September 1956

It was mid-morning and sweat poured down my back. An acre of waist-high weeds anchored in rocky soil taunted me in the boiling sun. I swung my hoe at a slow, steady pace, battling a nasty hangover. All I could think about was survival as Johnny Cash belted Sixteen Tons from my transistor radio. I was earning a grand $1.25 an hour, working for the printing mogul Arthur Dettner on his five-acre hillside estate in Ross.

There was no bathroom or water nearby, so at lunchtime, I trudged up the hill, past Arthur and his buddy who were devouring fried chicken and sipping cocktails by the pool. They didn’t invite me to join them. Free lunch and a swim were not perks of the job.

A half an hour later, feeling better after eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and cooling off in the shade, I picked up my pace. Arthur suddenly interrupted my daydream about my new girlfriend. His friend was in tow, perspiring profusely. “Son, you’ll never finish at that rate,” Arthur said in a gruff, imperious voice and grabbed the hoe. “Here’s how I worked when I was a kid.”

He swung at a killing pace for a minute. I watched his potbelly jiggle and his distinguished, fluffy, white hair catch air. He pointed at his work and stared me down with his penetrating, steely eyes. That’s what I expect for the money I’m paying you. And shut off that goddamn music.” Turning abruptly, he waddled up the hill.

He didn’t see me salute him with my middle finger.

“Screw you fat ass.” I swung my hoe viciously and hit the dirt as hard as I could.