As an adult, there's one thing that I'm definitely thankful for from my childhood—it's the fact that my parents instilled their work ethic in myself and my siblings. I had many jobs growing up, but here's a snapshot of a few that made the cut and laid a few more bricks onto the foundation of my life.

It was a Saturday in June 1980. A 12-year-old me and my brother Chip were watching one of our favorite shows, Soul Train. We watched religiously, specifically to learn any and all new dance moves every week and to get wardrobe ideas. That particular day, right after The Bar Kays crushed a sick, lip-synced performance of “Move Your Boogie Body” laced with ample amounts of red satin and relaxer (YouTube it; you'll thank me later) a commercial came on that changed my life.

A life-sized boombox filled the frame, the massive cassette door on the front of it opened, colored disco lights and smoke filled the air, and out came one of my favorite bands of all time, Earth, Wind & Fire. Sporting more sequins, yet less relaxer than The Bar Kays, their “A” game was on full display. Not only did they dance in unison, singing “Listen to the Power of Platinum,” but each member of the group had a Panasonic Platinum boombox on their shoulders. As if it couldn't get any better, they cut to a kid who looked like he could have been the bastard offspring of me and Ralph Macchio. The kid yelled, “Wow! Earth, Wind & Fire!” I took this as a sign from the Soul Train gods that I needed the power of platinum in my life. I was given another sign when my father just happened to walk by on his way outside. I had to say something to him.

And with that, my dad was outside.

I currently had a job mowing Dr. Gayley's lawn, but that type of income wasn't going to cut it, pun intended, if I was going to go platinum. Plus, the fact that the week prior, the doctor asked me why I mowed his lawn twice in four days and reset the mower to its highest cut setting. This led me to believe that I wasn't long for that job.

The next morning, I was on a mission. I got on my Huffy 3 speed with its ballin' black and yellow banana seat and headed 2.2 miles to the Sewickley Heights Golf Club, a beautiful, private club for the preppy, wealthy “Chads” in town, as well as a few Steeler players. My older brothers were caddies there, but I was still a little too young to carry doubles (two bags) for 18 holes. By “too young,” I mean scrawny, but in talking with the Caddie Master I found out they needed help in the locker room. This led to me landing a j-o-b that day making the world a brighter place by shining shoes.

Here's the sweet deal I negotiated for myself. I wanted my own office and I got it, i.e., the closet where they kept all of the shoe polish. The rusted AM/FM transistor radio in there was an added bonus that I didn't see coming, but was proof that this was a real damn job. My salary, zero, just the tips. You're welcome.

If a golfer wanted his shoes polished, he'd leave them in front of his locker before he went out to play. Once they were headed to the first hole, I'd run around like Gollum from The Hobbit collecting my precious shoes. Then I'd lump them in a massive loafer pile in my office, I remember thinking at one point, “Thom McAn must be ballin.'” With no time to waste, other than to have random thoughts of Thom McAn's bank account, I'd tune the transistor to my favorite station, WAMO, hoping to hear a little “Burn Rubber” by The Gap Band, then I'd commence to polishing my ass off. The gig was basically this: if I did a good job, the golfers would hopefully tip me when they finished their round of golf. I will say, my shining skills were not bad, but if there was one thing I did better, it was talk and kiss ass for that coin. Eddie Haskell had nothing on me.

So, thanks to that skill and the two extra lawn-mowing jobs I picked up, I was listening to the power of platinum by the end of summer.

Be the Ball

From there I was off and running, a lean, mean working machine. By the following summer, I had bulked up a bit and made enough connections to get daily caddying jobs. I even had a few “regulars,” which was a golfer who you'd exclusively caddie for when he showed up. I was like a high-end prostitute who had “regular johns,” except I carried their bags and cleaned their clubs and balls, so yeah, basically the same thing. I carried doubles for 18 holes, $20 per bag. But again, it was about making those extra tips, so I knew I had to work it.

Two of my regulars were Italian brothers who owned parking structures in downtown Pittsburgh. They were like twin Joe Pesci's from Goodfellas, except shorter. These guys were the perfect example as to why stereotypes exist. They oozed profanity, booze, cash, and gold jewelry, and they loved to gamble on their golf matches. One thing they were really good at doing was taking care of their employees. Unfortunately, the one thing they weren't that good at was playing golf.

On specific holes where you couldn't see the fairway from the tee, I'd forecaddie for them. Which means before they'd tee off, I'd haul ass halfway up the fairway to let them know if their ball landed in play after they hit it. So, we had an unspoken agreement that on those specific holes, when their drives would sail out of bounds, I would use whatever means necessary to make sure their shots miraculously landed back in the fairway. I would then be rewarded at the end of the round with a pony bottle of Miller Genuine Draft, a promise that if I ever needed a favor they'd make it happen, and a wad of bills shoved into my hand that made me feel like a young Thom McAn. That being said, I've intentionally left their names out of this recollection, due to the fact that last year they went to prison for doing things other than owning parking structures. Unfortunately, I wasn't around to kick that one back into play for them.

