History of “Scooter”

Not many people these days know me as “Scooter” so I thought I would add some clarity to this amazing mystery (sorry for all the suspense I created by waiting so long!).

When I was about 17, I got a job at a pizza restaurant. It was my first real job if you don’t count washing cars, babysitting, and my three days at a tiny drive through restaurant that wanted me to miss mutual every week. On my first day of work, the manager noted that there was another employee there with my same first name (in fact, I knew him—he was in my ward and had always been a real jerk to me…so you can imagine how thrilled I was). My manager asked me if I had a nickname (I wasn’t going to volunteer that a few people had called me “Charlie Brown” in the past—it just wasn’t my idea of a good time). So, out of the blue, he said, “how about we call you Scooter?!” Hey, I wanted the job and I was quite shy, so I had no problem with it. In fact, it became fun having a nickname—everybody called me that, from the fellow dishwashers to the owners of the restaurant. I even kind of liked being called “Scoot-airrrr” by a Portuguese colleague.

This restaurant became my home away from home, my coworkers a family away from family, and in some ways was a more significant respite from the challenges of my life. I became legendary for my quick efficiency in dishwashing (I would be soaked from chest to knee some times—but I was fast!). Eventually I worked my way up to non-primary-dishwashing kitchen staff (oooohh!). It was a great place to work. There were three managers who were college age to whom I referred as the “three amigos” who were cool to me and helped build me up. By the way, the other guy with my name got fired a week after I came in—he had been late too many times.

I had a best friend get hired there eventually, and another best friend’s little sister (on whom I had a silly and painful crush), and it was a great year or so. I even worked the oven on Friday nights fairly consistently (the most difficult task of working there—four rotating shelves of pizzas in a 500 degree oven, having crust bubbles needing to be popped, having to be cooked just right—with deep dish pizzas having to be moved to different shelves at different stages of being cooked—being pulled from the oven and sliced, having to be identified with the correct customer, having to either be boxed or put on a tray, and the name of the customer being called out over the loud speaker—on the busiest, crazy night of the week.). It was a great source of feelings of accomplishment for an insecure 17 year old.

After a year of college and two years serving as a missionary in Germany, I returned to the pizza place for the summer before returning to college. At this time, my younger brother had been hired there and worked his way up to a management position. Trying not to be a Laban or Lemuel, I went along with having my younger brother boss me around. He was actually good about it, and it really didn’t bother me. It was kind of fun working together. However, I don’t think he ever called me Scooter!