Go Get the Stepladder
Do you remember your first job? Were you a lifeguard, a deliverer of newspapers or a store clerk? Maybe something else. I wonder what things you learned from it.
Recently, I was led to reflect on that first-job experience and share a story from my teenage days working part-time at McDonalds.
One significant experience led to a lesson I have never forgotten. It’s one that I’ve applied in nearly every job I’ve held since.
In this week’s newsletter, you’ll find:
- A story illustrating the power of changing perspective
- Photo of 17 year-old Skip in Mickey D’s uniform
- A terrific new dose of wisdom
Let’s get cooking!
Wisdom Lesson 56
Why Changing Your View Changes Everything
His name was “Ootsie.”
Or at least, that’s what everyone called him at the McDonald’s on the North End. Ootsie was the type of boss whose reputation preceded him. If he was on shift, things were going to run smoothly—without him ever raising his voice, cracking a whip, or doing anything other than just…being himself. At 22, he seemed both older and younger than his years. It was rumored his real name might have been Charles, but no one dared ask.
As for me, I was sixteen, driving an inherited, pale blue Ford Falcon we lovingly called “The Falcoon,” and the pride of that ride was that it was entirely mine to own. It had 188,000 miles and a DIY patch job that still flaunted its pop rivets. But it worked, and I had a job to keep it on the road, so that was that. My pay was my gas, my freedom, and all the adventure a sixteen-year-old can imagine on a tank of fuel. So naturally, my job mattered.
Back then, I’d recently quit working at The Red Barn, a downscale fast-food place where I’d been slinging fried chicken at $3.15 an hour, under the ever-watchful, often critical eye of Mrs. Burdette, a manager as strict as her name sounds. She once docked my hours by making me work off-the-clock, all in the name of trimming her labor costs. Her methods taught me one thing fast: when you’re young, inexperienced, and a little desperate, the choice of “boss” matters just as much as the pay rate.
Sam Does Me a Solid
Lucky for me, I had a friend named Sam. Sam was a guy with a perfect blonde coif, a midnight blue Mustang, and a bit of a swagger in his step—everything I was not. One day, while casually leaning on that convertible with a hint of nonchalance, he gave me a tip: “You should fill out an application at McDonald’s. We’re hiring. The pay is better—and the people? Way better.” With Sam’s endorsement, I got the job.
And just like that, I became one of “Ootsie’s boys.”
Ootsie wasn’t the typical McDonald’s manager. He was fair but firm, always professional but with an undeniable edge. There was an energy in his walk, an ease that made you think, This guy knows things.
He wore his authority quietly, so much so that rumors swirled around the store. Was he related to the owner? A nephew, a stepson? We never asked. It didn’t matter.
Advancing to the A Team
I eventually secured a spot as a “closer” on his shift. When that day arrived, I was officially on the “A Team.” And everyone knew, if you were closing with Ootsie, the standards were high. There was pride in being part of his team, a duty that went beyond the job description and into something more. And there was a certain order to the way the night’s work played out.
For my first couple of shifts, I was stationed in the dish room, washing endless stacks of greasy trays and utensils. But eventually, I graduated to Grill Back. That title might sound unimpressive, but to me, it meant moving up. The Grill Back is the one who dresses the sandwiches, toasting buns and topping Big Macs with just the right amount of secret sauce. With the final sprinkle of lettuce, I slid my “masterpieces” across the counter, where the front-of-house team took over.
But the real magic of the closing crew happened after-hours. After the last customer left, after the doors were locked and the cash drawer was counted, the store went from bright and bustling to dim and quiet. And that’s when the rhythm changed. There were a hundred things to clean and prep before the next day, and everything had to be “signed off” by Ootsie. That night, on one of my first shifts, I would learn a lesson from him that still sticks with me, years later.
After hustling through my cleaning duties, wiping and scrubbing the grill area and stocking every bin I could think of, I made my way up front, proudly announcing to Ootsie, “I’m ready.” He gave me a quick nod, and together we walked back to my station for the final inspection. Everyone knew he had very high standards. My nerves tingled a little, but I was proud of what I’d done. The grill gleamed, the counters were polished, and every bin was stocked to perfection.
Ootsie walked around, barely moving his head, glancing at things quickly. I held my breath. I could almost feel my palms start to sweat as he finally stopped, turned to me, and asked, “Looks good to you?”
