During my junior college days, I worked in the mailroom of the Battle Creek Equipment Company. Thinking of that job brings back fond memories of should-have-been carefree days, which were instead sprinkled with needless school related anxiety (really, if I had ever finished a paper more than ten minutes before it was due, my stress levels would have been greatly reduced).  I used to help distribute mail and cleaned the offices.  Pretty straight forward part-time work.  Plus, whenever I cleaned one particular office, the occupant would say, “Dave, you’re a star.”  I really liked this and later tried to replicate it at a job, where my direct reports absolutely hated it and asked me to stop.  Oh well, apparently “you’re a star” is not a universal compliment.  Who knew?

As a part-time college kid, I kind of floated around, oblivious to the rest of the company’s functions, however one day an invitation was extended. An offer to become part of the larger community.  An entryway into adulthood.  I was invited to the “Holiday Employee Lunchtime Potluck” (or some similarly named event).  When the big day arrived, I gleefully prepared a crockpot full of sweet and sour meatballs (most likely with the help of my mom, although I don’t remember how the meatballs magically appeared in the crockpot) and headed out the door to join my co-workers, while carrying my mom’s crockpot.  It was early Winter in Michigan and a particularly cold day.  I walked oh so carefully to my car, so as not to spill any of the precious meatballs, which would be my ticket to potluck goodness and fellow employee acceptance.  Placing the crockpot full of meatballs on the floor of the backseat, I carefully drove to work.  Turning into the parking lot, I felt the car swing a bit.  Not much, but just enough.  Just enough for the crockpot full of hot meatballs to tumble over.  As if that was not tragic enough, I also heard a “pop,” a horrible “pop,” which I soon discovered was the sound of the scalding hot glass lid of the crockpot shattering upon impact with the still very cold floor of my baby blue 1983 4-door Ford Escort hatchback.  The scene was tragic with gooey meatballs and shattered glass slathered across the baby blue carpeting.

Good thing I helped clean the offices, because I knew right where to find rags, which would help dispose of the steaming hot ill-fated potluck contribution. Unfortunately, no amount of scrubbing and air freshener would ever be able to remove the light brown stain from the matted semi-frozen baby blue floorboard.  Days would pass and other jobs would be pursued, but on certain early Winter days, when the temperature was just right and the sun angled through the rear windows of my Escort, the smell of sweet and sour meatballs would fill the car.  The smell of humiliation floating from the backseat.

A young version of myself celebrating a moment of triumph on top of my beloved baby blue Ford Escort.