Parking Lot Janitor

I had quit my job at KFC right after moving out on my own for the first time. My parents didn't want to let me move out, but my dad and I were fighting non-stop. My parents had put their house on the market, and it sold quicker than expected. As we waited for their new house to be done we were living in a tiny one bedroom apartment that they had rented for my mom's mom who would soon be moving out from New York. My mom, my dad, my kid brother James and I in this tiny space. My dad made some comment about my co-workers not liking me, and I threw a fit and kicked a tv through the wall. I guess those few karate lessons I'd had did teach me something after all.
I ran out of the apartment and never came back. My folks accepted that I was going to live on my own and we all began to get along much better. I could not and would not ask them for money due to the manner in which I left their household. I was too proud. My KFC money was just enough to live off of.
My new pad was pretty cool. It was a condo that a sub-normal named Wayne had purchased after an auto accident gave him some insurance money. He took one room and rented the other two. I shared the biggest room with my friend and fellow high school drop out Christian. For just $150 a month each, we had it made. The condo included access to a swimming pool, sauna and jacuzzi. All of our friends were still in their last year of school and living it at home, so our social standing was greatly improved.
Things were great, until I quit my job at KFC.
I had saved up some money for a trip to Europe and it was quickly draining. We drank heavily and that consumed quite a bit of my Europe fund, even before factoring in rent and living expenses.
Christian came in the house one afternoon and told me that our neighbor Carl was looking for someone to work for him as a janitor. The job was just four or five hours a day, but that was plenty and would leave me time for painting and drinking, my two great passions at the time (I finished more bottles of booze than paintings.)

I knocked on Carl's door to ask about the job. He invited me in and his giant Television and matching stereo told me he was doing alright for himself. I convinced him that I wasn't on the drugs and apparently he was suitably convinced. He offered me the job. I was up at 5am the next morning to check out the gig. He drove me to a strip mall called Quail Point and walked me through the routine. Pick up the litter over the whole lot, then empty all the trash cans. After dealing with the trash I would change the sand in the ash trays where needed. The lot included a yogurt shop and yogurt was constantly being emptied into the ash tray, mixing with the sand, and making a mess that had to be chiseled out. Why they didn't switch to the metal trays I couldn't figure. Lastly I had to put up the Quail point flags throughout the lot. The job had to be done by 10am when the shops opened. At night, I had to swing by and put the flags away.
This seemed like a dream. It paid $7 an hour when minimum wage was about $4.75. I would have no direct supervision, and that is what I loved the most. I rode my bike to the lot, did my thing and headed home.
I maximised my cash intake by carrying two bags with me, one for recyclables. People partied in the lot at night so there were always tons of bottles and cans. There was also frequently money that folks had dropped. I found tens and twenties at least a couple of times a week. If I found a ten or bigger I'd hit McDonalds on the way home and Christian and I would start our day with McRib sandwhiches.
The boss would work with me about once a week, presumably to check up on me, but mostly to share his hard earned wisdom with me. He told me all about "Killing gooks in The Nam" and "Scoring with crazy free love hippy chicks." We stopped by McDonalds after I found twenty bucks. He hit on the girl at the drive through window obnoxiously. I was embarassed. As we drove away with our McRibs he told me exactly what he'd like to do to her "sweet young ass."
"Aren't you married?" I asked.
"What? Married! No! I'm not married. My wife is!" Oh boy. What a winner. Oh well, I only had to see him once a week.
Things went fine for a while, but my drinking was making it increasingly difficult to be there by 6 am and to do a thorogh job. The bos was happy with me though, and was considering giving me several additional sites, which meant hiring an assistant, a position Christian was happy to fill, or so he though. Christian came to work with me one morning, both of us horribly hung over. We were almost done with our tasks. Once we finished emptying the trash cans into the big bin we would put up the flags and head to the liquor store.
As I hefted the final can something fell from it. I yelled to Christian not to grab it, but he instinctively shot out his hand. He caught the overflowing diaper, which sent quite a mess running down his arm. He was already suffering from two many forty ouncers the night before and he added his vomit to the mess I had to clean up. I told him to head home and I cleaned up the mess. Christian got a job bussing tables at the local Denny's restaraunt.

My friend Robbie still worked at Der Wienershnitzel, which was right around the corner from Christian and I's place. Robbie visited frequently and our freezer was always loaded with frozen french fries and corn dogs. We visited the wiener palace and I was amazed at how rude Robbie was to customers. Robbie also had sex in the walk in freezer, participated in a threeway with his boss and the bosses wife, went to work high on various drugs and stole money and product daily, so of course he was promoted to manager.
Christian had less luck. He thought it was a good idea to have dinner at the Denny's where he worked even though everyone was trippin' on acid. A developmentally disabled bus boy came to bring us our silver ware and Christian tried to say hello. The guy was sure Christian was making fun of him and became flustered. Then he dropped his tray, spilling silverware, napkins, etc. all over the floor. We tried to help him clean up and he started yelling. The manager on duty was sure we were picking on the bus boy. Her idea of sensitivity toward's the disabled was apparently to agree with the guy no matter how crazy he acted. We were given our bill and asked to leave. Seeing as everyone at the table was peeking on acid, and there were two cops in the restaraunt, and Christian's job was on the line, you'd think he'd have just let it go. Nope. Christian started yelling that if we couldn't stay and enjoy our food there was no way in hell we were paying for it. The cops started toward the table. I sprang into action.
"Christian, I'll pay for yours. Let's go."
"But it's bullshit."
"Sure it is. You're on drugs and there are cops here. Let's go. We'll do a dine and dash to balance the universe some other time. Let's go."
The balance the universe bit was just the sort of thing Christian liked to hear. We paid, we left, miraculously he wasn't fired. At least not until a week later when he decided not to go to work, or call in, as an impromptu party had erupted at our place.

A few weeks after the diaper debacle I had to call Carl and tell him I'd lost the key to the supply closet. He was furious. He came and let me in, cursin' me out all the while. I took the punishment, and agreed with him about what miserable member of a miserable generation I was. He told me I should have tied the key to my dick, since us "little assholes" always know where our dicks are. After each insult he'd congratulate himself. "Ha. Tie it to your dick. That's a good one. You hear that boy? That there was a funny."
I was less and less interested in expanding my turf and Carl was wanting for me to do just that. I was out hitchiking and caught a ride from someone who offered a better job. I arranged for an interview and before finding out if I'd gotten the job I told Carl I quit. I didn't give notice, I just quit. Carl wasn't surprised but he feigned a bit of indignation at my lack of notice.
This was the second job I'd quit and I was beginning to adjust to doubt that I would ever settle into a career as my father had done by my age. My dad worked for The US Postal Service his entire adult life. My experiences with the real world did wonders for my relationship with my dad and we've gotten along since.
I crossed my fingers and hoped to get this new job.

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