Dishwasher at Greta's Cafe

Greta's cafe was where the cool kids worked. Getting a job there then, would surely be a ticket into coolness, wouldn't it?

I applied, got hired, and awaited my coolness, but first I had to learn to make an espresso drink. Gretta's was a quality joint. The coffee shop portion carried espresso drinks that an italian would actually recognize, and a great selection of pastries which were baked on site. Greta's also had lunch featuring the best salads in town, sandwiches, fresh baked quiche andd pate'.

I worked at the coffee shop counter, and had to be at work at five am to have the doors open by six. Coffee drinks were served in glass mugs and we took great pride in being able to layer the espresso, so it floated on top of the steamed milk and below the foam. I would start each morning with a triple espresso, necessary as I had previously been unaware of five a.m.'s existence, having dismissed it as something I hallucinated when I stayed up too late.

I was usually off by noon, two at the latest, and so I had my whole day ahead of me.

I worked along side Shaunie and Megan at the front counter. They were both insane. I'm sure Greta hired them for their quirky fashion sense and undeniable cool factor. Shaunie made and sold hats and Megan, well she just acted nuts, but she was insanely cute. I enjoyed working with them for the first few weeks as I learned the ropes, but then I notice we started falling behind. Customers would get irate and then we'd get irate and work wouldn't be much fun. I suggested that Shaunie man the register, since it was the easiest task and she was a moron. I figured Megan could fetch pastries and I, being the fastest would work the espresso machine. This system proved too complicated however and one of the two cool kids would always forget what they were doing and we'd get backed up again. So, I'd lose my cool and give the girls an intelligence evaluation. This would get me reprimanded, and since this would threaten my place amongst the cool kids I asked to be transfered to another station. The lunch prep area, where they made the salads, quiche, etc. was reserved for Greta's pets. The mostly female prep staff worked like a well oiled machine. If they bickered they kept it amongst themselves. There only a couple of positions in the bakery and these were held firmly by folks who took their baking seriously. Not a lot of turn over there. So, I became the dishwasher.

It was maybe a week after becoming the dishwasher that I was happened upon by the local alternative paper doing a man on the street story about worst dates. Well, I had a doozey of a date story for them and so they ran it along side my smiling face, my plasic brown guiness apron showing proudly and the words, "Keith Lowell Jensen- Dishwasher." The folks at John Q's started showing up at Greta's to congratulate me on the success of my movie, the one I'd quit John Q's to go and make.

The other dishwasher was Mike. He showed me the ropes. It took him about an hour to teach me how to use the washer, and a couple of days to show me where to stash beer in the walk in, how to suck the nitrous out of the whipped cream, how to smoke out in the walk in freezer, etc. Mike was fired on three seperate occasions while I worked there. And he was always hired back in a higher position. It was a most bizarre way to climb the ladder of success.

The waiters would come in early and help prep salads. I relished having the chance to hang out with the waiters. They were older guys an I viewed them as mentors. John McCrea fronted his band Cake, Steve Jacobs had his art, and had recently gotten a few of his illustration published, and Tony was just really smart and equally nice. We'd all take turns playing music and so I got turned on to Tom Waits, The Pogues, XTC, and countless other amazing musicians. And the guys were patient with my Beastie Boys, De La Soul and Nirvana.

John McCrea was at the sink next to the dishwasher cleaning spinach and I had Nirvana blasting. I asked him what he thought and rather than a musical critique I got a manifesto.

"Nirvana is pretending to be rebelious. They're loud, but loud's become the norm. They smash their instruments but that's not an original sentiment. It's tired. And what does it say? It says 'look, we have money to burn. We can smash our equipment and we'll just get new equipment.' You know what would really be radical? It would be truly radical if they took their expensive guiatars and drums and monitors and at the end of every show they donated them to some school that can't afford to have a musical progam. What they're doing now is just typical consumer culture excess. Spending for status."

Well, I loved Nirvana, I still do, but he was right. He was absolutely right, and this talk along with future talks with John, Steve and Tony got me excited about saying something orginal with art and about trying to be more of a critical thinker.

John was also a role model in that he had a stronger work ethic than anyone I'd ever seen where his band was concerned. John worked the lunch shift at grettas, and then left to cover the town in flyers and handbills for Cake's shows. When Cake didn't have a show booked John covered the town in flyers and handbills that just said Cake. His handbills all featured the original art that now decorates his band's albums. Evenings were spent rehearsing, recording, or designing more original art. I imagine somewhere in there he must have found time to write music, but I can't imagine when. It's not surprise to me that Cake made it big, and it's no surprise that so many other Sacramento bands begrudge them their success, but I can't think of anyone who worked harder for it than John McCrea.

I started my own band around this time, Vincent's Other Ear and John actually came out and saw us. We were a crappy genre hopping band, going from rock to rap to country, well not country, but only because the bass player wouldn't allow it. John couldn't have like the music but he noted that the we seemed very sincere and that the lyrics seemed to be about 'important things.' I was so nervous performing in front of the Greta's cool kids that at one point I was talking into the microphone stand, giving my best between song banter while holding the mic at my waist. Despite this embarassing moment the between song banter was probably the best thing about my role in Vincent's. I'd gone to the local food closet and discovered they were giving the homeless Milliary M.R.E.s (Meal Read to Eat). We opened one onstage and dared audience members to sample the orange toothpaste that was being passed off as potatoes au grautin or the rock hard brownie that we could not break in half no matter how we tried.

The Bakers were there much earlier than the waiter staff, and they introduced me to some great music as well. Mostly techno and dance mixes by local djs. Joolie wanted to have a bakery/Cafe of her own one day. She lived upstairs from Gretas and she was serious about her work. My turn to play music came up, and Joolie implored me not to play any hip hop. At the time I detested The Smiths, but Joolie would play them regardless, so... she could endure a bit of hip-hop. I did try though. I played some Urban Dance Squad and I explained to her that they were concious lyrically, and that they had a unique sound as they were an actual band. She rolled her eyes, the beat started and I got to washing the baker's pans. Then the beat abruptly stopped. I looked to the stereo just in time to see Joolie tossing my tape over her shoulder with reckless abandon. It hit the floor and slid under a large freezer.

"That was my personal property. You had no right to do that."

"Oh, well." She was smart enough not to put a tape of her own in harms way and I glared at her in silence. Then I went to Greta.

"Joolie just destroyed something of mine. She should pay for it, and she should be reprimanded." Greta calmed me down, and had Tony fish my tape out from under the cooler. The tape seemed fine. Greta went back into her office with out a word to Joolie. I was furious. I returned to Greta's office.

"What do you need Keith?"

"I need you to tell Joolie that she can't have total disregard for other people's things."

"Joolie. Leave Keith's things alone." Greta yelled to a smirking Joolie. I returned to the dishes. I was not in a state to be handling the sharp knives that I was now loading into the washer. I cooled down eventually, but I never quite forgave Joolie or Greta.

I was getting sick of dishes and I started hinting to Greta that I'd like to wait tables. The waitstaff made good money and had one of the few waiter jobs in town that didn't involve kissing the asses of your customers. In fact part of Greta's Appeal was in the fact that the waiters thought they were cooler than you, and in most cases were correct. It was not realistic to think that I'd be moving away from the dishwasher anytime soon. So, I started to have too much fun. I became a character. I'd scream at folks who left knifes in the soapy tubs of water, I'd spray folks who didn't get away from me when I told them too. I was sure I was adorable, but it was becoming apparent that not everyone agreed.

The one thing thing I was good at was dealing with the homeless who would come around panhandling. I was sympathetic but would just explain to them that they needed to wait until people were done with their lunch before they hit them up so that we had a shot at getting money from them too. Kevin would come around asking for pennies. There were many stories about Kevin. He used to be a math professor, he'd owned a big company, etc. He did seem to have a strong intellect and I guessed that he suffered from some sort of mental illness. Kevin could not be easily talked away.

