My first paying job was in 1969 for Dollar-A-Day Rent-A-Car at the Albany Airport, a gig I landed via my then-girlfriend. It meant free gas for my jalopy, an unbelievable perk. I was a high school sophomore and lazy as the day is long. I cleaned cars and Winnebago motorhomes, and, through almost no industry, in short order graduated to renting cars and U-Haul equipment to an unsuspecting public. It’s hard to imagine, but the Training Department at said firm was not as evolved as you might think. In fact, there wasn’t one. Attaching temporary ball joint hitches to car bumpers was a hill to climb, as were the electronics connecting brake lights to trailers. It was for good reason I never made Employee of the Month, but free gas flowed like a mountain river in spring. One day, as I went about my duties, an exceedingly large New York State Trooper entered the office looking for yours truly. I snapped to attention as his 357 Magnum gleamed in the morning sunlight. “Are you John Oliver?” he asked tartly. “Yes, your Honor,” I replied quaking.
© 2024 John Oliver
Substack is the home for great culture