Carol’s Column

Serving up the perfect vac job

Unless you are fortunate enough to be born with a silver tonsil spatula in your mouth, you have to earn a living to exist.

In other words, times are tough and money is tight.

As a responsible and penurious parent, I have tried to inculcate a work ethic into my offspring. Not with much success for it seems we have a family of eternal students.

Admittedly, while studying, my two older sons have always managed to find gainful holiday employment, such as teaching scuba diving in Mauritius, board-sailing in Turkey, working in pubs in London, or selling yashmaks in Casablanca.

This, to the great horror of their grandmother who believes the only jobs suitable for her grandsons are those of State President and professor of medicine.

Then came our third youngest unmarried son who recently completed his second year of tertiary study and was exhausted by the effort of having to do a minimal amount of work in order to pass his exams.

“I think I’ll go white-water rafting in Zaire for my vac,” he announced.

“I have a better idea,” I suggested briskly. “I think you should get a job.”

“What for?” he replied.

“Because employment is meaningful and you need money to live in the way to which you have become accustomed, so find yourself a job,” I snapped. “Besides, it’s satisfying earning money.”

“I agree,” said my son. “I am satisfied with what you and dad earn. I’m only joking,” he added quickly as I choked on a cornflake. “I’ll look for a job.”

At first he had difficulty. Oh, there were options, but none, it seemed, suitable for my son.

“I’m not into selling perfume,” he said disdainfully. Or, “Stacking corrugated iron sheeting is intellectually sterile”.

“Jamie, this is a vac job we’re talking about, not a lifetime career,” I barked.

“Ma, life is short, each moment must be relevant,” said my son who, as an example of his philosophy, had spent the afternoon sleeping.

Then, one night, he came home veritably bubbling with enthusiasm. “I’ve found a perfect vac job,” he said. “I’m going to be a waiter at the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town.”

“A waiter?” I said. “That is intellectual?”

“At the Mount Nelson?” said his grandmother. “That is intellectual.”

The job required sartorial elegance.

“Wear your Barmitzvah suit,” I suggested.

“Ma, the trousers come up to my knees, my Barmitzvah was seven years ago,” said Jamie.

“So, you’ve got beautiful knees,” I muttered.

Jamie departed for Cape Town and, by chance, I was there for his first day.

He left for work in his grandfather’s borrowed shoes, bow-tie and dinner jacket.

“What about trousers,” I observed.

“They’re not necessary,” he retorted, “Oupa’s jacket is nearly down to my ankles anyway.”

It is immodest to boast but Jamie made a financial killing and furthermore, came home skilled in the art of table laying and napkin folding.

“There’s an art to waiting,” he said. “I make my guests happy. If you smile and wink a lot, they feel loved and they respond generously.”

Next day, before leaving for work, he brought me coffee in bed.

“Have you got fleas,” I asked concernedly as I saw him twitching.

“Ma, that’s my smiling and winking routine,” he said. And then he waited.

“Jamie, is something the matter?” I asked.

He smiled. “I thought I’d just mention this establishment has no service charge.” He winked and waited.

It’s taken 20 years, but my third youngest unmarried son has finally discovered the art of earning a living.

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