Literally Skating My Way Through My First Job at Freedman's Bakery

I enjoy my job. For the last six years, I’ve been lucky enough to spend my days rereading and discussing my favorite literary works with kids. After that I goof around and play lacrosse for another two hours with some other kids. It’s not a bad way to earn a living at all. But, just as in any career, there are times when it starts to feel like the movie Groundhog Day, with each literary analysis and lacrosse practice feeling like the one the day before.

It is then that I begin to daydream about what life might be like had I gone a different route. I daydream about being a lawyer, carpenter, chef, actor, truck driver, athletic trainer, forensic handwriting analyst, electrician, bounty hunter, retail manager, arborist, public relations guru, animal whisperer, or pilot, thinking that one of those professions would surely provide me an escape from monotony.  

But, as I shake myself from the fantasy, I know that even being an animal whisperer must get monotonous sometimes.

It’s usually then that I start to think about the one job I had that never seemed boring or monotonous; my first job, actually, as a counter worker at Freedman’s Bakery in Toms River.

Technically, Freedman’s wasn’t my first job. That distinction goes to the two days I spent in the shoe department at the now defunct Kids R Us on Hooper Avenue.

I know velcro-ing unicorn sneakers onto children’s feet seems like a great gig, but it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds.

The nail in the coffin was the two hours they sent me across the parking lot to our sister store, Toys R Us, to hand out coupons. There, children were happy and laughing, eager to play with their newly purchased items. Cashiers and stock boys seemed to glide through their work with levity. I, on the other hand, had witnessed two dozen or so dressing room tantrums and personally cleaned up two piles of vomit earlier that day at my store.

So, I quit, and I did so in true first job fashion, by just not showing up anymore.

Unemployed, I formulated a plan to find a new job; a better job. I couldn’t very well apply to Toys R Us. I simply assumed the bridge I’d burned at Kids R Us extended to all franchises in the “R Us” family.

So, I began a sweeping search of the town, looking for someone willing to hire a fifteen year old with two days work experience. It wasn’t long before I landed a job working the counter register at the local Freedman’s Bakery.

Located where the Rt. 166 Dunkin Donuts now sits, just before the Parkway onramp, that particular Freedman’s Bakery would be my workplace, hangout, and study hall for the better part of two years. The store had two defining characteristics.

First, in place of a fourth wall, the store opened right into the old Dover Pharmacy.

This may have increased traffic into our little bakery, but it always made it difficult to close up shop since pharmacy patrons would often wander into our store after operating hours as we were trying to clean up. It did, however, offer some premium people watching and, best of all, access to what any Dover Pharmacy regular will remember: early magazines. You see, book stores and markets generally receive magazines in advance and then put them on the racks on a predetermined date. The Dover Pharmacy apparently had no regard for this practice, shelving the magazines immediately upon delivery.

You wouldn't think getting your hands on Pro Wrestling Illustrated a week early would be a big deal, but I was able make good money on the side betting on the outcome of pre-taped matches with local rubes.

Remember, this was before that kind of information was readily available on the internet, making my Back to the Future II - inspired gambit a sure thing.  

The second thing about that place was Linda, my chain-smoking, NASCAR loving first boss. I can still see her in my mind – her leathery hands thumbing the controls of a video poker game; her wardrobe purchased entirely with Marlboro points.

On any given Saturday morning in 1998, you could find Linda in the back of that place, tapping ash into an empty coffee cup while I did my homework up front, reading the classic works of western literature. Our dynamic worked well, I was the brains and Linda was the eye candy. Unfortunately, we never really got that many customers, possibly having to do with the fact that I wasn’t very bright and Linda was rather gruesome.

This lack of volume led to our store and the attached pharmacy closing down to make way for a new Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins/Togos Subs super store.

Once again, I found myself unemployed, but after taking the winter off and getting my driver’s license, I returned to the workforce as a delivery boy for the very Dunkin Donuts that replaced my Freedman’s Bakery. And, after a summer of illegally operating a Class B commercial vehicle without the proper license, I got the call that changed my young life forever. Mr. Freedman himself offered me a job in his Silverton location. I’d be making less money and working longer hours. The deal sounded great.

Although this would be my second act with the Freedman’s company, I’ve always thought of it as one unified experience, my brief stint at Dunkin Donuts merely a sojourn. This time around, however, I was older and more seasoned. Immediately, I was given a key to the store by my manager, Kathy, and entrusted with the task of closing up shop at night. For my entire three-year tenure at the Silverton Freedman’s Bakery, I would work alone.

Now one might think that a teenage boy with no adult supervision and the key to a building that housed a stockpile of pre-cooked pork roll would let it go to his head. That person would be correct. With every shift came another opportunity to test the boundaries of my almost god-like autonomy. For example, after learning that a cake, damaged during delivery from Freedman’s main plant in Belmar, would be replaced with an exact replica only a few hours later – no questions asked - the number of “damaged” cakes reported rose dramatically. More than a few sheet cakes originally intended for a toddler’s birthday or some girl’s quinceanera found their way to a weekend party hosted by rowdy Toms River teens.

Furthermore, if you frequented that particular Freedman’s Bakery during the years I worked there and found a sign on the door that read: Out of food. Come back tomorrow, I must apologize. We were likely never really out of food. The Giants game was on.

Over time, I learned about the unwritten code that exists between neighbor stores in strip malls. An elaborate barter system akin to ancient Mesopotamia had been established long before I began trading donuts and pork roll sandwiches for Italian subs, but I honored the tradition nonetheless. Of course, I came to learn that some people were just “comped,” like every bartender from the now-defunct Silverton Hub across the parking lot.

Had I been a little older, I’d sure those fine gentlemen would have returned the favor. In short, I felt a part of something there, some underground syndicate of grunts who supplemented their meager incomes through that brethren code.

While there are a number of other things I can divulge about my experiences there, I dare not go any further since I’m not sure about the statute of limitations on incidents involving bakeries and fireworks, so I’ll cut my losses and wrap it up.

That first job may have sullied any chance I had for a truly satisfying future employment, setting the bar way too high.

I simply peaked too early.

To make matters worse, I pass that Silverton location twice a day during my work commute. Even though the bakery isn’t there anymore, having been replaced by something else which was then replaced by something else again, if I catch a red light in Silverton, I’ll stare longingly at those big glass windows – probably still containing the hairline cracks from the time I thought I could sweep the floor faster on a skateboard – and I think about the days when work was always fun.