Why Teenagers Should Not Get Jobs

I was chatting with my friend Beth the other day about the difficulties I have traveling. My son’s Spring Break is coming up and I will be on four flights between Phoenix and Indianapolis the next two weekends.

The people at both airports, even the never-smiling TSA security agents, do what they can to make my trips as painless as possible. People working at hotels are a different story.

Me at the Grand Canyon on Oct.4, 2008

Amy and I attend a local charity’s annual dinner and auction. It’s our one time a year to dress up and “hob-nob” with the financially well-off. In 2008, Amy was the high-bidder for an overnight stay in a suite at the El Tovar, the 100-year-old hotel on the rim at the Grand Canyon.

While finalizing the reservations, we told the representative over the phone that we would exchange the suite for a handicap accessible room on the first floor. The only time we would be in the suite was while we were sleeping. All the rest of the time, we would be outside staring at the Grand Canyon.

Working the registration desk the day we got there was this teeny-bopper girl no more than age 22.

“Okay, you’re all set. You’ll be in Suite 263 just up those stairs and down the hall,” she said bubbly. Note that I am sitting on my handicap scooter at the time.

“We reserved a handicap accessible room on the first floor,” Amy responded.

“We don’t have any suites on the first floor,” was the answer.

In my attempt to make things easier, I told the reservation desk girl that we’ll take the suite on the second floor if she would direct us to the elevator. I got this “Lost in Space” blank stare.

In each episode of the late 1960’s television show, the robot would frantically wave its arms and say, “Does not compute. Does not compute.” That is what this chicky’s face was “saying” to me.

The owners of the El Tovar used the historic structure loophole in the Americans with Disabilities Act to get out of installing an elevator. After checking with the desk manager, she looked at me (remember I’m sitting on my scooter) and said “I’m sorry. We don’t have an elevator.”

“Then how does my scooter get ‘up the stairs and down the hall’?” I asked.

“Oh we have bell boys for that,” was the bubbly reply.

“You have a bell boy who can carry my scooter – WITH ME SITTING ON IT – up those stairs and down the hall?” I asked.

Once again, all I saw was “Does not compute. Does not compute.”

“That is why we need to have a room on the first floor,” Amy said.

And “Einstein” here replied, “But we don’t have suites on the first floor.”

March is Here! Time to Get to Work.

For the past 15 years, my father, my uncle and I have gone to Laughlin, Nevada for the first weekend of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. This annual event is much more than just three guys getting away from their spouses and/or significant others for a what-happens-in-Laughlin-stays-in-Laughlin type of vacation.

From Left: Uncle Art, me and Dad.

Throughout the winter, we’re watching various teams on television, reading all kinds of articles in the newspaper and sport magazines, and checking to see if we saw the team that neither one of us thought even existed. When the conference tournaments start, we take control of our televisions and remote controls to watch every game. And I really mean every game.

Eventually “Selection Sunday” comes around. Dad, uncle and I have already decided who is going to be 1, 2, 3, 4 … 14, 15, 16 seeds, so the only question is: Did the selection committee get it right? That leads to two straight days of visiting school websites and the blogs of various college basketball pundits, and filling out more than one bracket. And then it’s time to go to work.

My uncle lives in Denver, my dad in Phoenix and I in northern Arizona. My uncle flies to Phoenix, he and my dad pick me up on the way, and for the next three hours we share our thoughts, reread the scouting reports and review our home-made statistic comparison charts.

Obviously, the purpose is to make money. Once in Laughlin, we get all of our “guaranteed”, “sure-to-win”, “no doubt about it” bets in and then we start looking over the other games for additional profits. When the first game starts, the three of us are with the thousands of other basketball junkies watching the games and screaming like school girls when the last second half-court heave goes in and makes us losers. We know enough about basketball to make us dangerous second guessers. “Why is the coach playing that guy? He’s going to foul in the next two minutes.” “Why is this guy still on the bench? He’s their best three-point shooter.” “Play zone defense.” “Play man-to-man defense.” “Get the ball to the center.” “He traveled!” “That wasn’t a foul!!!”

We do other guys-on-the-town things too – as wild as three men between the ages of 48 and 73 can do. We’re usually awake past 9 p.m., we might have two beers a day instead of one or none, and a comment stronger than “Great Googley Moogley” might come out of our mouths.

And though we may leave Laughlin with less money than we had when we drove into town, we’ll have memories to last the rest of our lives. We’ll meet some wonderful people, like the elderly couple from Vermont who taught us Pai gow Poker, or the guy from Chicago who made a large bet on a team the three of us were too afraid to bet on and walked away with a ton of money. And possibly, my uncle will inadvertently say something that will make an entire craps table stop because everyone, including the stone-faced pit boss, is laughing so hard.

But the memory that will forever be in my mind is that I spent this weekend with my Dad.