MY BEEF WITH TEENS – by Don

Oct 1, 2024

I’m going to hammer on a bunch of defenseless, emoji-loving teens this month. Don’t feel sorry for them. They deserve it. And I deserved it when I was a teenager. Here. I’ll just complete the circle of abuse by putting my personal, embarrassing teenage work story first on deck. That way those of you who are not complete imbeciles will “get it.”

TEENS CRY WHEN I GIVE THEM DEROGATORY NICKNAMES

I was 16, and basically a Gopher (Go-For, for you Ivy-Leaguers out there) on a residential construction job. My company was also working on demolishing an old water tower by the coast. I overheard my boss say they were having a hell of a time demolishing the sub base at the water tower. I thought it was an actual Sub Base. Like for submarines, and asked to be transferred to it. I’ll never forget my bosses smile when I asked. He sent me there the next day. Turns out “sub base” is just a layer in road construction. I was promptly given the nickname “Subbase.”

It was nice working near the water for a change, though.

Of course, I could never give a teenager such a derogatory nickname in this day and age. Haha!!! Just kidding!!! Remember Reagan, (female teen employee, not the dead ex-president)? I called her “Chicken Wings” because she was scrawny and had trouble lifting boxes over 10lbs. When John, the crusty old Maine delivery driver made his weekly delivery, he’d scream at the tippety-top of his lungs, “OL CHICKIN’ WINGS!!!! HOWYA DOIN?” so the entire town could hear. Then he would help her move the whole 1-2 ton delivery into the shed. John would never do that for me. And he only ever called me “Bub.”

Then there were the other employee nicknames like “Spaz-Mo,” “Gugliermo,” “Spastic Nerfbag,” “Chucklehead,” “Duster,” “Pin Brain,” “Chumley,” “Stanislaus,” and the unforgettable “Wombat.”

That being said, hiring teenagers to work at my seasonal Maine retail shop is an adventure akin to….. whatever. Something horrible. You make an analogy for a change. Gawd.

---

TEENS EVAPORATE LIKE LIQUID NITROGEN IN THE FALL

Teens can only work a maximum of three summer months before they are forced back into the same schools that damaged their tiny, developing brains with things like trapezoids and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hildago.

This is information that is thrust into areas of teenage brains that could otherwise hold information needed for them to use the counterfeit detection pen on a $100 bill, or give non-paying customers directions to a bathroom that isn’t ours, or successfully make a transaction including some creepy guy and $150 worth of Susan B. Anthony dollar coins.

All of these examples cannot be performed if the teenager breaks down sobbing like a Red Sox Designated Hitter because his/her brain is stuffed to overflowing with useless factoids.

There’s also a bunch of state regulations governing how long teens can work in a day, how often I can beat them, how many tissues I have to stock for crying episodes, how many boring stories I have to suffer about the low-stakes meat grinder that is high school, and how much teenage music I can legally be exposed to before my insurance won’t pay for counseling or psychiatric treatment.

After their first traumatic summer at Two Salty Dogs, teenagers might come back the following summer. Or they might not. In fact, most don’t. Therefore, every teen I train who evaporates the following summer means I just flushed a distressing bunch of time, money, and tolerance down the toilet (Or the bidet, if you’re from Europe).

And let’s not forget the unfortunate ones who come back like bouts of giardia and malaria. Yes, I’m talking about Reagan, Grace, and wait…. who’s the other one? Carlyle? Yes, I think that’s it….

No Wait! It’s Lyle!!!! Hi Lyle!

---

TEENS ARE VIRTUALLY UN-TRAINABLE

Before I got my degree, I trained carpenters on crappy, temporary, dead-end construction jobs for people who didn’t deserve respect. Some of them were literally twice my age. And I lived in constant fear my upcoming paycheck would end up in the local scratch ticket/Megabucks machine if my boss felt “lucky.”

It was a little less treacherous after I got my degree.

Unlike adults, today’s teenagers can’t be directly confronted. It’s like not being able to look at an eclipse directly, but having to use that stupid little pinhole thing that doesn’t work.

Here is a humorous little bit called “Correcting a Teenager vs. Correcting a Construction Worker.”