"Hey Kevin, you know you can't be in front of the building. You have to clear out."

"Yeah Keith okay. You're the good guy. You care about us all. You move us along and make your bosses happy and you're our friend too because you're such a great guy Keith. God bless you." The sarcasm was subtle enough to really sting.

I became even less likely to become a cool kid when, at an unofficial staff party, upstairs at Joolies I palled around with Mike and another screw up named John who was a career student and who had somehow become a waiter. We had too much to drink or maybe it was just enoug. We invented a game involving throwing ourselves down the stairs. Whoever could turn themselves around, stomach to back to stomach, while sliding headfirst, the most times before hitting the bottom was the winner. All three of us were covered in bruises the next day. The thing that baffled me was that these things made me less cool, but Mike and John continued to fit right in.

My girlfriend Christine was very shy socially and I'm sure she was amazingly proud to have escorted me to the party. We were living together and working together at this point, though we rarely interacted at work as she was in the lunch prep crew that kicked so much ass.

Bryna, the blonde that keeps following me from story to story, worked there as well. We were still very close, best friends even. She wore a skirt that she'd made by wrapping a piece of cloth around her waist and fastening it with a safety pin. The image of her, in that, with those legs that went on forever sent me scrambling to the dishwasher where I refused to turn around for quite some time, even after all dishes were done. I can still conjure up that image as if it were yesterday.

Employee's could purchase cold sodas for thirty five cents a pop and so I drank Pepsi's like there was no tommorow and eventualy the wasn't. I'd discovered that pouring most of a can of Pepsi in my enormous mouth and shaking my head back and forth violently would build up enough carbonated pressure that I could launch a geyser of the sickly sweet stuff all over the cieling causing it to rain Pepsi over the dish area. Well, this brought complaints from the bakers, which brought Greta to the dish area, and I swear I had no idea that she was standing behind me, with no umbrella, as the rains began.

Greta didn't say a word. She walked to her office and began crunching numbers. Tony told me that she would probably fire me when the lunch dishes were done. There weren't enough plates and glasses to keep up with the lunch rush, so I had to keep up with demand and it was a hectic, hot, wrinkly skin on my fingers couple of hours. Well forget it. I would beat her to the punch.

I walked into her office and punched out.
"Keith are you sick?" she asked.
"Sick of working." I answered.

Christine suggested I let her pay the bills while I actually work on my painting and, since I rarely finsihed a canvas this seemed like a good idea. Unemployed artist was a job I could handle.

epilogue:
Fast forward ten years. I run into Joolie, not having seen her in the interim. She's ringing up my groceries at a Trader Joes. She recognizes me, and then immediately says "You know, I threw a tape of your under the freezer once." I was amazed! I tried to pretend that I didn't remember. She continued, "I've always felt bad about that. It really was a bitch move. I'm sorry."
That is so cool.

>>>>Go to next job>>Bus Boy at snooty private club>>>>

Host/Bus Boy at John Q's

John Q's sat atop the downtown Holiday Inn. At some point Christian Introduced me to Todd. Todd was a thin good looking guy with curly hair and a keen sense of style. Todd was typical of the kind of guy who works in a nice restaraunt. He developed the tastes of the people he served. They lived in nicer homes than he did, and certainly with more security, but he arranged his life to allow him the priveledges of the priveledged. Working at Inn meant he could stay in style when he traveled. It also allowed him to get to know his wines, and to score bottles cheaply. He spent his days talking with the wealthy, or at least what we considered wealthy, and he learned to speak their language. This mixed wonderfully with Todd's bohemian side. Punk bands played in his living room while the smoke of expensive cigars hovered around the pool table that barely fit in his dining room, the dining room with all the windows broken by pool cues. I watched expensive liquores being shot down with malt liquor chasers.
Todd posessed that James Bond kind of Zen. He'd watch the craziness in his house, with a good scotch swirling around in his glass, ready to raise his hand in a toast or to avoid a drunk tumbling by. He could talk about The Dead Kennedys, Miles Davis and Throbbing Gristle with equal appreciation.
I liked Todd. I wanted it a bit of what he had, that coolness, that ability to blend with any crowd. Blending was a skill I'd always prided myself on but I was grass hopper to this master of the art.
I visited John Q's with Todd as he was picking up a paycheck. The place seemed so cool. The view was great, as 16 stories was quite tall in Sacramento at that time. The Restaraunt took half the floor, the rest of the space being devoted to two suites. There was a cool entry area where the host stood. To the left was the piano bar and to the right was a hallway leading to the dining area. We sat and had a couple of cokes in the bar, enjoying the giant windows. I asked Todd if they were hiring and he told me they needed a daytime host. I decided to go home, spiff up and then come back an apply.
I got an interview right away with Tim, the lunch manager. Tim was a clean cut gay man in his early thirties. He had a low key snootiness about him, nothing too obnoxious, but just enough to intimidate and impressionable young man feeling out of his element. Tim asked me what my hobbies were. I told him I read a-lot and he asked me what I read. I could've answered Hesse or Kamus or any of the other authors that I thought would've made me sound smart when I was 18 but my mind blanked. I answered Stephan King. I felt like a moron. The truth is I do like King. I think he's underrated by the intellectuals types. I think he's another Poe, who just happens to be popular with housewives. I didn't have the self confidence to say any of that, so I offered that I mostly prefered the book's he published under the name Bachman, making me sound like even more of a supermarket paperback junky. Oh well, Tim found me charming enough and I was hired.

The lunch staff were guys who hadn't resigned themselves to be waiters for the rest of their lives. The tips were good and the hours were minimal so it was an ideal college job. A few years later, when graduating was no longer likely, the waiters would move to night shift where the real money could be made. Todd was the bartender. Tony and Paul made up the waitstaff and they had Michael as their busser. I was the host. Tim went between the kitchen and the dining room and made sure things went smoothly, stopping to kiss a little ass when a big wig came by and stopping to sexually harass me in that "I'm just playing, but seriously... no, I'm just playing" kind of way.

Tony didn't like to tip me, so I liked to give Paul the better tables. What made for a better table? Well there were the regulars who I got to recognize as big spenders, and then there was basic stereotyping. New money meant bigger tips than old money, but you had to learn to tell the difference between new money and regular folks pretending to be rich for the day. These "won 50 bucks at bingo" types could be great tippers, but they were less predictable.
I liked Paul better anyway. He was a good looking, well read sort. Tony on the other hand was an Italian stalion who cared about his hair way too much. He was trying to break into modelling and so he thought it was necessary to have his facial hair waxed. The resulting ingrown hairs did not convince him that this was a bad idea. He also liked to fart in my office when I was tallying up the days reciepts.
Once Tony stunk my office so badly I suggested he see a doctor about his rotten gut. Tim came by at just that moment looking for more menus. Normally I'd grab them for him but instead I told him where I'd put them in the office. "What the god damned hell!" I explained that the odor now stinging his nostrils was courtesy of Tony. With Tim's encoragement and backing Tony got the worst tables for the next two weeks. When he followed a customer out to the parking lot to return the lousy tip he'd recieved we decided he'd had enough.

Michael, the busser was my favorite. He was a young black man who would take meditation breaks by the ice machine. He urged me to try the two minute mediation myself, but I found scarfing down some chocolate mouse more to my liking. Michael did a bit too much meditating had to be relieved of his duties.

The Chef was Jose (French pronounciation, Joe, Ze). He was a character. He'd flip if you left ketch up in his kitchen. "Not in my kitchen, zis dee-sgusting American crap." Once he came laughing to the dining room where we were all hanging out after a shift. He had a magazine with a picture of bread pudding and two scoops of sherbert. It looked exactly, unqestionably like a penus and testicles. We all laughed, assuming we were laughing with our chef friend until we heard him say, "You don't serve sherbert with bread pudding." The laughing stopped and I've wondered ever since if he was putting us on or not.

