The first in a series. Let us know what’s the worst job you have ever had. Something you suffered through as a teen for just a couple of weeks? Or a longer-term drudgery that you took when nothing else was available? Write to us at writingaboutourgeneration@gmail.com so you can tell the world how you suffered.

Summer of ’61, maybe ’62. Orchard Beach, in the far northeast of the Bronx. Scorching heat. Sand blowing. People swimming. Others tanning on blankets.

Me, 15, maybe 16 years old, trudging along the shoreline with an impossibly heavy mini refrigerated backpack strapped to my spine. Everybody’s wearing swim wear, I’m clothed in a camo uniform, long sleeves, long pants, sweat pouring down, trying to sell slowly melting Eskimo Pies.

When the discussion turns to “worst job you’ve ever had”—which, at a certain age, happens more often than you might think—Orchard Beach in that hellacious summers immediately comes to mind.

I don’t remember how long I did it for, how long I was able to take it. I think I stayed with it longer than I should have or wanted to because I didn’t want to let my father down. He had gotten me this god-awful job. He knew someone who knew someone and had used all his influence apparently to get me the officially endorsed job from hell.

Since then I’ve had some pretty bad jobs—researching pulp and paper products, a bus boy for a summer in a Catskills hotel, a quality control inspector at a shoe factory—but nothing really comes close to those weeks at Orchard Beach.

I don’t think I’ve ever been able to eat an Eskimo Pie since.