Correcting a Teenager:

“Do you remember that $1,800 order of marrow bones I asked you to get out of the sun and put away when you finished your lunch break? Unfortunately, that was three days ago and the order is all maggot fodder now. So you’ll need to throw all of it in the back of my truck so I can take it to the dump.

“No, No, No!!!!! It’s not your fault it’s all maggot fodder and 3 families of raccoons are living in there now!!! No! And thank you for sharing with me that you think handling maggot and raccoon-infested material is against the US Constitution! I should be more considerate!!! You’re right!!!! I should have been $1,800 worth of considerate!! Here… I’ll send your Snapchat account a ‘considerate’ emoji.'”

Of course when they offer to pay back the $1,800 I feel bad. But I’m legally obliged by the state to accept no repayment.

Correcting a Construction Worker:

“YOU MUST BE ONE (bad word) GENERATION AWAY FROM (very bad word) EATING YOUR OWN OFFSPRING, YOU WORTHLESS STACK OF CRUSTY ALLIGATOR (offensive word). IF YOU EVER LEAVE AN ORDER OF (gratuitous very bad word) MARROW BONES IN THE SUN FOR SO MUCH AS 10 MINUTES AGAIN, I WILL KICK THE (gratuitous offensive word) PICKLE FROM MY LUNCHBOX UP YOUR ASS SO HARD YOUR (extremely bad word) DOUGH-FACED, (extremely offensive word), DIM-BULBED, HAIRY-PALMED, KNUCKLE-SCRAPING SPAWN WILL BE (unimaginably offensive word) CONSTIPATED!!! NOW GET BACK TO WORK, OR GET THE (worst word yet) OUT OF MY PET SUPPLY STORE!!!!”

After work, we’d go out and get loaded on Pabst.

---

TEENS GET PAID A LIVING WAGE

The State o’ Maine declared its minimum wage to be a “living wage.” It’s so families can pay mortgages, car payments, food expenses, Netflix accounts, state of the art mobile phones, ritualistic tattooing, Under Armor clothing, beard maintenance and child care commitments adequately. It is currently set at around $15/hr.

I support this.

But why do TEENAGERS need $15/hr? I mean, weed is legal now.

I’m not sure why I need to pay a living wage to teenagers who live with their parents, are their parents’ tax deductions, have no real financial obligations other than dyeing their hair bizarre colors and downloading phone apps that enable China to shoot a missile directly down their congressman’s throat. If you believe the congressman, anyway.

Because I’m paying these teens a “living wage,” I don’t have the money or resources to train an actual adult manager who can work at Two Salty Dogs year ’round.

Also, because the minimum is $15/hr, I’d need to pay a trained, full-time adult manager at least $20-$25/hr just so they could save face with the insolent teenagers fresh out of 8th grade. But no. I pay the “Teenagers’ Ransom” until Labor Day, and then I spend EVERY SINGLE DAY UNTIL NEW YEARS AT THE SHOP ALONE WITH A RECURRING HANGOVER AND A BAD ATTITUDE. LIKE THIS ONE. Thank you for asking.

We’ve had great employees who turned into managers. We paid $25/hr to one. We lost her to Bath Iron Works what pays her $30/hr with complete health, dental, and vision benefits. And paid time off. And a bunch of other stuff. We didn’t stand a chance. We just hoped she’d get tired of the commute or get pregnant. That was 5 years ago.

With a business my size, the only benefits I can offer to any employee are pet food and merchandise at cost, and my absolute promise that I would never purposely cropdust them.

“Purposely,” being the operative word.

---

TEENAGERS ARE EXTREMELY LITERAL

A true exchange between me and a teenager who worked an entire summer at Two Salty Dogs.

Me: “OK, it’s 5pm. Let’s pull in the flags.”
Teen: Brings in the flags and looks at me.
Me: “And the sale bin.”
Teen: Brings in the sale bin and looks at me
Me: “And bring in the Baskets.”
Teen: Brings in the baskets and looks at me
Me: “And lock the doors.”
Teen: Locks the door and looks at me.
Me: “And lock the deadbolt.”
Teen: “What’s a deadbolt?”
Me: “It’s the lever over the lock.”
Teen: “Oh wow! That’s what a deadbolt is!!” Locks the deadbolt and looks at me.
Me: “And shut the lights off.”
Teen: Shuts the lights off and looks at me.

