Webb: About the only time I’ve been fired, by my father, no less

I didn’t have a ton going for me when I was 15. I was smart, and the wit my wife fell in love with was there. Beyond that, the cool factor was nonexistent.

I was painfully shy. I was argumentative. I didn’t do much with my hair. I didn’t care for the latest fads in clothing. And, to top it off, I was gaining weight. Chunky and 15 aren’t exactly a great combination in the American high school system.

In other words, I was awkward, timid and a little dorky. The ladies weren’t lining up. Let’s be honest, as a teen in the 1990s, who you were dating more or less defined who you were.

What I did have going for me was a decent job, working for my old man, and a really cool car, my 1971 Monte Carlo, arguably the fastest and slickest-looking ride at Burlingame High.

I can thank my dad for both. He hired my brother and I to help run his shop in Lyndon. It was a hybrid store that served as a little bit of everything. At Webb Craft, you could have your shoes repaired, purchase dozens of leather goods, wash your car or pawn items.

My brother and I typically manned the store on Saturday. It was an easy job, except for digging out the mud pits in the car wash. Keep in mind this was in Kansas. Those mud pits were typically full of cow and horseshit and had to be emptied at least twice, sometimes three times, on a typical Saturday.

Otherwise, it was easy money. It put a little coin in both of our pockets, which we obviously needed for gas and beer, though I don’t think Dad intended to fund the latter.

As for the car, I was driving before my 14th birthday, at least during lessons with the old man. As I got closer to getting my license as a freshman, Dad started looking for a car. I know he enjoyed the hell out of looking for a vehicle for his first son.

After months of searching, he came home excited and said he thought he’d found a car. He looked over a Monte Carlo owned by an elderly couple in Ottawa. Dad said they had only driven the car to and from work, so at 20 years old it only had 60,000 miles on it and was in good shape. The only downside was that it was brown and cost $3,000.

I’d saved my money for years, something Dad had taught us, but I still only had half that. Dad, of course, loaned me the rest. 

For several months, I made small payments on the car using money from working at his shop. Then, on my 15th birthday in 1991, Dad called me at home and said I needed to come over and dig one of the mud pits because it was full.

I was pissed. You want me to drive 20 miles to dig a freaking mud pit on my birthday?! I cussed the entire way there. After arriving, I angrily grabbed the wheel barrel and shovel after saying very little to my mom and dad and marched toward the car wash.

As I leaned over the pull up the 50-pound metal cover to the pit, I noticed a card on the lid. Still fuming, I picked up the card, which was addressed to me, and opened it. 

“Son, we love you very much and are proud of you. Car is paid in full. Happy birthday. Love, Mom and Dad.”

Years before “trolling” became a thing, my parents had mastered it.

A year later, my brother and I had taken to partying when our parents were out of town. That typically meant drinking a little, staying out way too late and sleeping in on Saturday. That the shop was supposed to open at 7:30 meant little to us. Mom and Dad were out of town anyway.

On this particular Saturday, I was really struggling and didn’t make it out of bed until about 9 a.m., a full 90 minutes past the time we opened. I will never forget pulling into the driveway at the shop to find my Monte Carlo, which Dad had taken for the weekend for “repairs,” freshly painted candy apple red with the back jacked up a little.

I’ll also never forget the sinking feeling I had knowing I was more than two hours late and that my dad was in the shop. As I walked in the door, he was already fuming.

“I assume you’re OK since I drove by the house this morning and saw my car still there,” Dad said, cutting me off before I could reply. “You’re fired, son. Go home.”

To complete the embarrassment, Dad made me drive the station wagon home as my beautiful car sat in the front of the shop.

Dad and I didn’t talk much the next two weeks. I begged for my job back. He refused, saying I didn’t deserve to work there if I didn’t have pride in the family business. I also didn’t drive my car during those two weeks, walking everywhere.

Dad finally cooled off and hired me back. There was a long conversation about pride in your work, being a man of your word and respect. I’ve never forgotten that talk, and you can count the number of times I’ve been late for work through the years on one hand.

As for the my first car, I drove it through high school and into my freshman year at Kansas State. Unfortunately, two accidents, one when my brakes went out and another when a student barreled into my car driving through a red light in Manhattan, were the end of that ride. 

To this day, it’s my favorite car and always will be.