Shifts started in the bar where Todd set everyone up with red hot spicy "Hangover Cures." followed by shots of espresso, which he had the unfortunate habit of calling mud makers. Cured and energized we'd fold napkins into fancy shapes and set up the dining room. Then came slicing fresh bread for the baskets and getting a backstock of ice water's ready. Once I got the rush seated I had it easy, waitinng for late lunchers to straggle in and manning to phones. I had an enormous crush on a girl named Laura and would draw pictures of her on the seating chart once I was done with it.

If you showed up early for your shift you could have breakfast in the kitchen of the more family diner style first floor restaraunt. Other priveledges included laundry service of your work cloths and cheap rates at Holiday Inne's anywhere in the world.
After lunch the waiters went home, the kitchen started on dinner and I had the bar and it's amazing view to myself. I got a lot of reading done, and my friends all new to visit between 3 and 5. My only duty was answering the phone to take reservation. At 5 the night hostess showed up, gave me the nights staff's lists of complaints about the day staff and I was free to go.

I was seating a couple once when I heard "Is that Keith. Holy shit it's Keith." being shouted across the dining room. I turned to see one of the Holiday Innes saleswomen escourting several Post Office big wigs, including my dad's dear friend who I knew as Uncle Harold. Harold loved having his ass kissed by sales people almost as much as he loved getting away with being a loud black man allowed to misbehave in a fancy restaraunt. Harold invited me to join them for lunch and the sales lady insisted. I felt strange and recieved many dirty looks from the waitstaff, but I took a seat and had some lunch. The sales staff all knew my name after that and I felt more at home than ever.

Adam Choqure was the Matre De'. He only visited the lunch shift about once a week. He called us all tiger and would share bad jokes which were hillarious when told in his heavy latin lover accent. I have no idea what his actual nationality was but like Jose he was a strange mix of Latin and French.

Tim really took care of managing lunch, but Adam would give us little pep talks. "I see some people, they are coming in late. If you are late, it is not acceptable. I am reasonable, if you are making love to a beautiful woman I understand. But I want the details, and if you're making love to her again a week later, I say it can wait, she's apparently not going anywhere, yes?"

Adam came by at five once as I was leaving and wanted to have a talk. We sat at the bar with a glass of wine for him and a cup of coffee for me. "Keith. You are a good looking boy, you know?"
I had no idea how to respond.

"Do you know? Do you know that you are a handsome young man?"

"Yeah, sure Adam, I'm comfortable with my appearance."

"Good tiger. And you should be. I like to have good looking boys work here. Perhaps you've noticed."

I did not like where this was going. Adam continued. "The customers, they like to see a handsome young man when they come in the restaraunt. And you are a good looking young man. But here's where the problem is. Keith, I dont' think that you believe me, when I tell you that you are a good looking man. You say you are, comfortable, but this is not what I see. What I see is a boy who does not like how he is looking, who thinks he is ugly."

I was starting to enjoy the liesurely path Adam was taking to whatever the hell is point was, and I let myself relax.

"How's that Adam?"

"Well this hair Keith. This hair that you wear down, in you face. Covering up your handsome face, like you want to hide it. It says, 'No. Dont' look at me. I will hide from you behing my hair.' This is what this hair says."

"Adam, would you like me to cut my hair?"

"Tiger, you do what you like. But please, know that you are a handsome boy. You have nothing to hide."

I got a haircut and Adam gave me some nightshifts bussing tables. The night crew was great. Mohsen, Adams life long friend who looked like a middle eastern, anorexic Rodney Dangerfield provided constant comic relief. He was so high strung, so hyper, and so concerned that someone, somewhere was screwing him out of a buck. Danielle was his polar opposite. Danielle looked like Issach from The Love Boat. He spoke a bit of french, and despite being the slowest waiter on staff his customers tipped big, requested him the next time, and many of the ladies slipped him their number. Danielle taught me a lesson that has stayed with me; If you sell them the shit with enough class, it will taste like Filet Mignon.

I could easily clear $75 to $100 bucks working the night shift and I loved it. The customers were a hoot. Mr. Amador would want me at his table as soon as his date of the night excused herself to powder her nose. "So Keith, what do you think of this one?" The ones I gave a negative rating to were rarely seen again. They had no way of knowing that how well they treated the busboy, even when Mr. Amador wasn't present, decided the evening's outcome.

I took my parents to the fanciest dinner I'd ever shared with them. Adam came to our table, spoke well of me and charmed their socks off.

I took Emily to dinner there and no spark was generated. The relationship had not been doing so well and then I sort of accidentally slept with her best friend Bryna (the feisty blonde from the last story). It's nothing I'm proud of but it's hardly work related so I will relieve myself of suffering through it again here. Sorry. Go have your own non-work related heartbreaks. Emily moved to Nashville a while later and this meant the official end of a relationship that had been on life support for months. Bryna was not speaking to me or out of town or both when it happened and I ended up falling for a third girl, Christine. I was keeping things interesting.

There was a private dining room at John Q's and when I saw that the folks using it were not visiting the food table I would call a friend or two to join me for a gourmet meal in an environment that made one feel like a mover and a shaker. Christian and I would sit in those chairs, popping stawberries and drinking wine roaches, pretending that we owned it all.

The wildest nightshift I worked was a Spanish wedding. $200.00 bottles of wine flowed constantly out of the bar with nobody keeping tabs. Todd let me know he'd stuck one in the ice make for me. The waiters would oder drinks for themselves to get the booze ticket up higher, thus getting their tip up higher as well. When they'd dranken all they could they started ordering drinks for us busser. Five drink ordering waiters plus two bussers equals me barely standing.

I was tottering about with a tray of drinks, praying the drinks woud be consumed by guests and not pushed on me, when I felt someone slide up beind me and wrap their arms around me. Strong arms squeezed me, breasts pushed against my back and a hand slid down towards my crotch. I set the tray down at a table that was thankfully within arm reach, grabbed the explorers wrists and whirled around to see who I'd made friends with. A shocked, and lovely young woman's eyes grew huge. "Oh my god! I'm sorry. I though you were my cousin."
COUSIN! "Close family?" I asked as I scooped up my tray and headed to the bar to down some more mudslides.

Legend has it one of the waiters ended up playing cousin with her in the restroom. Now that's a tip. I grabbed my skateboard and my $200 bottle of wine and headed to my friend Kirk's house warming party where his roommate consumed $200 worth of alcohal in under ten minutes.

The better I did bussing the better waiter I'd be assigned to and the more money I'd take home. The money got to mean a-lot as I got used to having it. I asked Adam to put me in line for training as a waiter. I began to learn my wines. I hit Danielle up for some French lessons.
I realized that I'd achieved my goal. I was becoming like Todd, like most of the staff there. We all enjoyed sharing life with the affluent. We all enjoyed being liked by and associating with the movers and the shakers. And we all liked making bigger money than we would eslewhere. We were good looking, well spoken, and this allowed us to make a decent living. But I began to notice that nobody on the night shift had any aspirations beyond waiting tables. I realized that I was for the first time in my life really attached to my job and the identity that came with it, and this began to bother me.

Bryna as well as some other friends of mine were working at a Cafe downtown called Greta's. It seemed like a cool place and all the employees who worked there were artists and musicians, including a guy named John McCray who fronted a great local band called Cake. Mostly I was interested because Christine, my new girlfriend, was working there.

I applied for the job and got it. When I gave my notice at John Q's I told them I was off to make a film, which I'd really planned on doing. It sounded better than I'm off to work at a coffee shop. On my last night shift Mohsehn said goodbye. He was almost insulted that I'd reject this life after being given the pass to join in the party. He was amazed that anyone could willingly walk away from this job. His was only and exagerated version of the response the other waiter's had given. This more than anything let me know I was doing the right thing. Danielle was the one person who seemed to get it. "Keith, you go and be happy!" he told me with a pat on the back. He was a smooth operator, but I knew he was sincere.