This went on through such classics as “Make Sure the Toilet and Sink Aren’t Running,” “Closing the Windows,” “Make Sure Reagan Shut the Freezer.” Computer Shutdown,” “Cardboard Box Breakdown,” “Locking The Back Door,” “Locking the Shed,” and the most exciting, “Locking the Second Shed.”

Then there was Lyle in his first year who I asked to, “Run across the street and get me a medium life jacket.” Lyle tore off without looking, and as fast as he could. It’s hard to believe, but Lyle was motivated at the time.

When he ran back across the street with the life jacket, I said it was alright for him to WALK in the performance of his duties. And I made him promise to look both ways when WALKING across the road, as his mother would literally claw my throat out if I returned his body to Ocean Point in a dirty tarp like so many employees before him.

---

TEENAGERS ARE ABSOLUTELY, UNFATHOMABLY AND TOTALLY INSANE

Look, I proudly say I was fired from more jobs than I’ve quit. There was even the time I was fired, re-hired, and fired by the same company on the very same day. Also, I’ve fired, re-hired, and fired Reagan in the same day a bunch of times. Ask Reagan if you don’t believe me.

And yes, I’ve had to fire teenagers other than Reagan, although without the deep sense of satisfaction.

The more memorable firings:

• She was sitting on her ass, surfing the internet on my personal computer whilst the shop was pathetically under-stocked. She wanted to show me her Etsy site.
• Different girl, sitting on her ass, surfing the internet on my Point Of Sale computer whilst the shop was pathetically under-stocked. I was as angry as a bee-swarmed ape. She also wanted to show me her Etsy site.
• Clouds of marijuana smoke poured out the bathroom window. I knocked on the door. She said “Someone is in here!” I said, “I know. Knock it off. I know what weed smells like.” She ran out the back door. Never saw her again.
• He called in sick 15 minutes before open, when I was a 1.5hr drive away at my sick mother’s house I had scheduled for a week prior.
• Walked into the shop 30 minutes late with a latte, assuring me he was using his break straight off and wouldn’t need another for the rest of his 3-hour shift.
• Three days before the Mutt Scrub, he said he couldn’t work it because he had a personal college interview at UVM. “You must be a genius to get an personal interview. Especially on a Saturday,” was all I said before telling him not to bother coming back after his “interview.”

• Disappeared for over an hour to have lunch at Kalers with his buddies. Never told anyone. Never signed out. He thought it was part of his “salary.”
• The boy whose mom could never get him to work on time. In all fairness, I should have fired his mom, but she could have easily beaten me up.

And there were also a bunch of teenagers who just never showed up after their first day, saving me the bother of firing them, but denying you the humorous story.

It was clear change was needed. The system was breaking down. Thusly I instituted “The Three Standing Orders” for the shop:

• No Open Flames – Prevents burned stuff, Hellish Apocalypses and hotboxed bathrooms.
• When Opening, Always Check for Alligators – Because of this rule, Two Salty Dogs has never had an alligator attack. Ever.
• No squinty-eyed, mumbly teenage boys hanging around the shop all day trying to work up the courage to ask Reagan out on a date. Just ask her, or buy something, and get the hell out. Of my store.
• Jesus.

---

TEENAGERS ARE PSYCHOPATHS

Remember when I got all teary-eyed when Reagan was leaving us to engage the “The Real World?” I said I wished she was my own daughter after I had only three medium-sized whiskeys. I thought we’d never be rid of her. Now she has some sketchy boyfriend with squinty eyes who has a promising career stealing catalytic converters and turning them into street art and selling the platinum on the dark web.

Reagan and I only communicate through TikTok videos now. That’s what my lawyer advised, anyway.

And speaking of law, whenever I get a new crop of spring employees, I establish a covenant with them. I will supply as much Poland Spring and Polar Seltzer water they can drink at the shop. But they mustn’t wantonly waste any of it. I ask only that they use a magic marker to link the drink to them.

This cuts down enormously on disease transmission, and discourages teens from leaving half-sipped bottles of water everywhere at the shop’s expense. But it also trains the teens for college where leaving a “leaner” beer means they’ll be ostracized from the other, ultra-cool, budding alcoholics.

