morning shift in the tackle shop, helping the charter boats load up for their morning charters. The good part of the job was that my shift ended at noon. The bad part? It started at 4:00 in the morning.
One morning I was driving to work in the rain. There’s a long, straight stretch of tree covered road. It was about 3:30am, and this song came on. The beat of the song was in perfect time to the back and forth of the windshield wipers of my 1969 Mustang.
Like many a youth of my (or any) generation, I served a sentence at the requisite fast food restaurant. My prison of choice was McDonald’s, where I slaved away 20-30 hours a week during my junior and senior years of high school. Minimum wage in 1982-1983 was $3.35, so my take-home was $60-90 a week. Pitiful from today’s perspective, but more than enough to keep me in gas and support the occasional movie date (tickets were $3 each) and trips to the mall.
Friday and Saturday I worked as a closer, from 4:00pm - 1:30am. The closing crew was pretty regular: me, Troy, Judy, Sarah, Kim, Gordon, Porter and a few others. Sometimes, after shift, we’d get together and do a little partying, enjoying a few cold beers pulled from the green 5-gallon pickle bucket (courtesy of McDonald’s) stuffed with ice (also courtesy of McDonald’s) that had been chilling in the trunk of my car.
One night we rolled out of the parking lot after closing and headed down to park behind a nearby school. We popped a few and put on an Eagles tape (you remember cassette tapes don’t you?). Troy and I were in the front seat, Judy and Sarah in the back. It was a beautiful spring night, a slight breeze, the stars bits of glass on black cloth. The radio cast a faint blue light.
We drank our Michelob (the high schooler’s beer of choice in the early 80s) and listened. After the the song finished, Judy sighed and said “Now that’s harmony”.
The music of the 80’s firmly defines my high school and college experience. The early 90s recalls my newlywed days and the three years my wife and I spent in Japan. We married in January of 1991 and moved, courtesy of the Air Force, to Tokyo, Japan, in August that same year.
Being young and married and without children lends itself to a fairly carefree and spontaneous lifestyle. We had a good group of friends we hung out with. One of our friends was a guy named Roger. A security police officer, Roger was tall, handsome, sought after by the ladies, and somewhat insecure. He could also pack away the booze. When I hear this song, it reminds of Japan and the people we knew there, and specifically of Roger downing eight Mai Tais at the officer’s club one night.
My wife used to mess with him.
“Are those new pants?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?”
Shrug. “Nothing.”
And for the rest of the night he would sit there, worried about his pants….
When I hear this song, it reminds me that I’m middle-aged, getting older (and losing my hair), rising at 5:30am, driving 45 minutes, and composting in a cube for 8+ hours. Hey, as far as jobs go, I have a fantastic one. It really is great, and I work with great people. It’s not my calling though. Unfortunately, I don’t know what my calling is. I seem to be using the process of elimination to discover it. At the rate I’m going, I should figure it out by the time the sun goes nova.
Takin’ Care of Business, by Bachman-Turner Overdrive