Go To Next Job>>> Washing Dishes with a Rock Star>>>

State Net, Data Entry temp

Chris Brunner got back from Germany where he'd lived on a millitary base with his father. He was a soft spoken black man and a goth. I'd never met a black goth before Chris. We had many friends in common and we hit it off immediately. Chris turned me on to a place called State Net where it seemed every musician in Sacramento was employed. They had temporary positions open and Chris and I went down and applied. Amazingly I scored high enough on the typing test to qualify for a data entry position. Chris and I were both hired.
State Net was a legislative tracking service. Groups, like say the NRA for instance could subscribe and they'd pay a fee to be informed of every bill proposed in every state that had anything to do with guns. This allowed them to keep up on their lobbying. To make this work the staff typed in piles of bill summaries. The summaries then had to be indexed which involved marking every category that each bill could apply to; guns, chilren's rights, reproductive rights, etc.
The bill summaries were short, taking less than a minute each. Often I'd finish three or four in a minute as I sat at a a two walled work station, circled in with five other work stations that made up the little hubs filling half of the building.

The repetition made the job mind achingly boring. Add to that the fact that so many of the bills were some Senator or Congress person recognizing the fine service of Joe's Bar and Grill or some other business that offered a free lunch to our elected officials. This is what they spent our tax dollars on. You'd be amazed at the number of these that came through. If such a bill passed, and they always did, a certificate would be presented to Joe's Bar and Grill and more free lunches would be given.
I bought a walkman and being able to listen to music while a worked helped with the boredome. I also volunteered for ever job possible to keep things interesting. None the less I still found myself drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee and taking many smoke breaks with Chris.

The people watching could not be beat. State net attracted all kinds. Joe was a gay guy covered in tatoos and piercings. For some reasons whenever I saw Joe his arch nemesis Brian was nearby. Brian was a die hard Rush Limbaugh devotee. George Bush was our president and we were heading towards the first gulf war or Operation Desert Storm. Brian hung up the stupidest cartoons, like one depicting a camel with a missile in it's ass labeled "Iraqi scud launcher." If they were torn down he'd start arguing that the rest of us should take down our amnesty international bumber stickers, and peace symbols. Joe never let Brian get his goat. He would calmly talk to Brian and skillfully bait him, letting Brian make a fool of himself. I felt bad for Bryan. He was an overweight, angry man who seemed to have no friends. But he had such an angry outlook and was so sure that he was lost amidst the deviants. The strange thing is, I think Joe was as close to a friend as he had. He always took his breaks when Joe took his. He always sat within ear shot so that he could snicker at things Joe said, and when Joe would respond by saying "Did you have something to share Brian?" Brian always did. And Joe would defend him to us, telling us, oh Brian's not so bad. Here the gayest, freakiest guy in the place was defending the one homophobic, freakaphobic ditto-head in the place. I was truly inspired by Joe and I though he and Brian would have made a great couple.
Bruce was one of the managers. He was a satanist which and in his Satanism he was every bit as anoying as the most devout of Christians.
"Bruce. I hear it's your birthday."
"Birthdays don't mean anything to me. It's just another day to give my service to the dark lord."
"Uh, yeah, okay, I got you a balloon!"
"Thank you Keith. Next year forget the balloon, and just reveal some of your true soul to me."
"Um, look! It's one of those cool metal ones. It says, Happy Birthday to a hell of a guy. I looked real hard for one that said hell. That's cool eh? Hell!"
"Don't be afraid of the darkness in your soul Keith. Without Darkness there is no light."
"Okay. Bye Bruce. Happy birthday."

I took lunch with Mike, a friend of mine from before I worked at State Net, and Mike started rattling off bill's he'd processed that day. When pressed he was able to go back further. Mike could pull up summaries from damn near all fifty states. Where I just transfered groups of letters and the spaces between them from paper to monitor, Mike was actually comprehending and soaking it in. I was disturbed and amazed. I tried to follow Mike's lead but in no time at all I was back to daydreaming and singing along with the Sugarcubes.

State Net was about data and so the techies were valued. They had their own section of the huge building. I worked a few graveyard shifts when all the legistatures were in session and so we were extra busy. The same techie's were there. When things settled down again I came by at night, mostly out of curiosity and there they were. Saturday morning, same four pale white guys. They were powerful too, the techies. They were crazy little blind mole rats but the highest paid, suit wearing folks in the building knew them all by name and came by to show their respect. We'd have been sunk without them.

The war finally got going and I felt the need to spend all of my time at The State Capitol expressing my disapproval. I called Dianne, the nice hippy lady who was my direct supervisor and explained where I was.
"I wish I was there too Keith. You represent bolth of us there, and I'll keep your job safe for you here."

Dianne was the best. I did go back, and when the slow season hit and the temps were laid off I was offered an extension working a few hours at night. I did it for a while, but I was missing the sunsets and I had made some new friends that I was enjoying hanging out with including an amazing girl named Christine. I quit State Net, and I discovered that the only thing that made you appreciate your time more than calling in sick, was calling it quits.

I'd return to Statenet throughout the years whenever I needed a couple of months of work. I knew folks who went full time but temp was good enough for me. I just couldn't handle being so far from anywindows, staring at a computer screen for that many hours at a time. And I would eventually quit smoking so what would I do with my breaks?

>>>>Go To Next Job>>>> Bus Boy at John Qs>>>>>>

Voter Revolt; Political Canvasser

I cracked open the free weekly news rag to peruse the help wanted ads. In the you get what you pay for category, these want ads offer some of the more interesting job opportunities, including many work from home, be your own boss opportunities. I had already been had once by an Herbal Life/Amway type racket and I managed to weed those out pretty fast. There was one ad let that offered employment to high school dropouts with spotty employment records. Voter Revolt needed "political canvasers". Sounded interesting. I wasn't much for voting but I have always held strong political beliefs and revolt was a good way to descrive these beliefs.

After a quick phone call to set up an interview I hoofed it on over to their downtown office. A bunch of hackey sack playing, Phish loving, neo hippy types holding clipboards sat around the sparsely decorated second story office. A man in his late twenties named Tony invited me into a smaller office. Tony explained that a law had been passed requiring a roll back in insurance rates and that our insurance commissioner, a former insurance broker himself, was not enforcing the law, ignoring the will of the people and other wise leading us down the road to facism. I could help. By grabbing a clipboard and traveling door to door asking for money I could help Voter Revolt fight the power. I'd panhandled plenty and I did so love to fight the power so I took the clipboard that was offered.

I sat with the Phish fans and recieved a pep talk and a map review. Then we divided into groups, each group having at least one driver. I was driven to a suburban neighborhood and I went about my fundraising. I was equipped with a script and it featured a Ralph Nader quote. The first door I knocked on was answered by a state worker who had not gotten his check in over a month since the State Budget had not been passed. He was grumpy and when I quoted Nader he went ballistic. "Nader? Nader! Don't talk to me about that son of a bitch. He and his kind have stuck their noses where they don't belong and screwed things up for all of us." The door slammed and I felt good to have gotten my first house done.

I learned quickly to let the folks I hoped to get a donation from do the talking as I asked questions that would let me know where they were coming from. I started bringing in some money. Enough to hang onto my job, but not enough to make me feel like much of a success.

I enjoyed interacting with people that I would not normally have had a chance to talk to. I heard war stories, and political tirades. I would stand and chat with folks for a good twenty minutes before they'd get around to asking why I had knocked on their door. Usually at this point they'd give me a couple of bucks weather they agreed with the issue or not. Most agreed with the issue, how could they not when I spun it so well?

"Do you remember voting for lower insurance? Well, the insurance companies got one of their own in office and they don't give a damn what we voted for."

