Archive for the ‘dollars and cents’ Category

compulsory service

Wednesday, January 21st, 2009

What do we need?

Compulsory service.

When do we need it?

Now.

When DID we need it?

Decades ago.

When do we need it?

Now.

No exceptions, no exemptions. Do it NOW!

Upon completion of an education or earlier if chosen, after turning eighteen, whichever comes later.

Equality of obligation for all regardless of gender, religion, physical ability, age, sexual orientation, race, belief, size, shape, appearance, prior obligations, occupation or aesthetic tastes.

Complex and complicated to execute?

Yes.

Needs to be nuanced?

Yes.

There is something of value that everyone can do. Its that simple, regardless.

There is value in the equalizing that individuals experience through non-exceptional compulsory public service and it is what our country needs now to even survive the next few decades much less, years. A dedication to live as we pledge or perish as we whine in our clinging to divisions, entitlements and the shirking of civic responsibilities.

Uncle Sam Needs You!

More NOW, in far more ways, than ever before.

Building and maintaining an energy-independent infrastructure; teaching our young in skills and trades; caring for our weakest; defending our security; planting, nurturing and harvesting our crops; managing our financial and business transactions; building our economy; representing and transacting interests abroad; healing our epidemics including the over dependence on drugs and unhealthy lifestyle choices; and, promoting and establishing a deeply rooted sense of belonging and contributing to positive growth in all aspects tempered with an initiative for negotiating, resolving and working within our differences.

Sound draconian? Socialist? Communist? Utopian?

Whatever. Its what we need NOW not later. There may very well not be a later.

I know we can do it.

I know because our parents and their parents and those before them have done whatever was required to survive in spite of tremendous adversities and diversities.

We have let them down by taking for granted the freedoms and privileges that arose from their labors; by allowing self aggrandizement and acquisitiveness, greed and ambition to overshadow our shared needs in our own community, our country, our world.

Stumbling does not mean falling if we have enough momentum to recover our step. We are on our way, as it seems to appear in slow motion, to recovering our step, our pace toward a better future for the entire planet and all of its inhabitants. If only we can work together as one planet, with one race of human beings, capable of so much when pressed into service for the common good.

Life is short, so don’t be slackin’, get doin’. There are so many lives to follow yours.

learning appreciation

Tuesday, January 13th, 2009

I’m not sure how I first ran onto this but, I’ve learned to appreciate the craft in everything that people make or do. Most likely it came from experiences I had early on. That’s how I’ve found I have learned most things of value in my life.

There are things that people do, often on their jobs, that are done repetitiously. Whether you are an attorney writing a brief, a grocery clerk ringing-up and bagging store items or a garbage truck driver picking up the trash; these are some things that are done with a highly developed skill and panache. That’s the craft I speak of.

Its often easy to overlook but, its everywhere, all the time. My appreciation stems from my experiences in developing some of those. Right after graduating from high school my friend Roy recommended me for a job where he worked, at the most popular drive-in and hang-out in the Seattle’s north end.

On a typical day I would show up about 15 minutes early to get into my uniform and have a coke before starting my shift. The uniform was standard restaurant whites with a simple wrap apron, a brown neckerchief shaped like the one I wore in boy scouts and a disposable paper hat. I punched in and walked onto the floor from the small backroom. The sunlight was reflecting off the spotless stainless steel counters and the sparkling hoods of the malted milk mixers. The smells of fresh french fries and the toasting buns for the first batch of burgers signaled the start of another day shift at Dick’s Drive-In. Sally, a trim and rather short young woman, was on her tip toes, reaching up to pour the last bits of crushed ice into the lifted top of the large soft drink dispenser that was shaped like a large wooden barrel. Her taught body fit nicely into the tight fitting and heavily starched white cotton dress. Her dark brown hair was held with a hairnet which lent a look of another time. Not real stylish by the standards of the ’60s but it was required by law. She had the starched little white and brown crown held on her head with bobby pins. Though I was still a virgin, my body and soul responded instinctively to the exhilaration.

“Working the grill” was seen as the top job, often reserved for the shift manager since the grill was located in the center of the carefully planned work area and offered an all inclusive vantage of what was going on, both inside and outside the glass enclosed restaurant. It was a weekday morning and there were just 4 of us. I was helping on the grill.

