November 1956

Christmas was coming. There were no toys on layaway and we had an empty larder. Bud and I had had no luck finding jobs.

The newspapers were full of positions, all listed under employment agencies that charged a hefty twenty percent fee for the first three months. They also required screening before they would send anyone out on an interview. We didn’t want to do those things, but we had no other choice

The first two meetings were quick. One look at a teenager with no experience brought the same response. “Sorry. We can’t help you.”

We scored at the third agency. An attractive woman took pity and listened to our tale of woe.

“Well, how old are you”?

“Sixteen and seventeen,” I said before Bud could spill the beans. To be employed full-time you had to be sixteen. I was only fifteen.

“Well, I have several seasonal jobs.”

She sent Bud to Penny’s Department store on Market. He was hired as a Santa Claus and fired two weeks later for playing too little Santa and too much Ping-Pong. That turned out to be his only job that year.

My first interview took me back to my old neighborhood. Spiegel’s Department Store, was on 18th and Mission, just blocks from where I’d been raised. I guess my enthusiasm and energy carried the day. It didn’t hurt when I made sure the manager, Mr. O’Brien knew I was baptized and had received first Communion in his parish church, St. James.

He walked me over to the empty hardware section of the store. “This will be your department. Stock and sell the toys. Can you assemble bikes?”

“Oh, sure. No problem,” I lied. I was a mechanical moron. Dad, who could barely screw in a light bulb, thought manual projects were below his boys’ dignity.

What a great job. I managed to get the simpler things put together by myself, and a friendly janitor stepped in to help when I got stumped.

Spiegel’s was a far cry from Mom’s old stomping grounds like The City of Paris, White House or The Emporium. There were no beautifully illustrated OZ books, fancy made in Britain, sets of shiny lead soldiers, or Lincoln Logs, but there were plenty of cheap games, dolls, trucks, guns and off-brand bikes.

I was a natural salesman. I loved kids and had been a CYO basketball coach and a recreation director. Plus, I felt at home with working-class Mission District folks.

Along with the job, came an automatic employee charge account.

One week before Christmas, Mom strode into the store. My younger siblings were expecting Santa Claus to show up. It was my job was to make sure his bag was full.
I worked fast, stuffing the cart with the best toys the store had to offer. Then the clothes and home furnishings caught Mom’s eye.

Within an hour, Mom triumphantly exited Spiegel’s with over $ 500 in charged merchandise – a real haul in 1956.

Two weeks after Christmas, I was busy dismantling my toy department when I received a frantic call from the store manager.

“Mike, get in my office.”

He stood at his desk with my bill in his hand “Mike, for Christ’s sake, you’re a great worker and a good kid, but your job’s almost over. How the hell you gonna’ pay these charges?”

“Wow, Mr. O’Brien.” I opened my eyes wide. “I guess Mom got carried away.”

He shook his head helplessly.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

I felt bad about lying to the guy, but my family’s happiness came first.