The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Second Summer Job

After my disastrous summer knee-deep in Carvel chocolate sprinkles, I gave my employment options for the following hot weather season a long think over the winter. This would be the summer prior to college and I needed to show the parental management team in place that I was doing my part to pay for higher education. Or at least for the books required for higher education. Or, at the very, very least, the slice of pizza that I could buy in between classes of higher education. And I had a great idea.

The most coveted job for any teenager in Mount Vernon, New York during those days was with the city's Recreation Department. There were about two dozen playgrounds across the town and each needed at least two supervisors to manage the kids. Professional and organized babysitting. Monday through Friday. And you only had to work into the night hours and close the playground twice a week. Sweet.

To get this plum assignment, however, you had to start laying the groundwork while there was still snow on the ground. My best friend in high school and I did just that. Got our applications. Provided our references. And then dealt with one more hurdle.

A Civil Service examination.

The test for the position of "Playground Supervisor" was a bitch. You literally had to know the rules and requirements of every game ever invented. Luckily, there was a study guide to help you remember how high a volleyball net needed to be. How far apart wickets were to be on a croquet course. And exactly what a shuttlecock was.

Forget the fact that the city had virtually no supplies for any of the above. No volleyball net. No croquet mallets. No shuttlecocks. You still needed to know what the hell they were. And pass the friggin' test, so you could at least go on the list for any open positions.

I studied hard and, yes, a shuttlecock is the thing you hit in a badmitton game. Score! We both passed. Where are our playground keys please?

Not so fast, they said. After all, this is city government and certain strands of red tape must be cut. In this case, the definition of "red tape" is specifically "who do you know in City Hall that can get you this job?"

Now, the commissioner of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department in those days was some Mafioso (who wasn't) named John Branca. John's brother was famed Brooklyn Dodger pitcher Ralph Branca. And anybody who ever frequented a Mount Vernon saloon apparently knew Ralph Branca. This was my sixth degree of separation. I had a solid connection.

Dad. After all, he frequented Mount Vernon saloons and...

"Okay, I'll make the call."

I got a cushy assignment. My playground was a mere six blocks from home. The Purdy Tot Lot (seen in its current incarnation above). Who Purdy was is still a mystery to me. But it was your basic playground with swings, slides, a play area, and some benches under a big awning.

On my first day, I donned my official Recreation Department t-shirt and headed out to make a difference in these kids' summer. For some reason, there were three supervisors assigned to the Purdy Tot Lot. Stephanie was an adorable college student and I immediately thought she would make a difference in my summer as well. I quickly found out she was married and unavailable and, of course, who wasn't in those days. Nevertheless, we quickly bonded, primarily because we were the only two White people in the entire playground.

And then there was Big Mabel Brown. Both adjectives in her name were correct. She was and she was. Mabel had been part of the Mount Vernon Recreation Department since balls were round. I was working alongside a veritable institution in the neighborhood as "Miss Mabel." And she had a very definite opinion on how to supervise a playground, which she quickly extolled to us when we tried to start a kickball game.

"These youngins don't want to play no games. It's too hot. They rather play cards."

Huh? But, what about all those rules and regulations I had to learn for the test?

"They like their 500 rummy."

There was no arguing Big Mabel Brown. And that's pretty much what those kids from the age of 7 to 13 did all summer. Play cards. You name it. They dealt it. And it wasn't long before they taught me to play them like a Mississippi riverboat gambler. I don't think I touched a ball the entire summer.

Of course, there was the idle activity every once in a while and I'd have to get something out of the supply cabinet.

"Mr. Len, I want crayons."

Ten minutes later...

"Mr. Len, I'm done with the crayons."

There was one hyperactive kid named Drexel who liked to climb the monkey bars in between poker hands. One afternoon, he came over to see with a rather innocent question.

"Mr. Len, my shoulder broke. Can you pop it in?"

Huh?

"Miss Mabel do it all the time."

There was a first aid primer we had all received, but there was no time to check the table of contents. I grabbed his arm and pushed it upward. I heard something click.

"Thank you, Mr. Len." Off went Drexel.

Of all the summer jobs I ever had, my time at the Purdy Tot Lot was the best. You sat, you read, and you occasionally cleaned a neighborhood kid out of ten cents during a game of gin rummy. When, during the following winter, I was asked about my desire to return to the Mount Vernon Recreation Department, my hand was quickly raised.

Except I didn't know at the time that you were never re-assigned to the same playground. Except for Big Mabel Brown, everybody was moved. And I wound up at the Howard Street Playground AKA Hell on Earth.

I had coasted in an all-Black pre-teen neighborhood. Howard Street was, however, all White, all Italian, and everybody there was already sporting some pubic hairs.

"Forget the dodgeball, Mr. Playground Supervisor Asshole. When do we get to have sex?"

Help. Anybody.

To complicate matters, my female counterpart there was a fox. Collette. Mount Vernon High School cheerleader. Cute as a button and she knew it in spades. If I had a shot at her, I'd have to stay in line behind some of the randiest fifteen-year-olds you'd ever want to meet. All had a common goal. To get Collette in the supply closet. More than once. With or without condom.

In the current photo above, Howard Street looks pretty tame. But, back then, it was anything but. The kids smoked, drank, and pretty much abused any level of authority, which was primarily me. It wasn't long before I realized Collette was always exiting said supply closet with a big smile on her face. I'd get no help from her. I was totally alone with the Sharks and the Jets. Organizing a punchball game with me substituting for the ball.

There was one time when some creature decided to bring his pet boa constrictor to torment everybody. Well, not everybody. Primarily me. There are not many arguments you can win when somebody is holding a nine foot long snake in front of your eyes. By the end of July, the whole playground looked like Babylon and I don't mean Long Island. I had lost control of the entire situation. Word leaked back to the powers that be and I was unceremoniously moved to the playground two blocks away. I probably was lucky to keep the T-shirt.

The new assignment was a little quieter. Most of the denizens were teenagers who were pretty much content to sit under a tree and make out. I left them alone and buried my nose in a book. I didn't need to watch kids five or six years younger doing something that I wasn't.

By the end of that summer, I decided to forego the Recreation Department job for the next year. For all I know, they could have sent me to a softball field in Hanoi.

Yep, my next summer job would have to be different. And it was...

To be continued.

Dinner last night: Picnic snacking at the Hollywood Bowl.