i had my own american boy labor party. i had several jobs as a boy starting with my paper route in mount zion ill at 7,8,9, which was better than the shithole restaurant jobs to come after the divorce at 13,14,15,16, and the shithole gas station at 17 til i went to so ill u down in little egypt ill. so first i delivered papers in like three subdivisions on my orange krate sting ray bike. it was fucking hard ass work on my skinny little bony ass boy self but i was free and i got some munny and prizes like a flat-bottom jon boat with nowhere to float cept a little crik a few inches deep with water moccasins wending we had to push the damn thing. i think we abandoned it out there under the rusted railroad bridge with no track remaining. all the restaurant jobs were hellish exploitation, i gotta go to talk therapy or i would go on, i'll go on a little. there was rosati's pizza which i remember because of the family folding pizza boxes in parasite which is absurd, you make em as you go in half a sec or you're fired or at least harangued. i ate so much goddamn pizza i was sick because the motherfuckers didn't pay shit for work. we smelled like walking pizza boys. hated the rosati mafia. then there was some ersatz eyetalian joint, i bused and washed, i threw the wine glasses in the alley laughed and stole bottles of wine after the owner left, got fired and incredibly hired back, fake contrite. this is fun, i was a reprobate! i could go on, but i gotta go to talk therapy, i'll go on a bit. then there was the stone lion pub, slave station, hell's suburb, where i served the masters and scarfed lobster all night in the cooler, then with lobster digestion slipped all night on the greasy red floor of of my inescapable nightmare of growing up. 
this is a block, i must stop, oh the waitresses were nasty, of course smarmy sweet too, trying to get you to believe they wouldn't screw you out of tips. they gave you near enough to zilch to piss you royal so i stole whatever i could get my hands on, then when everyone was gone and our pockets stuffed with cash we had to clean the toilets and got high and lit our farts on the sinks. unwieldy! i can't go on, i'll go on, in talk therapy.