Not that it was all spin. I did agree with the cause without having to talk myself into it too much. Where I took some convincing was in accepting that giving Voter Revolt twenty bucks was going to make a difference. But folks feel powerless, and writing a check feels like something at least, so the wrote the checks, and I collected them, and my rent got paid.

I knocked at a door with a No Soliciters sign affixed to it. These signs often hung on the doors of my best contributors. A guy in jeans and a black Jack Daniels t-shirt answered and before I could say a word he excitedly asks me if I like hogs. I was a vegetarian, so yes, I liked hogs, and pigs and other animals, but not in the way most people liked them. But, I wasn't sure that that's what he meant.

"Hogs?" I asked.

"Hogs. Like on your shirt."

I was wearing a Love and Rockets contert t-shirt featuring a picture of a motorcycle. "Oh, hogs! Yeah, I guess. I'm really more into to the band than the bike, but yeah, hogs are cool."

"You gotta see my hog." and with this he pushes the screen door open and walks back into his house, so I followed. He led me to the garage where he had a shiny, chrome covered Harley Davidson. The bike was pretty but I knew very little about engines, carburators or any of the other things that this guy excitedly told me about. I nodded politely and said "Wow" when it seemed appropriate.

After a good ten minutes he realized that I probably hadn't been going door to door looking for hog enthusiasts. "Hey, why were you knocking at my door?"

"Well, I'm sure you pay insurance on this thing, and I'm sure it's too much."
He cut me off. "Oh hey, you seem cool. I gotta get going though. What do you need, a couple of bucks?"

"Can you do fifty?'

"Woah? Fifty bucks. No way. You aim high don't you? I'll do twenty bucks."

Cool. Twenty bucks, for looking at his hog. I was enjoying this job more and more.

At another house I sat on a leather couch amidst Texas throw pillows, Texas posters, a Don't Mess With Texas freeway sign and several animals heads mounted on plaques. The large haired heavily made up woman struggled to hear me over her barking dogs. She was disgusted with all of California's taxes and beaurocracy. You'd find none of that crap in Texas where everyone had the right to work. She hollared to her husband asking if she could give me a hundred bucks and he hollared back from somewhere upstairs that she was not to give me shit. She wrote me a check for fifty and I was on my way.

I got Bryna a job there and she fit right in. We were both starting to dig the hippy asthetic of our co-workers, not their music, but their politics and their penchant for camping and low budget travel. Bryna had more adventures than me. A man answered the door naked, with what she described as a little, anry red penis. She could've gotten a hell of a check if she'd asked, but she chose to take her leave.

Another canvaser started and raised $400 in one day, most of which he spent sitting by a rich woman's pool drinking lemonade. We were all amazed, even more so when he had an equally lucrative outing the next day. I wanted so badly to learn his tricks. To see how he managed to be so persuasive. I had been nicknamed "The silver tongued devil" by one of my friends for my own powers in this area, but I'd obviously come accross a true master. On the third day it was revealed that he'd recieved no donations and had faked the whole thing so as not to look like a failure. We never saw him again.

Bryna fit in well with the fellow canvasers but, as she explained it, she liked taking no for an anwer. What to me felt like being persuasive and clever to her felt like being manipulative and pushy. She gave her notice and I followed soon after. I was getting tired of the every day pressure of making quota and I was failing to get as passionate about this cause as the more successfull canvasers. I was increasingly in the mood for a more revolutionary revolution.

>>Next Job, State Net>>

Blockbuster Video

I moved out of my parents home for the second time without stable employment. I worked occasionally as a video tech, but not enough to pay the bills.

For some reason I moved in with Christian again. We found a funky one bedroom apartment with a nice big front room, a good size kitchen and millions of cockroaches.

Rent was cheap, and when we moved our friend Sean in it got even cheaper. The landlord was and old Romanian woman named Pava who owned a restaraunt, "Pavas" next door. She lived with her husband in the apartement above the restaraunt and she was convinced and dismayed that she'd been fooled into renting to a bunch of gypsies.
We enjoyed not working and could pay our bills by hustling up money in various ways. We'd recycle, getting up early and hitting dumpster and alleys to pile up cans and bottles. We'd panhandle. We got a gig through Sean allowing us to get paid for decorating a dance club, including hanging our own paintings and building a giant tv using rolls of black plastic and a rear projection screen and projector, playing original footage I'd shot and edited. The bartender at the club even bought one of my paintings.

This kept us in food and booze and I worked just enough for Mike filming weddings and school kids, to pay my share of the rent. Christian, Sean and I were damn near always drunk, until I started to get bored with the drunk thing. The romantic ideal was to be the crazy drunk artist, but the truth was, we did very little art. Who had time with so much time spent scraping up money for booze.
I scaled back my drinking to one or two nights a week and went on a job search. I hit Blockbuster video almost immediately. I was a huge movie nut and free movies sounded like a hell of a deal.
I walked into our local Blockbuster, and deja-vu, there was Chance, from KFC, now wearing a Blockbuster assistant manager's uniform. I asked for an application and Chance must have forgotten or forgiven what a terrible employee I'd been at KFC because he helped me land the job.

The Blockbuster downtown was famous amongst Blockbuster employee's throughout the area as being freak central. Not only were the majority of the employees gay (still shocking to Sacramento suburbanites at the time) but the head manager, Scott was better known around town as Large Marge, Sacramento's most infamous drag queen.
Scott was an absolute sweetheart. He was grumpy and always tired, but he really cared about us all and treated us great. I loved working for him. He'd often show up with traces of the night before on his face, and we all got in the habit of checking him over and warning him when a little eyeliner or lipstick still showed.

I was great at helping customer's find movies, since I knew my films inside and out. And I was getting to know them even better as I was allowed to have seven movies out at a time. I watched all the great art films, indy flicks, foreign films and b-movies that I'd always meant to see. Suspiria, Liquid Sky, The Forbidden Zone, Turkish Delight. This was one great benefit.

I'd matured considerably since my days at KFC and much to my surprise and I did very little to piss off management. The only thing I had to be reprimanded for was talking too long to customers about movies.

The district manager came to visit and I was assigned the task of showing him around the store. He was a nice enough fella but he kept calling me "big guy." "Alright big guy, show me how this place is put together." "Hand me that tape there would ya big guy?" Finally I had enough. "So, big guy, do you rent a-lot of this foreign crap?"
"Yes, little man, we most certainly do." I said it, and I kept walking, facing away from the little man.
He didn't say a word to me. I'm sure Scott got an earfull, but all Scott shared with me was a tired expression.

Life at home would be changing. Sean enlisted in alcoholic's anonymous and Christian went the opposite route, his drinking getting worse each day. Christian and Sean didn't get along anymore, and Christian felt judged by me. He took my not drinking and my ability to get along with Sean personally. One night, when he was good and tossed he decided to kick my ass. Christian was a tough guy, and I think sober he could've taken me. As it was I couldn't pull punches if I was going to come out of this the winner. I ended up putting him in a choke hold and holding it until I knew he wasn't coming after me again. He only stayed out for a few minutes. Then he was right back on my case, fists up and ready. I grabbed my coat and split. I'd already choked him out, I wasn't willing to do more.

The next day I found out that Christian's girlfriend Anne had taken him to the emergency room. The whites of his eyes were solid red. The hospital staff notified the police but when they called the next day I answered. They asked if I knew Christian and I said yes. Then they asked me if Christian planned to press charges against a Mr. Jensen. I told them he did not want to press charges. They instructed me to have Christian call them if he changed his mind. I was amazed to have just successfully dropped charges against myself. Christian moved out soon after.

I didn't like Sean much more than Christian had. He was a slob for one, and he always brought stupid party people by the house. He brought two girls by, a blonde and a red head and I was sure I wanted nothing to do with them. One, the blonde, made a comment about financial success having a bad effect on an artist's work.