I nodded, maybe a little too eagerly.
Go Get the Stepladder
And then came a question that would stick with me forever: “Great. Now, do me a favor. Can you go grab the stepladder?”
I hesitated. A stepladder?
“The three-step one, from back by the dishwashing area,” Ootsie clarified. I quickly scrambled to retrieve it, and before I could even process the reason, I was back. There I stood, ladder in hand.
“Set it up right there by the grill and climb to the middle step,” he said, a hint of amusement playing on his face. With a sigh, I did as he said, not fully understanding where this was going.
At the middle step, my view shifted. Suddenly, I could see the tops of the range hoods, the neglected places where grease smudged metal, and tiny bits of wrapper or plastic hid in plain sight. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’d managed to show me all the things I’d missed without even saying a word.
“Skip, when you’ve got something important, something with your name on it, don’t forget to look at it from every angle,” he said, a rare smile forming on his lips.
Still Not Done – More to Learn
Ootsie motioned for me to climb down. As I reached the ground, thinking it was over, he said, “One last thing. Drop to the floor. Right there, like you’re about to do a pushup.”
And this time, as I looked from a low angle, I saw what he wanted me to see. In the shadows and under the tables were bits of mop string, pieces of paper, and even a small french fry fragment that had somehow escaped my cleaning.
Kneeling there, on that freshly mopped floor, I realized he had just shown me one of the biggest lessons of my life. Quality isn’t about doing things in the way that’s most convenient. It’s about looking deeper, seeing things from every angle, checking those hard-to-reach places to make sure you haven’t missed a thing.
After all, Ootsie was famous for one thing: no matter the day or the shift, he never settled. And he wanted us to see things the way he saw them, too.
That night, he didn’t have to say much more. With one final nod, he turned to switch off the lights, casting the place into darkness. As he closed the doors behind us, he gave me a pat on the back and said, “Now, you get it.”
There are a lot of things I’ve forgotten about that job. I can’t remember most of my coworkers’ names or the exact routine we followed. But I will never forget that sense of clarity and pride that came from seeing my work from different perspectives, or the quiet way Ootsie taught us that even the smallest things count.
The Gift of Seeing – A Pathway to True Leadership
The night Ootsie handed me the step ladder, he handed me a key to understanding quality, leadership, and perspective. It was a lesson that’s harder to teach in a classroom or a corporate office than on a fast-food line, yet it’s one that’s shaped every role and every team I’ve been a part of since.
In a world that often glorifies the loud and visible leader, there’s something profound in the quiet authority of a manager who doesn’t need to raise his voice. It’s a model of leadership that values standards over shortcuts and perspective over complacency.
For anyone hoping to lead, to inspire, to create a culture that doesn’t just accept the bare minimum but elevates it, that night in the grill room as a member of Ootsie’s closing crew was the ultimate education. To this day, the principles I learned under Ootsie—a man running a McDonald’s in a small town—continue to shape the way I see and do everything.
Because sometimes, true quality doesn’t just need to be measured; it needs to be felt.
Meet Jon Beck – He’s Navigating ALS with Acceptance and Gratitude
Jon Beck is a remarkable human being.
In January of 2015 doctors at The Cleveland Clinic told him he didn’t have Lou Gehrig’s Disease (ALS). In September of that same year, they changed their minds: yes, he did have it. And he had about two years to live.
Now, more than 8 years later, Jon is defying the odds. In his words, “He’s knocking it out of the park.”
How has Jon managed to turn two years into eight? I think the answer is manyfold and nuanced. But certainly part of the reason is his attitude.
Surely acceptance is part of it. That’s hard. It’s painful. But that’s not entirely unique. Other have come to accept an illness or an unfavorable situation. The stoics have a phrase: amor fati.
The other part of Jon’s approach to life and how to live it–and what I believe is quite unique, quite powerful–is the gratitude aspect.
Gratitude? Grateful to have been given ALS? Really?
Well, yes. And that’s just Jon. But don’t take my word for it. You’ll want to click the button to hear this incredible story from this remarkable man. There’s wisdom galore.
Word of the Week: Erstwhile
The old man still has fond memories of his erstwhile vehicle, modest though it was.
Erstwhile – adjective [attributive]
ˈərstˌ(h)wīl
- Former; one-time
- Of times past
Origin: 1560-70; Middle English “aerest;” also related to Old High German “erist” and Dutch “eerst.”
