Or... My worst Fourth of July. (1991)
by Paul J. Pelkonen
The year was 1991. I had finished a desultory freshman year at Fordham University. Being a young college student (OK, I was 18 and a year ahead) I had to get myself a summer job.
The month before, I had started applying to record stores. Most of these were part of a large, uncaring chain run by a larger, uncaring holding company. Back then, these stores were everywhere in Manhattan. HMV. Tower. Coconuts. Sam Goody. Most were bloated, badly run supermarkets, each of which was filled with a vast selection of recorded music that most of the staff didn't care about.
But what did I know? I was 18. After several failed applications, I found out that the brand-new Sam Goody in Greenwich Village was hiring for its classical department.
"Classical?" I thought. "I can do that."
by Paul J. Pelkonen
The year was 1991. I had finished a desultory freshman year at Fordham University. Being a young college student (OK, I was 18 and a year ahead) I had to get myself a summer job.
The month before, I had started applying to record stores. Most of these were part of a large, uncaring chain run by a larger, uncaring holding company. Back then, these stores were everywhere in Manhattan. HMV. Tower. Coconuts. Sam Goody. Most were bloated, badly run supermarkets, each of which was filled with a vast selection of recorded music that most of the staff didn't care about.
But what did I know? I was 18. After several failed applications, I found out that the brand-new Sam Goody in Greenwich Village was hiring for its classical department.
"Classical?" I thought. "I can do that."