I Don't Give a Tux

Like every kid, I liked money, but even more so, I liked working, and I still do to this day. As I got older, I continued to work as much as possible, but when winter hit in the 'Burgh, the caddying gigs came to a rather abrupt, frostbitten halt.

One winter around the age of 16, I got a job working at a tuxedo rental shop in Ambridge. It was a small town named after American Bridge Steel, which had fallen on extremely hard times after the mills closed down and the steel jobs disappeared. No need to go too deep into detail on this gig, but let's just say that when “wedding and prom season” hit, I wasn't too down with having to measure the inseams of douchey groomsmen with mullets. Plus, they all had the same damn joke, “Is that measuring tape gonna to be long enough?” They'd laugh, high-five their buddies, then mumble dumb shit through their giggles. Imagine a worse version of Night at the Roxbury—yeah I said worse, that's what it was like.

I was proud of myself, though; I never made a comment back. I cashed my below-minimum-wage paycheck, and I always intentionally measured their pants an inch and a half short. Looks like it wasn't long enough after all, Sport.

Paint, Sweat, and Beers

As you can probably surmise, I was at a point in my life that when any job would present itself, I'd take it. I was already on my second Panasonic Platinum and also hooked myself up with an affordable (i.e., jenk) version of a Walkman. I think it was called a Groov-E player, not sure. It really didn't matter to me—as long as I could still bump “My Sugar Walls” by Sheena Easton, I was good to go!

As a day job that summer, I was one of four guys hired to help paint houses around town. My experience in this field was zero, unless of course you consider when I was 11 and painted “boobs” on the bottom of my brother's skateboard. To this day he still has no idea it was there…which pretty much defeated the purpose of me painting it. What's not lost is the fact that even to this day it's hilarious to me.

Anyway, I don't think my lack of painting prowess mattered to my boss, since he only paid all of us $5 an hour. But he kept our morale up by buying us the occasional case of Iron City beer after work. It was the perfect way to unwind after eight hours of inhaling paint fumes and would have been a great beer commercial except for the fact that we were 16.

The Fast and Boisterous

During those summer nights, I started working as a valet car parker at the same country club where I had shined shoes and caddied. It seemed like the club would have parties every other night and the rich folks would roll up in their best Brooks Brothers seersucker suits and indulge in an evening of food, fun, and drinks. These soirées gave off vibes of what I thought a semi-classy frat party would be like (if that's even possible). The people that showed up refused to describe the parties as “loud” but, rather, referred to them as “boisterous.” Truthfully, I really didn't care what they called them. All I know is that the more boisterous they got, the more they tipped.

This was also where I taught myself how to drive a car with a manual transmission, i.e., “a stick.” Once everyone was inside and the party was in full boisterousness, I'd pick a Porsche and turn the parking lot into the Indy 500. By the way, big shoutout to NFL Hall of Famer and Pittsburgh Steeler legend, Lynn Swann, for, unbeknownst to him, letting me utilize his car to get my inner Mario Andretti on.

I met him years later in 1994. We were two of the competitors in Major League Baseball's All-Star Celebrity Homerun Derby. While I didn't tell him about driving his car, I felt the need to let him know that I was the valet who, at every party, would change all of the stations on his car radio to WAMO. It felt good to clean that from my conscience and even better to think that maybe, just maybe, thanks to me, he was introduced to the sweet sounds of Vanity 6. To this day I still envision Lynn driving to Steeler practice singing “Nasty Girl” to himself.

The Heat Is On…Painted On

At one point I also worked in downtown Pittsburgh at PPG Place. It was a gorgeous all-mirrored high-rise complex centered in the heart of the city. The only problem was, if you didn't know exactly where you were going, you'd get lost in there for hours. It was like Bobo's House of Mirrors at the county fair. Only difference was, everyone there was wearing suits and ties and had most of their teeth.

I've got to admit, it was the first time I felt like I had a real job. Although some of that feeling may have had to do with the fact that this was also the first time I had to purchase “slacks and loafers” to wear for work. Just a side note, if you're in your 20s and you use the words “slacks and loafers” and/or wear slacks and loafers, chances are you'll be leaving the bar alone, Potsie. Believe me when I say that; I speak from experience.

Anyway, I worked as an intern at a modeling and casting agency. This place was basically a rung or two above Glamour Shots. I was genuinely excited about the opportunity, because I honestly thought this was something close to working in the entertainment business. Could this be the chance I'd always hoped I'd get?