I reached down and grabbed the flat stainless steel weights that lie on the bottom burger buns that had just reached the right state of brownness. I gave them each a swift tap as I lifted them off by their handles, to assure that none of the moist fresh Langendorf buns stuck to them, and slid the one-foot by three foot panels atop the vent structure that rose above the grill surface and separated the cooking area from the front counter and walk space where Sally had just opened the small pass through window.

“All of our burgers are prepared with a small amount of mild mustard and ketchup, sir” I heard her say. This was the mantra we could all recite in our sleep. Its what we were trained to say to our customers who wanted something different on their hamburgers. The owners of Dick’s Drive-In were pioneers in the fast food business and were geniuses when it came to organization and they had carefully planned out every aspect of service and thoughtfully choreographed the entire operation. The hamburgers were all the same; the only option being with cheese — a cheeseburger. There were little circles painted in red nail polish on the counters where salt shakers for the fries, stacks of plastic lids for the soft drinks or spare scoops for ice cream were to be placed. There were prescribed movements that had been studied and timed for maximum efficiency and customer service. It was a highly coordinated and effective operation in every aspect.

Sally was shouting out orders for burgers, tapping a mixing malted milkshake with one hand while reaching over to scoop a paper cup half full of crushed ice and then, single-handed, fill it with coke from the barrel dispenser on the counter just to the side of the window where she was serving the first person in what was becoming a fast growing line of hungry patrons. “May I help you next ma’m?” she shouted to the next in line, while snapping open up one of those cardboard trays that we gave out with multiple drink orders. It was policy to be serving as many customers at once as humanly possible. We all saw it as a challenge. We wrote down cash register counts of the number of sales each half hour. The most I recall was when one evening after a football game three of us had served 1,000 people in just one hour, mostly soft drinks probably, unless it was a Friday when the catholic school kids all rushed in at midnight to buy burgers. There were often fights to be broken up and fires maliciously started in the metal swing-top garbage cans that lined the concrete apron surrounding the service windows. The cops knew by now to be slow in responding to our calls. They must have tired of having to discipline the angry crowds of drunk teens. Meanwhile, inside we kept our cool and continued to serve them all with respect and speed.

But this was the lunch rush and the teens were a smaller part of our clientele. This was an older crowd, many whom were regulars. I remember one really old guy who came every day and loved to flirt with the counter girls. When ordering his fries he asked for “a shot of Red-Eye!” trying to sound like John Wayne or some other image of swaggering intent, when he wanted one of those little cups of ketchup we sold with the fries. Even then we questioned among ourselves the wisdom of someone his age eating so much of this greasy fare. When he didn’t come in for several days, we speculated he must have finally died of a peptic ulcer.

“Down to four cheese” Sally exclaimed. With a long bladed spatula, I lifted the buns two at a time and flipped them over and onto the warming tables shining surface. We were running a ‘48′, making 48 burgers, half of which would be cheese burgers, the others not. It took just 4 minutes to make a ‘48′. It begins with grabbing the bottom buns, six in each hand at a time, from the flat boxes that hung in specially constructed stainless shelves next to the grill. These are then quickly flung down onto the hot grill surface in neat rows, six deep. This is repeated until all 48 lie warming on the right side of the huge cooking surface. Flat weights made of stainless steel are placed atop each group of 24 to keep the buns in contact with the hot plate. Then this is repeated with the top buns on the far left side of the grill. Once the buns are toasting, a quick turn to the waist-high small doors into the 40-degree box, a large walk-in cooler right behind the grill where the meat, cheese and open condiments were kept, for grabbing neatly ordered and pre-counted stacks of meat patties. They are an eighth pound each and about 4-inches in diameter, stacked with pieces of wax paper in between them. they are placed in the middle section of the hot grill and the papers ripped off immediately. By this time the bottom buns will be toasted and need to be removed to the large stainless warming table, just to the right of the grill.

