I just found this on my hard drive. Haven't bothered to edit it, let alone finish it, but I figured why not post it here? Could be worth it if you're a fan...
My first ever real job, complete with paycheck, was at a now defunct Big Star grocery store as a bag-boy. I remember drawing a chuckle from my older sister when I proudly announced that my paycheck exceeded $100 for one week. I soon subsidized my income in a very kid-in-a-candy-store kind of way, (I was 18 at the time), by stealing nearly everything in sight. I smoked free, shampooed for free, downed “Nutra-ment” canned “power drink” free. I may have kept a goddamned air freshener in my sock drawer for free for all I was rooking this place for, I swear. I really felt bad the whole time, though, because the manager was a nice guy. This place was also where I was broken of the whole “shopping cart” silliness; from now on, ( in the South, anyway), it’s a “buggy”, thank you very much. Got caught red-handed stealing shit one day and got canned. I was fortunate to land a similar gig at the grocery store next door minutes later, so Dad wouldn’t bitch at me for being a freeloader. (This was before it was simple to land a job basically anywhere in the service industry, we were still recovering from the Carter administration!)
2) This job was notable for several reasons, the most important, (at the time), being that I found a girl that could score pot for me. Another would be that I actually left voluntarily. Also, I met my first girlfriend here and cleaned up human feces off of the floor. You could say the store wasn’t in the best neighborhood, and there was a profound communication gap between a lilly-white Midwestern transplant and the predecessor of Ebonics. After customers, (seemingly incoherently), asked an item location thrice, I’d usually just say “Aisle 5” to save everybody the pain. I also remember being really upset because the job interfered with watching college football, but there was a fantastic sunset where I snuck away to smoke, so I had that going for me!
3) My first and nearly last “real job”, i.e. a nine-to-five gig that had a dress code and paid vacations. In my short time at this relatively small firm I was somehow able to ascend from copy-boy, to tabulator of the precious “time-tickets”, (determining each attorney’s billable hours), to being taken under the wing of a partner to learn computer title searches. I say I “somehow” made this progress only because I was high, I mean really stoned most of the time. Stoned when I got there, baked to high heaven at lunch, etc. I guess you could say I could work at an office job with half my brain tied behind my back. Besides the obvious amusement derived from working while intoxicated, there was little else to make this gig rewarding. One exception, however, was manipulating the copier to obtain it’s maximum production. To wit: back in those days the firm had yet to upgrade to a self-sorting machine. In order to make say, five separate sets of copies, one had to manually retrieve each sheet of paper as it was dispensed and place it in it’s proper slot in the sorter. Over the course of the months I became adept enough to do this faster than the copier could spit out the sheets. This skill allowed me to incorporate behind-the-back “hot-dogging” for the benefit of powerful lawyers who were waiting at my mercy for the job to be completed so they could leave for a date in court. I’m not sure a nineteen year old know-it-all could have much more fun than that. My downfall here was not, as you might guess, from drug tests, because they weren’t at all prevalent in the early eighties. (Indeed, I could chain-smoke at my desk in those days!) No, my problems arose when spring sprung and I was stuck in an office looking out the window at perfect day after perfect day. Seeing that I was both from usually dreary and gray Northeastern Ohio and a mere nineteen years old, it was out of the question that I could spend my stoned existence in a white-collar rat race instead of , say, throwing a frisbee in the park. I learned a lot on this job, (how to turn back the date on the postage meter, for one), but since I had all the answers at the time anyway, it didn’t matter.
4) This retail stint was somewhat rewarding, if only for the discounts on the tennis apparel. I also enjoyed bullshitting the Soccer Moms that frequented the store, selling them skiing stuff as if I knew what was what. Oh, the empowerment! Managed to garner a transfer from this store, which was many rolls of the bus-wheel from my house, to a location within walking distance from my Buckhead residence. Not a bad job, although retail was pretty clearly not my calling.
5) This gig was just about the worst of the bunch of them. This was my first, but certainly not only, encounter with managerial incompetence at it’s worst. Either that, or she just didn’t get my sense of humor. In any case, the vibes were never right with me and this store, (and retail sales in general, for that matter), and I made a welcome exit for all involved after a very long couple of weeks. I was about twenty years of age at the time and I imagine that it was now occurring to me that all the stupid people I encounter during the course of a day have to work somewhere, and sometimes it’s as my boss…
6) Coming hot of the heels of a stint in retail, this job as Greeter at a mid-level restaurant/bar reminded me of several things that would never really change. First of all, I can’t stand in one place for any length of time without some acute back pain. Seeing that being at work performing a menial task tends to irritate me anyway, throw in endless Doan’s moments and I’ve got a problem. Kissing Ass is not a strong suit of mine, as spinning my wheels career-wise for the bulk of twenty years might indicate. When it’s actually in my job description to make everyone that passes through the door feel special, well, that’s simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately, slow business at this fine establishment, (Penrod’s on Piedmont, for you old-time Atlantans), made my position downsizable before I did anything to get fired. My most vivid memories of this job involve a lovely young maiden from a fine upbringing that had me completely intimidated. In retrospect, I coulda/shoulda asked her out, but I had absolutely no grace around women at this time in my life and was busy in the midst of a six year sex slump!
