Crash Test Dummy : On the road of summer jobs, there are drivers and passengers. The author doesn’t want to be either.
When I set out to find a job this summer, I had a single objective in mind — to earn more than minimum wage. After spending the previous summer scrubbing popcorn, gummi bears and unidentifiable goo from a movie theater floor, I realized the purpose of minimum wage labor is to utterly destroy the human spirit. While the same might be said for work in general, I’d rather be paid more than $5.15 an hour for the destruction of my spirit.
Intent on my noble purpose, I tried networking with every rich person I’d ever met. I used to be a Boy Scout in a fairly affluent part of town, and this guy I knew from there offered me a job in his auto shop.
I should say I know absolutely nothing about mechanics. Anything more complicated than a see-saw is beyond the realm of my comprehension.
Furthermore, I hate cars. I hate them with a passion. I hate car commercials, I hate car races, I hate it when I get trapped in one of those guy conversations about Z3s and X1000s and all of those other cars that somehow appeal to primal male desire. I don’t even have a driver’s license — I’d rather ride the city bus than mess with horrible automotive things.
But Mr. Wallace offered me more money than anyone else. So I took the auto shop job.
Actually, it was a little more than an auto shop. Like Tom Cruise’s character in “Rain Man,” Mr. Wallace imports cars from foreign countries for extremely wealthy individuals who want extremely nice cars. Mr. Wallace’s auto shop modifies them to conform to all kinds of U.S. standards for emissions, instrumentation, door beams, etc. so the cars can be legally driven on the street.