My powerful lawyers point out that I’m under no legal obligation to supply employees with “designer” water. They suggest giving them the metallic-tasting, rusted faucet water served in the discolored, cracked beer stein in the bathroom that was there when we moved in.

Or the hose out back.

THAT BEING SAID…….

Never ONCE this summer did any of my employees refill the shop fridge with any of the provided water of their own volition. They drank a ton of bottled water. They drank a ton of fizzy water. But it never occurred to them to fill the fridge back up with warm water. To their credit, they put the empties in with the returnables.

I refused to restock the fridge. If it was empty, I’d put the refill cases of water awkwardly in the middle of the office floor so everyone tripped over them.

The teens STILL didn’t put a single bottle in the fridge without being told. All summer. I think Liana was the only one who ever restocked the fridge water in the summer of 2024.

I’m pretty sure it’s because teenagers are trained in school to do things when a bells rings. Like Pavlov’s dog. When a bell rings, the kids drop everything, grab their personal stuff, and run out of the classroom as quickly as possible so they don’t hear the teacher assign a 50,000-word essay on “The Advantages of having a Limbic System,” in Latin. Due tomorrow. And who could blame them?

In the shop, if I’m not around when the proverbial clock strikes the 5 pm “bell,” the teens do what they’ve known their whole lives: stampede out the door, leaving everything exactly the way it was when the clock struck 5.

I’m sure the Mary Celeste; the Canadian Brigantine found fully-stocked, abandoned and adrift in the Atlantic was crewed by teenagers from my shop. The 5 o’clock bell rang, and everyone jumped ship so they wouldn’t have to tie lanyards or do whatever teenagers hated doing on wooden sailing ships.

Like the Mary Celeste, my shop at 5:01pm on Tuesday had piles and piles of product everywhere. A roasting hot laminator left on. Open flags left out. Cardboard boxes blowing into the harbor. Cases of water still on the floor. Notepads with restocking notes that resemble cuneiform written by a drunken belly dancer. Unlocked doors. Open freezer/fridge doors. Unmarked bottles of “leaner” water bottles everywhere. The occasional forsaken artificial leg. And all the sheds unlocked….

I give earnest discussions about time management- about not leaving a bunch of shit for the next day’s people (me) to police up. Discussions center around pride, duty, dedication and honor. Then I’ll spring for free pizza, which seems to filter anything I say out of a teenager’s brain.

---

TEENAGERS LIKE CATERWAULING

I tell every employee they are free to play their music in the shop. I don’t care what anyone plays so long as it’s upbeat, lively, friendly, and not too loud. This rules out Death Metal, Near-Death Metal, Deaf Metal, Def Metal, Def Jams, Gangsta Rap, etc. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care if they play Country, Classic Rock, Rap, Mayan Mushroom Melodies, or whatever, so long as it’s UPBEAT, LIVELY, FRIENDLY, AND NOT TOO LOUD.

I should have been more explicit. Because to me, all teen music sounds like weepy teenage boys. Mumford & Sons, Fallout Boy, Little Jimmy & the Tearstains, Harry Smiles… And it just gets worse from there.

This music is anathema to retail. No one in the history of the earth has ever bought something for their dog whilst listening to a Teenage Funeral Dirge. When I catch my employees playing their terrible wailings, they always say something like: “But three people just bought $4.75 toys!!!!!”

“Yes, but that awful caterwauling prevented one Boomer/Gen Xer from spending over $100 in here.”

Why are these teens so damn weepy, anyway? They’re making $15/hr for Dog Sake. And pot is legal.

---

I AM JEALOUS OF TEENAGERS

Again, teenagers usually have no crippling financial obligations, social commitments, failing organs, or awful psychological conditions that have surfaced. A little acne and that’s about it. And pot is legal now, if you haven’t heard.

Teens have their whole lives ahead of them, whereas I have about five years, tops. I foresee the last couple months in an iron lung or something worse. Like Ecuador.

Of course, most of us old fat bastards like to think how great it would be to go back to high school with our lifetime of of experience.

The first truth is: we wouldn’t do much of anything differently at all. We’d have no idea what they are saying and we’d have to go back living with our parents, which is a horrific deal-breaker in the first degree.

And the second truth is: we’d probably just be nicknamed Chicken Wings or Sub Base all over again no matter what.

~~ Don (Not a Dog)