7) A job at a convenience store could easily be viewed as the nadir of any self-respecting working man’s labor history. This gig, however, was actually pretty fun and relatively challenging. The most important aspect of this position was that it was much safer than a typical quick-stop place because it was located in an affluent part of town. As a result, there wasn’t much of a threat of gunplay or the responsibility of shooing away loitering winos. I was glad to utilize my significant ten-key adding machine skills on the cash register, as this was before the advent of electronic scanners at the point of purchase. I’ll always remember returning from a lunch break to find a line of perhaps ten bewildered people deep and “relieving” the incompetent cashier on duty. The stage was then set to display my skillful speed at ringing things up, making change, activating gas pumps, and thanking the customer. It was quite a “rush”, and was also exhibit A as to how even the most mundane and demeaning tasks can bring satisfaction to an aimless kid in his early twenties. This job was also the first time I ever dealt extensively with cash and basically no supervision and I’m glad to say that I resisted temptation to steal the last Chicklet in the place, as I knew that that would be one slippery slope to start down. Unfortunately, there must have been a co-worker that looked at things a bit differently because I was soon accused of thievery and unceremoniously shown the door. In retrospect, I can see where I was the primary suspect since I was the most recent hire, but that doesn’t change the irony that I was, in a sense, robbed by the management. As things turned out, this was the last job I would have for a period of very eventful months to follow, which included: Being evicted from my apartment Renting a room from (very active) homosexuals Living in a utility closet in Chambodia Being so broke that I could barely pay attention For the oh-so-entertaining details and much more, please see job 8.
8) Well, this job was certainly notable. Not because it was interesting or noble, or anything like that, but simply due to the fact that it ended a period of at least two months of unemployment, (without the benefit of gov’t hand-outs, incidentally). Yes, after calling in a favor from the rock band God Forbid, I was given free room and board in a dismal apartment complex in a part of town full of Asian immigrants called Chamblee, but referred to as Chambodia. I occupied the utility closet in this three bedroom dive rent-free because I let the three band members stay at my place for a few weeks upon their move from Ohio. I spent most of my time reading, as the local library was next door, and killing time in a funk that could probably be described as a mild depression. I would occasionally look for work, and one day I landed a gig up the street helping to clean a vacant building to make it suitable to open as a restaurant. It turned out to be good for a sense of accomplishment besides being able to tell you who was on David Letterman the night before. I have no real recollection of the actual duties, but I know they entailed a lot of scrubbing.
9) This job arose when I was around twenty years of age and living in an unheated house in the middle of the entertainment hub of Atlanta, Buckhead. I was one of six who lived in the place, and it was cheap, ($50 a month), because there was no heat, let alone air conditioning. I was probably between one of the retail jobs at the time one of my roommate’s friends was saying how they needed some help on a job site, and I needed money, so we were a match. I came decked out in my worst clothes and rode in the back of a pickup, just like a real immigrant! Funny how pretty women always see to have trouble with their car stereos at stoplights, I tell ya! Anyway, this job was absolutely miserable. The people I was working with were boring, it was hot out, and it was dirty. I had zero experience in construction, so I came across to my co-workers as if I was some kind of moron. In fact, the worst part of this gig was probably that irony: I was considered an idiot by idiots! I’m sorry, but it only took me this one day to figure out that if I’m going to humiliated, at least I could be in clean air, even if I was still unemployed. It was here that I figured out why there are so many cost overruns on construction projects: the workers are high. Unless they’re Mexicans, who worked non-stop, these guys would get baked before they arrived, at lunch, and on any imaginable break. Now we’ve all heard the saying “Are you stoned or just stupid?” Come to find out, most construction workers are both! The sooner engineers and architects factor this in, the better off everyone will be when the bids are made for jobs. Just trying to help.