"How can you say something so fucking stupid." Those will forever be remembered as the first words I spoke to Bryna, the love of my life. We started arguing and she turned out to be quite intelligent and very passionate. We became fast friends. I would eventually ask her to marry me, but at the time I started dating her best friend, Emily, the red head.
It was around this time that the NC-17 rating for movies was created and the first movies to get this rating were some damn good flicks including The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, Her Lover and Henry and June. Blockbuster had these flicks for a bit and then they wimped out and pulled them. I felt like such a heel walking around with a milk crate pulling all the best flicks we had off the new release shelf to send back to corporate.

I was growing tired of Sean spitting loogies in the sink spreading his dirty laundry throughout our pad. I gave notice on the apartment, fixed all the broken windows, lost my cleaning deposit and moved onto a friend's couch. I had many friends willing to let me stay with them because hey, I got seven free movie rentals a week!

Christmas was approaching and the season's big video release was Disney's The Little Mermaid, which played nonstop on the TVs spread throughout Blockbuster. We were on holiday hours and so I was doing 40 hours a week of Little Mermaid. I'd gotten this job because I loved film, and the film lover in me was now being tortured by this incessant new-Disney crap. They gave the Little Mermaid a happy ending? What the hell? The Little Mermaid, the Hans Christian Anderson classic, can not have a happy ending, nor should it have caribean sing-a-longs.

I was finally making friends downtown, thanks in large part to Sean, an obsessed social butterfly. This meant I actually had things to do on Saturday Nights, and when I didn't, hanging out at home with Emily, who had recently robbed me of my cherished virginity, beat the hell out of enduring more Little Mermaid. I began calling in sick on Saturday nights. I was written up several times.

Calling in sick can be addictive. There are few things as enjoyable as a night that was meant to be spent working spread out in front of you with no obligations. Having a scheduled night off is great, but you know it was coming, and you'll probably just squander it. When you'd spent the day trying to muster up some energy and enthusiasm for a job you don't want to go to, and then you decide to free yourself, to make that call, that is a special night indeed. It was on these nights that I'd take long walks by the river or get a bunch of friends together for drink and movies. Hell even calling in sick when you are sick is enjoyable. I have much nostalgia for days propped up on pillows watching Get Smart or I Dream of Jeanie and drinking tea.

It is a special skill, calling in sick. Not only coming with and delivering a good excuse each time, but developing a plot line between call-ins, each one setting up the next while playing off the last.

Finally on New Year's Eve I was too hung over from the night before and I called in yet again, this time really dying. I was 'crawl from bed to the bathroom, throew up in my pants while sitting on the toilet, wish I was dead' sick. As sincerely sick as I was, I did feel better once I'd called in and by 10pm that night I was at a party. But I stuck to sipping Seven Up. New Year's Eve is the biggest day of the year for home video and Scott had no choice. He would have to fire me.

Scott called me and asked me to come in and speak to him. We went into his office and he was so adorably nervous. He handed me my final check and began apologizing. I thought he was gonna cry so I helped him out. "Don't worry scott. You had no choice. I pretty much quit by not showing up on New Years. I know that. It's fine really. I should have just quit. I'll still come by and say hi, and I think you've been a great boss." Scott smiled and thanked me.
Then I asked him what kind of reference I'd get. Scott apparently wasn't allowed to give a reference and would refer any potential employers to corporate who would see me classified as "Not for re-hire." Shit!


Epilogue: The way I hear it, Blockbuster bragged that they were giving all of their full time employees benefits and then instructed the store managers to cut everyone back to part time who wasn't a store manager and thefore didn't already recieve benefits. Scott refused and was fired. He's, or actually she is doing well as the bartender and grand dame at Sacramento's Faces dance club, the hottest gay night club in town.

>>Go To Next Job>>voter revolt, canvasser>>

Video Technician

I was working as a janitor and I was increasingly unhappy about it. My roommate Christian and I were walking to my Grandma's house and we decided on a whim to stick out our thumbs. I'd never succesfully hitched before and I didn't really expect to catch a ride this time. To my surprise a Toyota Four-Runner pulled over. I hopped in the front and Christian took the back. The driver was an every day looking kind of guy. He introduced himself as Mike and in a heavy New York accent he told us he used to hitch all the time. Then he told us we should never do it again. He said he picked us up because he was afraid some freak would pick us up if he didn't.
I asked him what part of New York he was from and when he answered Brooklyn, I told him my folks were born and raised there. Mike seemed like cool guy, though he drove like a madman, proving that he was indeed a true New Yorker.

Mike was heading to a video equipment shop right by my grandma's apartment. I was familliar with the place and gave him directions. Since I knew the store, Mike asked me if I was into video and I told him I'd been a volunteer producer at the local cable access station, as well as taking some classes in high school. "What do ya think of this set up?" He asked pointing his thumb at the boxes crowding Christian in the back. I saw the same switcher we used at school and told him it was great, able to do blue screen effects and everything.
"So, you know how to use this shit?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure."
"How'd ya like a job."
Being my mother's son I worried, wondering if he was into kiddie porn or what, but damn I needed a job. "What's the gig." I asked.
He handed me a card that said California Kids, Video ID. "We do short videos of kids, in case they get lost or abducted. Having a video on file, to play on the news is way more usefull than a photo." Made sense. We arrived at the video place and he told me to come by the address on the card the next day for an interview.

I visited with my grandma and my mom came by and gave me a ride home. Christian ran his big mouth and my mom was asking me about the job interview. Christian didn't mention the hitchhiking, yet. I cut him off before he could. We were looking at the video cameras and I met a guy who is looking for someone to run a switcher. My mom worried and said so. I told her to relax and I was dumb enough to think that telling her that Mike was from New York would reassure her. I promised I'd call her after the interview.

When I got home I quit my job as a janitor. I was sure Mike would hire me.
I got up at 8am. It felt great to sleep in and for once I was not hung over. My mom's fears had gotten to me, so I put a kitchen knife in my pocket and hopped on my bike. I rode for about twenty minutes and arrived at a track home where about six adults with developmenal disabbilities were milling around a van and trailer full of tree trimming equipment. It turned out to be Mike's brother Johnny's van. He ran a business that hired D.D. (Developmentally Disabled) adults.
Johnnies employees would stand in for the kids as Mike taught me how he got footage of each child. Two cameras sat on top of remote control units on top of tri-pods. I sat at the switcher. As Mike interviewed each subject I would fade up from black to camera one, long shot. I'd then fade to camera two, side view. While on camer two I'd use the remote unit to zoom in on camera one, and then I'd switch to the closing shot camera one, close up. I'd fade to black, back up camera one, and repeat the process.
The tapes would be filed, and hopefully never needed. Mike explained that some kids would be paying extra to have a copy of their tape. For these the interview would go longer and would include some hellos to grandparents and parents. I would put the childs name on these tapes with a clumsy character generator that reminded me of my old Atari 800.
Mike was suitably impressed with my skills. He offered to start me at $7 an hour and would get me to $8 once I got up to speed. The only issue was weather I was willing to wear a hat at all times. I had, a few months early gotten a rather interesting hair cut.

Christian and I had stumbled drunk into the local haircutting college. We handed over five bucks and asked the students to have their way with us. The first girl whose chair I'd settled into was unwilling to take advantage of this opportunity for experimentation. A cute punk type girl in plaid pants offered to take over. She divided my long hair into section and section by section began shaving until only the bangs were left. I suggested she stop there, and this is how I ened up with a shaved head save for my bangs, a style I would return to many times ove then next few years.

I told Mike the California Kids baseball cap would do fine. I went home, put the kitchen knife from my pocket back in the silverware drawer and after calling my mom to let her know I'd survived, I cut my bangs off.
I was stoked. I took my three roommates out to dinner at the local chinese food joint. This felt like a real job, a career even. It was definately a job I could be proud of.

