As I often frequent fast-food establishments in my line of work, I have often noticed high-school students working behind the counter, earning money to do noble things like helping pay for college or do frivolous things like buying a new set of glass packs for their tricked out cars.

All this got me to thinking about my first job.

I entered the workforce at the tender age of 16, which meant that, although I was being forced by my father to learn the value of hard labor and an honest buck, I already knew everything there was to know about life. In my mind, I was an enlightened being and there was no telling me otherwise.

My first job was at a tourist attraction near where I lived on the southwest coast of Florida. This roadside attraction was called "Florida Land" and featured such things as an Old West Town, complete with shootouts and a saloon, a 10-acre Jungle Safari, Billy Goat Hill and a Dolphin Show.

My buddy Ronnie and I interviewed at the same time and we were both hired. That's where fate dealt me one of my first cruel blows. Ronnie was assigned to wash dishes and sweep up in the saloon, which meant he got to spend his days in air-conditioned comfort ogling scantily clad Can-Can dancers. I, on the other hand, was put to work doing three things. I got to dress up like a cowboy, get shot off a roof and fall 20 feet into a bale of smelly hay. There were four shows per day, so I got to do this often enough to become good at it. I suspect that even today, if you asked me to climb up on a roof and fall 20 feet, I could probably do a reasonably good job.

Between the Old West shows, I had to go to Billy Goat Hill, feed the goats and clean up their droppings. Now I don't know how familiar you are with what comes out of the south end of a northbound goat, but I'm here to tell you, it is not a pleasant thing. The smell alone could derail a train in a New York minute. The fact that these goat apples got to incubate for a couple of hours in the summer sun of Florida didn't help.

After dealing with Billy Goat Hill, I jumped into a car driven by Jean Paul, the owner's alcoholic son, and whisked off to the dolphin pool where I had the great pleasure of cleaning and gutting fish and feeding them to the dolphins and sea lions.

What smells worse, a rancid goat apple or dead mackerel? It's a toss up.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was the ride down to the dolphin pool. Jean Paul, a drunken Frenchman, drove a beat up Ford Falcon station wagon with one hand firmly on the wheel and another held tightly around a bottle of Bicardi rum. The run down to the pool was about two miles along a dusty, sandy road with more curves that Bridget Bardot. Jean Paul only knew two speeds: fast and faster. Usually by the time we arrived at the dolphin pool, I had long forgotten the indignities of Billy Goat Hill.

Feeding the dolphins was a delight. They are intelligent, playful beings with distinct personalities. I enjoyed associating with them, but probably not as much as I would have enjoyed being in Ronnie's shoes, lounging around the saloon with the Can-Can girls.

The sea lions were another matter. Most of them were surly, ill-tempered beasts that had less patience than a two-year-old toddler. My hand got nipped on more than one occasion and Bosco, a seal with a particularly bad attitude, once actually knocked me off the pier and into the water.

After dealing with the sea critters, I was whisked back into Jean Paul's Falcon for another hair raising ride back to the Old West Town, where I was again shot off the roof before returning to my duties on Billy Goat Hill.

All of this took place four times per day in the hot sun of southwest Florida. Each day Ronnie and I rode home from work together and usually discussed our days. Ronnie would regale me with tales of half-naked women, fishnet stockings and cold root beer. I could only talk about goat apples, smelly fish, surly seals and Jean Paul's Falcon, which smelled like fresh rum, vomit and old Aqua Velva.

I ended up working two summers at Florida Land, as did Ronnie. He used his money to help pay his tuition at Manatee Junior College. I bought a set of glass packs.