10) Yet another desperation move, this position was more charity on the part of my landlord, who was a contractor living next door, than anything else. Think of this job as one that a wealthy booster of the local college athletic program would give a star player; except I had to actually show up. I was granted this employment two days prior to rent being due, and I had no idea how I was going to raise the money in time. This was probably right after my stint as the secretary at the college radio station, so you can see where I might be broke. Anyway, I was once again a construction laborer, but this time I was working primarily by myself, cleaning up and doing gopher duties on various homebuilding sites. The best part of this job was that my boss/landlord gave me a ride every day, because I wouldn’t own a car for another two years, (the first of my life, as a matter of fact). I also got to listen to talk radio quite a bit, before I realized how bad it was, and that helped pass the time. The downside was that it was in the middle of summer and just stiflingly hot, but it was a living, and I got the rent paid.
11) OK, I know this isn’t really a job, but sometimes it felt like one, and I really did get fired, in a way. I was about twenty at the time, and, thanks to my pal’s decision to enter the illicit substance vending business, I was occupied officially as a “hanger-on”. Turns out that there’s a phenomenon that occurs when one has way more money than they can spend and also more drugs than they can do alone---they want someone to be around to party with them. Good work if you can get it, (and you’re not morally opposed to mind-altering drugs). In any event, during this period it was unnecessary for me to work, because the fridge was always stocked, and the rent were always paid. I always had a problem with being a leech, but Dude always convinced me that it was OK, so that was good enough for me. (ed note: said Dude ended up AWOL from the Marine Corps, proving his faulty judgement.) This relatively plum situation came to an end when my buddy’s, (employer’s?), supplier came a-callin’ and he was nowhere to be found. Eventually the utilities in the dealer’s name were turned off, and soon enough the Sheriff was knocking on the door with a flatbed to transport our belongings to the sidewalk. It was quite comical, actually, as my other roommate and fellow hanger-on were sitting in our living room, which was now a few feet away from four lanes of traffic, contemplating our fate. Soon enough people began to stop and rummage through the items in the yard, asking us how much things cost. The proverbial idea light lit in both of our baloons, if you will, and the yard sale was on. Dressers, beds, clothes, almost everything must go! So it was, the end of my dubious success as a hanger-on.
12) Trying to follow a passion of mine into a career, I took a job as a maintenance worker at Bitsy Grant Tennis Center in Atlanta, in the hopes of moving up into a teaching position. This entailed taking care of the thirteen clay courts, which can be a full-time job in itself. I rode a golf cart around, dragging a roller behind it while I listened to music on my Walkman, usually just high as the bejesus, because this was back in my smoking days in the late eighties. This was when I lived in Stone Mountain, which involved a bus-train-bus commute that took well over ninety minutes to complete, and that sucked. I think I made five bucks an hour to toil as jack-of-all trades, which meant I was essentially the custodian. I did have a bunch of tennis apparel at this point, and at least I looked like a tennis pro. The good parts of this job were lunch’s at the Wendy’s superbar with the actual pros, who were pretty cool, and the fact that I had access to the golf cart at night, and I could take dates out on the adjacent golf course, which was nice. All of this came to an end when the company I worked for went broke trying to manage the place that was full of regular customers too cheap to but a membership at a real club. Needless to say, this didn’t serve as a catapult into a glamorous career in the tennis world.
13) Oh, was this one ever a doozy! I had this one when I live at the place in Buckhead with five others in the place with no heat or a/c. If nothing else, I credit this job for ridding me of a shyness that was somewhat crippling. It’s hard to believe now, but prior to this, I would be reluctant to call the phone company to discuss a problem with the bill. Anyway, I landed this job by answering an ad in the paper that siad something about “Rock and Roll”, and being a manager in a fun environment. Having come right off the boat, so to speak, I couldn’t see it for the dubious enterprise that it was and I plunged right into it. The gist of this operation was that the bosses were buying cheap housewares in bulk, i.e. thousands, and then consigning said goods to a ragtag bunch of young dumbasses like me, jailbirds, and whatnot to hit the streets and sell the shit in parking lots, out of cars, vans or whatever. After morning “rallies”, in which motivational speeches were made and the philosophy of the bulls, (us), against the cows, (the buyers) was espoused, we were off for the poorer neighborhood’s strip centers in search of suckers. “Look, I don’t care anymore! The boss is on my ass, and I need to get rid of this stuff. Just take the wine set, the clock, and the cookware for $80! Just take it!” This was a typical pitch that “closed” a deal with some of the dumber people you'll ever encounter. Never before did I actually see the B.T. Barnum theory in action, and it was somewhat fascinating to watch a fool and his money parted, I must admit. This job continued a few weeks, until a fateful “road trip”. You see, every once in a while it paid to take the goods on the road, to places where they hadn’t seen the stuff and where the entire city were suckers. This entailed loading up a couple of vans and cars to the roof with “goods” to sell and heading down to South Georgia, where the gnats go straight for the eyes and the motels have names like “The Black Angus."
(Be sure to catch part two, as I finish the "published" story for the first time.)
