They expected me to pick up garbage at LaGuardia Airport but my disdain for a profit-driven society was already fine-tuned at a young age

another tale from my misspent youth

When I was just a couple of years out of high school, I was employed by the Port Authority at LaGuardia Airport. I did a bunch of manual labor tasks but mostly, they had me picking up garbage. Yeah, I was one of those poor souls — carrying a red canvas bag and a long pole with a pointy jabber at the end to stab whatever debris I encountered.

To deal with this job, I had an astounding number of scams to get over and not do much work. Ultimately, I fell into a smooth routine that helped me get through this temporary ordeal without breaking too much of a sweat.

Every morning, I’d report to work, climb into a giant yellow Port Authority bus, and get myself driven to my very own workstation conveniently located on the outer reaches of the airport.

Once there, I’d stroll around and do some negligible cleaning before making a beeline for the old Eastern Shuttle building (which soon became the Trump Shuttle and is the American Airlines Shuttle today).

After hiding my conspicuous stick and bag, I’d buy a couple of newspapers and enter the cafeteria to partake in breakfast. The next part of my uncomplicated contrivance was to select a cafeteria table that effectively concealed my whereabouts.

After some trial and error, I was able to identify the ideal spot. It was strategically located near a particularly enormous column. When anyone entered the cafeteria, the only way they’d see me was if they walked into the joint about twenty feet and specifically peered around the column to look.

So, I’d consume my meal (French toast was my favorite option) and read my newspapers to get my daily dose of corporate propaganda. More often than not, I’d lay my overloaded head on the table like a nursery school student and take a nap.

At noon, I’d awaken, stagger out in the sun, find my stick and bag, and catch the yellow bus back into the main office where I could punch out for lunch. Since I lived conveniently close to the airport, I’d drive home (I was a motorist back then) to feast on a homemade lunch and wish my Mom luck as she’d leave to take care of my grandfather for the afternoon. (As I discussed here, she selflessly cared for her Dad for years.)

After stuffing my face again, I’d set my alarm for 2:30 p.m. and fall soundly asleep for the next two hours. When that alarm would ring, I’d scurry out to my car and drive back into the employee parking lot to wait for the yellow bus to bring back those of my co-workers who actually earned their pay each day.

As the bus emptied, I’d slip out of my car, mingle with the exhausted workers, dump my gear in my locker, and punch out for the day. This scam lasted for months. My bosses knew I was playing them but they just couldn’t ascertain how.

One of them looked me in the eye and said, “I know you’re running a scheme and I’m gonna figure it out.” I smiled and assured him I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

You may be wondering what made this gig so intolerable as to warrant such an elaborate strategy. One answer: Cleaning up the taxi stands.

Near the old Eastern Shuttle, there was a massive taxi stand where the drivers could park their yellow death machines and wait like covetous vultures for the planes to land so they could prey on gullible tourists.

It was taxis as far as the eye could see — combined with the stench of junk food and urine. As I strolled around, pretending to pick up their toxic refuse, I’d observe the cabbies in action. Almost to a man, they dined on unhealthy, malodorous food.

Despite the portable bathroom set-up LaGuardia Airport provided for the drivers, the men would casually get out of their cab, unzip their pants, and urinate in public.

The sight of a cabbie shaking himself dry before hastily using the same hand to shovel a jelly donut into his mouth (making sure to lick the powdered sugar from those fingers) is not something anyone should be subjected to on a regular basis.

Isn’t the Constitution supposed to protect me from cruel and unusual punishment?

Anyway, the worst part of all (yes, it gets worse) was the aforementioned bathroom setup. It was two porta-potties lined up in a little cul-de-sac near the taxi waiting area. Once the booths got slightly dirty, the cabbies would start relieving themselves outside of them — in public — on a pile of old newspapers.

Now, don’t get me wrong, the idea of literally taking a dump on either the New York Post or Times has more than its share of merits, but this was not a political statement, my friends. Not by a long shot.

Needless to say, yours truly never went anywhere near this Superfund Site. What finally pushed me to conjure up the work-dodging system I described above was when I almost ended up in a fistfight with my boss when he demanded that I clean the “shithouse,” as he called it. (This was the same guy who swore he’d figure out my scam.)

Boss Man got loud with me about the mess once — once — in front of cabbies and passengers and I quickly shut that down.

Boss: I want you to clean the shithouse.

Me: I did.

Boss: You never go near the place.

Me (moving much closer): Are you calling me a liar?

Fortunately, my reputation as a martial artist amongst my co-workers preceded me, and that Port Authority lifer chose discretion over valor.

He eventually got retribution by re-assigning me to the George Washington Bridge to become a toll collector. I quit that gig after less than a week. No way was I going to stand in what is basically a phone booth and inhale exhaust fumes for eight hours a day, five days a week. I get more than enough of air pollution as a born-and-raised New Yorker.

But hey, no weapon formed against me shall prosper.

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