When the bottom buns were all lined up in 4 rows of twelve it was time to rapidly apply the “small amounts of mild mustard and ketchup.” We used conical shaped dispensers that had levers to release just the correct amount consistently, every time, without fail; as long as they remained full. Click, click, click, hitting all the buns squarely in the middle leaving what looked like a sloppy asterisk of moist condiment; then, slamming the dispensers quickly back into the carefully place stainless tubs that held them. First the ketchup in big splurts, then the mustard in smaller dabs. In the background, above the hum of the malt mixers and order taking you could hear the fry clerk bagging the crisp, warm tan potatoes, done to perfection. He slid the stainless tongs, held closed into the top little bag on the pile that rested in its place at the side of the french fire warmer and display. He released the tongs with a snap and placed the now open bag in his other hand, After salting and stirring the crisp potatoes, he took just the right amount and threw it into the bag. This was repeated until about a half dozen full bags lie ready for customers so they wouldn’t have to wait. The owners time and motion studies showed that it was more efficient to serve the french fries, and the ice cream desserts as well, through separate windows from where the main entrees were ordered. This caused some consternation for only a few customers as it really was far more efficient.

Back on the grill, the patties were showing just a small amount of red blood and juice on the still uncooked top side, indicating it was time to turn them. Grabbing the spatula reserved especially for the meat, they were quickly flipped two at a time, then quickly salted from the coffee-mug sized aluminum shaker that rested in its assigned spot atop the grill back vent. Roy and I were doubling on this batch. He instinctively swung around, flipping the chrome handle of one of the smaller waist level doors on the 40-degree box, and grabbed two measured stacks of 12 cheese slices each. It was processed cheese with the wax paper sheets separating each slice. He swung back and dealt out the cheese slices like a Vegas blackjack dealer, ripping the paper dividers off as he went. This all took just a few seconds.

After tapping the bun weights on his left and slamming them down atop the grill back vent, Roy deftly lifted and placed the top buns onto the finished patties with the spatula. “Hot stuff!” he shouted as he began lifting the now turned, salted and completed meat patties covered by the soft rounded top buns from the hot grill. We were passing each other quickly and it was warming up more rapidly behind the grill now. The sun beat in and the heat of the grill and fry tanks just to our left helped the temperature reach around 125.

While Sally’s shouted order was still hanging in the air like a multi-colored banner I began the wrapping ritual. The thin tissue-like papers, one stack, white for regular hamburgers, the other, yellow for cheese were just to my right on the warming table. In one swift movement my right hand slapped the top paper on the pile, sliding it onto the table surface while my left picked up a burger. The two came together and in another swift gesture I folded first front to back then back to front enclosing the burger, leaving two open ends at each side. As my thumb held the partially wrapped object of a customer’s hunger, my fingers reached over to fold the loose ends into triangular shapes, first the front, then the back. With another flip of the wrists, these ends were tucked under the hot burger and it was rapidly fired off to its reserved portion of the warming table. Those working the front counter know just where to reach for either a hamburger or a cheeseburger without having to look.

The whole process of making 48 hamburgers takes only 4 minutes, start to finish. That’s 12 per minute or one every five seconds. Once learned, it is done without stress or error, time after time, day after day. It can get monotonous but it is more or less automatic and can even be relaxing and rewarding in its accomplishment, depending on one’s perspective and attitude at any given moment. Usually, its seen as a non-event. Just part of the job.

I love to watch grocery clerks that have been doing it for long enough to deftly whip those items through and bag them and handle payment and quickly move on to the next in line, all with a smile and small talk. I love seeing the garbage truck driver wheel that huge rig up in perfect alignment with the one of three cans they are assigned to pick-up. Then, while sitting in the cab, perhaps talking on a cell phone or grooving on some tunes, looking straight ahead, pull the lever that extends the mechanical arms, picking up the can and inverting it overhead into the waiting mouth of the truck. He then gives a couple of quick flips of the lever to bang the can to be sure its contents are all released before placing it back where it was, in between the other two. All this takes less than a minute and he’s off to the next house. All done as if the truck and its complex machinery were an extension of his body and the task nothing more difficult than swinging a hip over to nudge someone.

I take the opportunity to commend and remark on this deftness whenever its possible. We all need strokes, whenever and wherever we can get them.

I am an artist and have taught art and been in many artist’s studio and seen many types of art produced. There are parts of my own art, the crafting parts, that involve timing and rhythm in their execution. Done in repetition, they become a dance. A dance, like cooking food, checking groceries, operating a garbage truck. Maybe its selfish but I really thrill at seeing people doing ordinary tasks with mastery and aplomb. It reaffirms my feeling that we are all in a big dance. Check it out, you’ll see it everywhere if you are looking for it. Shall we dance?