By Rob Whittle

While it is true that I’ve only had one job in my adult life, starting as a copywriter at the advertising agency I now own, that doesn’t mean I didn’t have other employment in my youth: paper boy, painter, lifeguard, construction worker, bellhop and, best of all, waiter.

There was a tradition of boys from my town of Petersburg, Virginia, to sign on as waiters at a “fine dining” restaurant in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina, on the Outer Banks. We certainly looked the part, as we were in white pants, black shoes, white shirt, black bowtie and royal blue waiters’ jackets.

The cuisine, on the other hand, to those of us intimately acquainted with the kitchen, was not so fine. Frozen seafood dipped in batter and fried to within an inch of its life. Likewise, we boys were treated in almost Dickensian fashion, five of us crammed into a dirty three-bedroom trailer set in the dunes near Jockey’s Ridge for which we paid the restaurant owner $15 per week to rent. The girls had their own cottage at the back of the restaurant property, befitting their more refined sensibilities. We loved every minute of it.

Our off-hours were spent on the beach, often surfing, playing touch football and cruising the strip. After work, we would play a drinking game called “Zoom, Shwartz, Porfigliano.” The senior waiter, Henry, appointed himself “Grand Brassiere” to officiate the contests. There might’ve been some weed involved. There certainly was a good quantity of beer and cheap wine that was consumed. My friends Whit and Page quickly found female companionship while I held a torch for Mitsi, my girlfriend back home. Meanwhile, as it developed, Mitsi was sporting around with a plumber, whom she later married.

I must say that we took our waitering responsibilities quite seriously. Prompt, friendly service would yield a profitable outcome in the form of a 15% tip, always in cash back then. But not everyone was cut out to be a waiter. There was my buddy Tiger who was shaky. Literally shaky and prone to sweating in tense moments.

One night, Tiger received an order of chateaubriand, the house specialty. The chateaubriand was prepared tableside with the waiter carving the meat and doling out the vegetables. In an instant, the word went around the dining room and kitchen that Tiger had drawn this special order. As he wheeled the cart out to the table, the waiters, bus boys and even the cook and the dishwasher gathered to watch the ceremony. With trembling hands, Tiger began to nervously carve.

Suddenly, sotto voce, the head waiter, who hailed from New York, exclaimed, “He’s schvitzing in the chateaubriand!” The cook cried, “Hey, it’s already perfectly seasoned!”

Fortunately, the diners didn’t seem to notice the extra salt. But Tiger was not invited back for the following summer.

As for the awful idea mentioned above, it was a beach party which featured Purple Jesus, a scabrous grape punch laced with grain alcohol. The party was held north of present-day Duck, which then was only accessed by a rutted dirt road with no inhabitants to be found. The Purple Jesus was poured into a washtub and stirred with a paddle from a row boat. The vile mixture tasted like grape juice with no obvious ill effects so I ladled it liberally into my cup and, from there, into my gullet. I awoke the next afternoon on the floor of someone’s bedroom – turned out to be the girls’ cottage – with a headache for the ages. The only way I could bear it was to stick a snorkel in my mouth and submerge in the ocean.

And so, we spent three glorious summers earning a living and learning … what? Certainly not about the real world which was to be upon us soon enough. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The writer is CEO of Williams Whittle Advertising and is the author of two historical novels, “Pointer’s War” and “Pointer and the Russian.” He can be reached at rwhittle@williamswhittle.com.