I rode my bike to Mike's the next morning and we headed out to do a school. I took to the switcher like a fish to water. Mike was great with the kids and I was inspired to do my best. I began getting framing up my close up and then zooming back out, so I could zoom in as I faded from the side shot. This looked great and Mike was suitably impressed.

My new boss took me to lunch at Burger King after we finsihed the school. After crunching some numbers he told me I was faster than he or his brother. He paid me $8 bucks an hour for my first day. He also explained that I would get paid for four hours minimum, even if we finished in two. Better yet, if a gig took even a minute over four hours I would get paid for eight. My speed on the equipment meant I'd rarely work more than six hours. Mike continued to be impressed and rewarded me with profit sharing.
This guy loved what he was doing for a living and this was infectious. We quickly became friends and I was proud to work for him, proud to be doing something I was so good at, and proud to be helping protect kids.

Mike did some wedding filming on the side and I began joinging him on these excursions, and then sooting weddings on my own. Mike taught me a sure fire trick for shooting a wedding. Step one, arrange a ride to the gig. I had no license so this was the only option for me anyway. Step two, be sober durring the service. Made sense. Step three, drink with the crowd at the reception? This turned out to be some brilliant advice. As the bride and groom, and their family and friends loosened up, so would I. My camea work would get a little more creative, I'd get friendly and start shooting interviews with the wedding party. The wilder they got, the wilder my taping got. Mike was brilliant. I'd drop the raw footage off with him for editing. He edited without a proper editing bay. This was before the days of non linear editing and so even with the proper equipment editing was a laborious endeavor. I loved spending hours editing video footage at the cable access station, but I had no interest in taking over for Mike, editing from camera to deck. I'll admit though, Mike did a great job and the final product, starting with a montage of the couples photos, looked fantastic. We were quite a team.

Between the weddings and the schools I still only worked about two to three days a week, which was great by me. My roommates resented me having so much time at home and they started bitching at me for not washing their dishes, or cooking them dinner. They couldn't grasp the concept that I had no obligation to them except to pay my rent and bills, and of course do MY share of the cleaning. I couldn't seem to convince them that how much I had work to earn my living was really none of their business. My roommate's were idiots and I was becoming increasingly less patient with them as my own self esteem sored.

My increased self esteem did not mean a decrease in my drinking. Christian and I were getting tanked almost every night. My boss moved to down-town Sacramento, meaning I now had an hour and a half bus ride to work. Early hours and late nights of drinking was not an easy combination but I made it work. I often woke up on the bathroom floor. Luckily my internal clock was powerfull and I was rarely late.
One night, Christian and I stayed up drinking with a Katie, a neighbor girl who convinced us we needed make overs. She coated me with lipstick and rouge like she was painting a house. Next came the temporary red hair dye, made to come out after two washings. As I sat colored various shades of red Katie described to us her most unhappy life. When she told she'd never been kissed I decided to help. I drunkenly fell forward towards her, and I climbed her considerable bulk. I didn't so much kiss her, as clean my face on hers. I stumbled backwards and saw that Katie, now looking like Ronald McDonald after a street fight, was not happy. She threw me out and I stumbled across the parking lot to my own pad. I threw up in the downstairs bathroom and then passed out beside the toilet. I woke up four or five hours later and used the sink to help myself up. as my face came into view in the bathroom mirror I was gripped with terror. I'd forgotten the events of the previous night and naturally assumed it was my own blood that was dripping down my face. In a panic tried to recall how I had injured myslef and then I remembered the temporary hair dye and make up. I looked at the clock in the kitchen and saw that I had about fifteen minutes to wash up and head for the bus. I was out the door in five, leaving me time to get a bottle of champagne from the two Iranian brothers at the local liquor store. They asked me for my ID every time and every time they accepted that I would bring it the next time. I downed the champagne on the bus and I felt almost normal by the time I reached Mike's place.

On another hung over occasion I didn't fair as well. Mike picked up a couple of large schools and suggested that we bring Christian along to help keep the kids moving. Christian and I had used the champagne hang over cure again, but we'd overdone it and we were a bit giggly. We had three classrooms worth of children in the room when someone in the general vicinity of Christian let loose with a monstrous fart.
The children were in histerics and I barely restrained myself from joining them. I lost it myself when Christian, showing his maturity, pointed at the poor, fat, ten year old next to him yelling "He did. He's the little farter. I didn't cut the fart. It was this stinky kid here." The little boy denied it and Christian jumped to his feet. "Don't lie, you little farter." I had tears streaming down my face from laughing as I grabbed Christian and pushed him out the door. He stayed out there until we'd finished this batch of kids, and then we resumed working through the reamainder of the student body. Every 10 minutes or so one of us would start giggling and Mike grew increasingly pissed.
Christian did not work with us again. Mike's younger brother Tony however did.

Tony came out from New York and Mike asked me to show him around. We were in Mike's van when Tony asked me for my take on the woman in the car next to us.
"She's wearing a bit too much make up." I assessed.
"Yeah, well, when I come on her face I can write my name in it." he answered. I was repulsed but also intrigued. I've always loved a character. Tony continued with his charm offensive. "You ever fuck a fat chick?"
"No" I answered, truthfully. At this point I'd not, in fact, "fucked" anyone.
"You should fuck a fat chick. They appreciate it so goddamned much. And they let you put it whereever the hell you want." This went with his Brooklyn accent beautifully. I couldn't wait to introduce Tony to my artsy fartsy crowd of friends.

Life with Christian, Wayne and the tenant of the month in the third bedroom had become unbearable. Wayne was on my ass all the time, determined to teach me no to be so "faggy."
My parents had moved into a big house and they welcomed me back. I was a few months yet from my 18th birthday. I figured I'd live with them and save up some money until I could move downtown. Things were slowing down with Mike and California Kids. The schools were facing ever tighter budgets and Mike's program was considered one of the more disposable. I still worked for him when I had work, but mostly I hung out and painted in my parents garage.

I recieve reports of Christian's drinking spiraling out control. Apparently he had a fight with a party guest and the two of them went crashing through an upstairs window, landing hard but unbroken on the cement of the patio below. He decided that he was Picasso and I was Mattise, and so we should imitate their relationship and not see each other too often. He was clearly nuts.
I was barely employed and pretty lonely. I spent my time painting and lusting after the house wife across the street.
On my 18th birthday I would move out on my own for a second time, and start the job hunt ritual yet again. I would work for Mike off and on for years to come, but I knew I needed a more stable form of employment.

>>>>>>>Go To Next Job>>>>> Blockbuster Video>>>>>>>>

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.

>>>>>> Check out next job>>>>> Video Tech>>>>>>>

Workin' at KFC

Turning 16 meant I could get a work permit, and get a fast food job. It turned out to be harder than I thought. So many other pimple faced kids wanting the same dignity destroying, minimum wage paying job I was after.

I went from fast food joint to fast food joint. At one grease pit I actually made it past the application stage. They invited me to come back on Thursday at 2pm when they did interviews. I got there and took a seat along side a half dozen other hopefuls. A plain looking woman wearing the dress shirt that separates the lifers from the polo shirt wearing hopefuls introduced herself and sat down to talk with the first person in line. I listened in, hoping to get a few tips and heard the obese applicant explaining that she'd just gotten out a recovery home and was trying to start a new life. Dress shirt lady asked if she was doing Alcoholic's Anonymous. She was. And wouldn't you know it, our executive burger flipper is anonymous too.

The rest of us are given a rousing thank you for coming to the interview and told that the position is filled!

What the hell? I wish I would have protested. I wish I would have asked how she could be so sure that we weren't all recoveries screw ups too. Hell maybe we were even bigger jerks than this girls. Hell, I could have been a heroin addict or a molester of puppies, if she'd just given me a chance. Line me up some coke, I'll show you what a moron I am. Here look, I'm touching myself write now, I've got problems really! Instead I took a seat in my mom's car and told her what happened.

And she, in her maternal wisdom advised me to shake it off and keep applying. She drove me to the next bout of humiliation.

