Spexious

Observations and arguments.

Jobs I Have Held: Assistant Manager

For the first week on my first paying job, I wasn’t assistant manager.

I took the standard entry-level job at the local movie twoplex. Sweeping, ushering, concessions, window washing. I was sixteen, the summer before my senior year in high school. My parents weren’t pushing me to get a job, but I wanted the extra walking around money that a part-time minimum wage job would afford.

Within a day or two, the senior assistant manager had somehow identified that I was different than my peers. I don’t believe I had time to demonstrate anything in the way of competence above and beyond anyone else, so I’m not sure what criteria he applied. Perhaps it was enough that I didn’t smell like weed.

In any event, I was promoted almost immediately to a spot in the box office. There was no bump in salary–I was sixteen after all–but during the quiet times I could remain at the window and read a book instead of having to clean, and that was plenty good enough for me.

By the end of my first week the mumbling manager had taken notice of the fact that in my few days in the box office I hadn’t embezzled cash from the till, plus in the nightly reports of ticket sales I was able to successfully enter numbers into columns and add them, with the aid of a device called a calculator.

I was duly promoted to management.

Still, no increase in my hourly wage, but the additional hours that came with opening up in the morning or closing up at night meant my paycheck did grow a bit–although not as much as it should have. With the added responsibilities I began to work forty-one, forty-two, up to fifty hours a week. The mumbling manager claimed that as a sixteen year old I could get into trouble for reporting more than forty hours a week, so he doctored my timesheets to redistribute my time to weeks in which I worked fewer days.

Allowing him to avoid overtime costs.

But while I grumbled at times, the exploitation felt minor compared to the thrill of being able to run the projectors (this was not long after qualified projectionists were kicked out of the industry and replaced with unskilled sixteen year olds such as myself).

I didn’t actually need to manage employees, but the title did give me the opportunity to delegate the task of replacing the letters on the marquee sign when we had a movie changeover. I did the task once, and was so terrified I never went up there again. It was a precious, teenage kind of scared, but in retrospect, the fact that there was no safety harness was probably an OSHA violation. At the very least it was a reckless and stupid cost saving measure.

The other practice that I found bothersome was the mumbling manager’s directive to pop popcorn just once a week in one large batch. We scooped it into bags and kept it in the closet, taking it out and pouring it into the warming bin only during movies, so that customers wouldn’t see you doing it.

Even on the day that we were popping popcorn, we were directed not to give the new stuff to the customers.

That always seemed rude to me.

Also: hot dogs. If you must eat them, do avoid the chopped onions and pickle relish.

Is all I’m saying.

Setting a pattern that would recur in later jobs, I never really took advantage of my position or the keys I had to the building. Something about my Catholic education and upbringing–not the fear of guilt or hell, this was post-Vatican II Californian Catholicism, after all. No, this was entirely about behaving nicely and obeying the rules.

My single transgression (if you could call it that) was letting four of my friends in for a “Rambothon”–multiple sequential showings of Rambo: First Blood, Part II. Three of them bailed after the second screening. One, David S., made it through four times before finally giving up.

(I will note, for the sake of the historical record, that David S. was indeed the individual described in Leigh Weimers’ column in the San Jose Mercury News, who on opening day of Rambo: First Blood, Part II some weeks earlier had been ejected from the Town & Country theater for wielding a plastic weapon. What Weimers perhaps didn’t know was that there were at least twenty boys in the company of David S., all fresh from their last morning of final exams at the local Jesuit college preparatory, all similarly armed with toy guns–the kind capable of firing small plastic projectiles. Of course, most of us were able to conceal our weapons in our clothes and backpacks. David S., carrying a plastic automatic rifle, had no such option.)

Of course, the main benefit of working at any movie theater (something I didn’t know about when applying for the job) was the call-in. I could call any theater in town and ask to place myself plus a guest on the secret “call-in” list for any movie of my choosing (anything that wasn’t an opening or weekend night blockbuster). When calling or when showing up, there was no identification or verification process to confirm that I was who I said I was, or that I worked at the theater I had claimed. Just give my name, and I got in.

A friend of mine continued to call in for free movies long after he’d stopped working at movie theaters.

Me, the uptight Catholic boy, I never did.

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1 Comment»

  laurel wrote @

sounds good… i’m a bit past sixteen but beginning my lofty asst. managment position @ my local multiplex….


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