The Mast-Head

All the Irish kids who have arrived in the last few weeks looking for seasonal work and a little fun in the sun have got me to thinking back on the various summer jobs I held while growing up here.

The first, in my early teens, was as a busboy briefly at the Sea Wolf and later that summer at Georgette's. Both of these restaurants, which were on Three Mile Harbor, are long gone. Georgette's is now Bostwick's, and Riccardo's has replaced the place that replaced the place . . . you get the idea. To this day I cannot see a can of Cafe Bustamonte without thinking of that summer.

There was a lot that I didn't understand about the restaurant business at that time, particularly why a few of the staff members made such frequent trips to the restroom. Just figuring out what to do with the water glasses, how to "crumb" a table, and how to balance a stack of plates was enough for me. The waiters were supposed to share tips with the bus staff, but I cannot recall ever bringing home more than $20 in an evening.

Later, I worked as a carpenter's helper for a number of people. The big crews with their macho horseplay and tough talk were not my style - one time I showed up on a job site with an earring in my left ear, only to have a carpenter threaten to rip it out and stuff it down my throat. My best experiences, and most educational, were had working for individuals. Sandy Bainbridge, a meticulous craftsman, was foremost among them.

I spent one glorious summer helping out at $5 an hour on Gardiner's Island. I mowed the roads and fields, helped shingle a roof or two, and cleaned out the slaughterhouse, still grimy from the winter's deer hunt. Most mornings, I would commute to work from Three Mile Harbor in a borrowed Boston Whaler. On the days I planned to stay over for a while, I would sail in my family's poky catboat.

During my college years, I had summer jobs making deliveries for Bermuda Party Rentals and East Hampton Party Tents. Both gigs had their bonuses, particularly the opportunity to see houses and estates we'd never be invited to. Over a few seasons, we delivered to all the best addresses, tramping over the lawns of the rich and powerful carrying glasses for the weddings and tables for the benefits.

After a party, if the caterers had not had the courtesy to pack up before we arrived, we might slip a few bottles into our linen or tent bags. There were more than a few beach parties those summers fueled by grand cru Bordeaux and top-shelf liquor liberated from these places.

One morning following a wedding, we arrived at a Georgica estate to find the tables, chairs, bars, even a piano still under the tent. On the tables, the hosts had left disposable cameras, which we used for a round of portraits of ourselves. I imagined with glee the shock of the bride and groom upon seeing a photograph of a sweaty 300-pound member of our crew draped across the piano like a cabaret singer.

Such were the simple rewards for what was, ordinarily, tough, back-breaking work, though I do not recall ever laughing so much at any other time in my life. I hope that the kids today are having at least as much fun.

David E. Rattray