Two very successful but very loud women owned the company. Trust me they weren't boisterous, they were straight up “loud broads” (their words, not mine). At my interview I was told that their definition of an intern meant that I wouldn't get paid and that they just needed someone to do whatever they were told to do and answer the phones, because, “Gina spread 'em and went and got knocked up…AGAIN!” They laughed, so I did too, and buttoned it with an “Ohhhh, that Gina.” After a long, awkward silence, the one with the red perm told me I was “kinda cute” and that I should go ahead and start immediately, which I proceeded to do.

The job was a fun one I guess, much easier than painting houses. Although, on occasion when it was a slow day on the phones, I'd find myself lost in a melancholy daze longing for the times of Benjamin Moore fumes and Iron City beer, free from nut-hugging slacks and loafers. Sadly, this wasn't turning out to be the “big break” I had hoped for—or was it?

On a rainy day, the bosses ordered lunch in and got me some as well; this was a first. They asked me to join them to eat and proceeded to tell me that the company was in contention for a “gig” with the Miami Heat and wanted me to help them out with it. Hell yes, I was all about this! Was I going to fly to Miami? Would I get to meet the team? Would I get to dress in pastels and go all Tony Montana with Crockett and Tubbs? Unfortunately, it stopped just a bit shy of all of that, when out of a Foot Locker bag appeared a Miami Heat t-shirt that would have been snug on a six year old.

Cut to me, so squeezed into the shirt that the president of Hooters was on line two with an offer. They had me standing in front of the office “photo wall.” One woman was snapping pics like Herb Ritts on Red Bull, the other was wetting me down with a spray bottle filled with ice water or ice cold vodka, not sure. Actually, given the way they were acting, I'll lean toward the latter. I wondered if this was similar to what Burt Reynolds had to endure for his Playgirl spread.

When they were finished, I remember Rosie Permhair saying, “I think this could be your big break, Dan.” 2019 Dan wishes he would have responded with a simple, “Me too.” Side note… there was no Miami Heat gig. Oh well, you live and learn, Champ. At least I got a free lunch out of the deal.

Sleep Cheap

During my senior year of high school I was hired as a weekend maintenance man at a Red Roof Inn hotel. This job stands out in my mind for one major reason, that being, I wasn't the handiest kid on the block. Luckily, the job didn't require me to be proficient in anything too difficult. My job requirements consisted of things like mowing the property grounds, changing light bulbs, touch up painting, and basically helping the staff with whatever they needed. A good majority of the time helping was spent attempting to unclog toilets. Regarding those clogged toilets, I'd like to remind people who stay in hotels that hand towels should ONLY be used to wipe your hands, hence the name.

The company also had a rule that after each guest checked out, the housekeeping staff had to flip the mattresses before changing the sheets for the next guest. Let's just say that after assisting with that on one occasion, I was cool with the clogged toilets. I find it hard to put into words what traveling businessmen chose to put in between the mattresses upon departure from a hotel. Seriously, even as a 17-year-old kid, I was like, “Fellas, it can't be THAT bad at home!” When said items would be exposed, the housekeeping staff thought it was funny to leave them in my office, i.e., the maintenance closet. Because of this, I had a collection of untitled magazines and untouchable novelties that would even make Ron Jeremy go, “Oh wow! That's something I haven't seen before.” So, trust me when I tell you, I've seen things.

On a less “ewww” note, one of the perks of the job had to do with my uniform. I was required to wear a t-shirt with the company slogan on it, and that slogan was an all-time winner: “Sleep Cheap.” The shirts came in red or white, and I had a big ol' box of them in the maintenance closet. You couldn't purchase them anywhere, they weren't available in any stores—that's right, not even Spencer Gifts or Hot Topix had the access I did.

As a result, selling these to my teenage buddies became a pretty sweet side hustle. You could say, I was basically a high school t-shirt pimp who had no need for a sales pitch. Think about it, in 1986 what teenage boy wouldn't want to divert attention away from his acne-covered face with a sweet “Sleep Cheap” tee? No need to lay a rap down to the ladies when your shirt and smirk said it all for you. I sold only a few at first and labeled them as “limited edition” to help drive up the price. Not positive, but pretty sure this might have been where Ty Warner got the idea to do the same thing with Beanie Babies. I should probably have my attorney look into that. (Note to self: Hire an attorney.)

A few days before I was about to go out with my second round of sales, my P.E. teacher shut down the whole operation because I wouldn't give him one for free. Here's the type of guy my P.E. teacher was. Each side of his car had a different hubcap style. Why? Because he thought people would believe he had a second car if they happen to see it from the other side. Actually, now that I think about it, that's exactly the type of guy that I'd expect would ask a 17-year-old for a free “Sleep Cheap” t-shirt. Unfortunately, with that, my dreams of apparel dominance came to an abrupt inventory-heavy halt. Just for the record, Coach, nobody thought you had two maroon Honda Accords.