My friend Robbie, a drug casualty and a victim of insane parents called me that night to tell me he'd gotten a job at Der Wiener Schnitzel. Now this stung. Sure, Robbie had a car and so was able to get a job in the next city, where his reputation was less well known, but there's no way he should be employed before me. After having the shocking revelation that stupid people don't know their stupid I began trying to insure myself of my intelligence based on comparisons folks whose IQ I was more sure of. Robbies was sub-monkey so it did my self esteem no good at all to have him succeeding where I had so far failed.

I went out the next day with renewed determination and drive. We stopped at the local KFC, though back then it was still called Kentucky Fried Chicken, and there behind the counter was Greg Weston. Greg was the hippest guy I knew. I had a few classes with his little brother, Brooke who would've made a great frat boy had he gone to college. Instead he was a really hyper stoner who was forever searching for the perfect way to call you a fag. I tried to be as cool as a KFC cup of cole slaw as I approached the counter and asked for an application. Julie handed me the application and I said hello to Greg only after it was in my hands so that my intent of my visit would be absolutely clear. Greg was perfect.

"Oh, you're applying for a job. Julie, this is Keith, he's a friend of my brother's." I said hello to Julie and didn't mention that I didn't care for Brooke much, and Brooke regarded me as just another probable homosexual. "Do you actually want to work here or do you just have to fill out applications for school?"

No, oddly enough, I did want to work there. I really wanted to work there. I wanted to be able to buy endless piles of cassette tapes and to be able to go out to eat without my parents. Amazingly enough I wanted to put on the horrid beige and brown uniform and paper hat. I wanted to wear the name tag. I wanted to take another step towards independence, towards being a grown up.

"I would like to get a job here!"

"Well, put my name down where it asks how you heard of Kentucky Fried Chicken, only put Chance. My name's Chance now." Damn Greg was cool. Way too cool to be a Greg. He was definitely a Chance. I handed Chance my filled out application and restrained the desire to skip from out of the restaraunt to where mom was waititng in the car. I hopped in the car with a big grin and told her that I had an in.

I was interviewed by Jim, who owned 51% of this franchise location. The interview, which he conducted from a white three ring binder was a series of questions like, "If a co-worker was stealing money would you:
a) Tell them to stop.
b) Mind your own business
c) Tell a manager

This was pretty easy, but then they got tricky. What if the thieving co-worker took care of his ailing mother? Woah! Heavy. What if it wasn't much money, just a few buck here and there! I must have survived their amazing psychological wizardry because a week later I was hired.

I attended orientation where I, along with many other newbies from neighboring cities watched a film detailing the life and accomplishments of Colonel Sanders, founder of KFC and the genius behind the top secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices. I was most disappointed to discover that I would not be trusted with this secret. The spices would come to us pre-mixed.

I finished my orientation and took my place on the prep line. I made pies and filled cups with cole slaw, mashed potatoes, and other gooey stuff. I hate to think how many pounds of chocolate pudding I ate. Never mind minimum wage, all the chocolate pudding I could eat meant I was a rich man. At first I'd save it until my break but eventually I learned how to sneak a few bites behind the line. Then I figured out I could fit a whole Chicken Little in my mouth. All I needed was for the boss to turn his head for a second and I was fed. These miniature chicken sandwiches were the only non dessert item at KFC that I didn't get totally sick of within the first month. Bless you Chicken Littles.

I did well enough on the line, or the boss noticed food costs rising, so I got moved up front to the register. I loved dealing with the customers. Having real live people to talk to made the time go much quicker than communing with styrofoam cups all day. Sure sometimes we'd run out of chicken and people would get pissy but I never took it personally. Insult KFC, insult me, insult my mother, it means nothing. I guess I was concieted enough to just enjoy the more interesting customers the way you'd enjoy teh monkeys at the zoo. When monkey's fling poo I don't get offended. When monkey's call my mom a whore because I don't give them chicken it's not personal.

I was trained on drive thru next. I don't care what anyone says, turning the mic on your drive thru headset on when you flush the toilet is funny, no matter how many time you do it. Your co-workers here it, the customer at the drive through hears it. You say "Welcome to KFC, I'll be right with you." And then you flush. They assume you didn't mean them to hear it. It's comedy gold I tell you.

So, I was quickly discovering that despite my best intentions I just didn't have it in me to be a model employee and I was having way more fun being a screw up. Chance had long since disasociated himself from me. They moved me back to the deep fryers.

At this point I'd done every job but dish washer and bisuit guy. The biscuit guy had to be 21. It seems a youngster mixing up some biscuit dough at a KFC somewhere stuck his hand in the bowl and had it torn clean off. Jim went into great detail describing the way the dough turned pink as the powerful mixer just kept on mixing, but he swore it wasn't his KFC.

Our biscuit guy was Bradley and Bradley was some piece of work, lazy, overweight and totally unambitious. Exactly the direction I was heading. When not actually engaged in the act of making biscuits Bradley would sit and stare at his mixing bowl. We'd be slammed.

"Bradley, can you bring some slaw from the walk in?"

"Is that making biscuits? No, it's not. I'm the biscuit maker. If you need biscuits made, let me know." and then Bradley would stare at his bowl as everyone else ran around sweating grease.

I dreamed of one day having Bradley's power.

For now I got the hang of the fryer. These giant deep frying machines had to be vented and some genius designed the vent to blow toward the operator. As if teenagers didn't have enough trouble with their skin we were now spending hours with hot grease steam blowing in our faces. My cloths and shoes got so soaked in grease that my mother took to laying cardboard over the car seat when she'd pick me up from work. I'd bring two plastic KFC bags to put over my shoes.

My felllow grease faces were Brian and Tony. Tony was absolutely insane. He loved to sneak up behind me and break a chicken leg next to my ear. The sound of bones cracking and the way it made me cringe seemed to give him no end of joy. I didn't think it was nearly as funny as making one's coworkers listen to the toilet flush.

Tony taught me and Bryan a great trick. First you dip your finger in the chicken batter and then you dip it in the flour, with the eleven herbs and spices just like you'd do with the chicken. Then you'd add a second and third coat and finally you'd put your finger in the hot grease. If you held it there until you started feel some heat you'd pull out a Kentucky Fried Flangee. You can guess which finger Tony prefered to fry.

Of course it ws just a matter of time before someone put two fingers in making a crispy or original recipe peace symbol. Then three fingers and finally, I decided to do my whole hand. For we three fry cooks this was the most exciting day of our lives. We chilled the batter and flour for increased tack and to allow a longer submersion in the fryer. I applied the coats carefully avoiding clumps which could flake off and expose some skin. And then... the moment of truth, I dipped my hand in an inch at a time. I waited longer than ever, waiting until I felt my skin turning pink until... Ladies and gentlemen, I am an artist. My hand looked like a big, gorey, bubbling, burnt, um, hand. So I grabbed myself around the wrist and ran into the dining room with a horrified shocked look on my face. As several diners jumped up to assist I took a bite.

"Mmmm, mmm, love them eleven herbs and spices."

Miraculously no one narked me off. I went on to wash dishes, write lots of bad poetry while on the clock, drop out school and at 17 I moved out of my parents house into a condo where I would share a room with another high school drop out named Christian.

I don't think Jim was too happy about having a high school drop out working for him. He had tried desperately to make me go to my prom, even trying to set me up a date with one of the girls that worked there. He suggested I join the boy scouts! He was sure he could make a good clean cut American kid out of me, until I dropped out of school. That was when Jim dropped his paternal impulses twards me along with any interest in having me in his employ. I quit after being suspended for a week for drinking a free soda when I wasn't on duty.

Tony was fired a few months before me when he dove through the drive thru window, landing in the car of a customer who then recieved the most shocking ass kicking off his life. Tony claimed the customer had spoken rudely to the girl working the drive thru. Bryan quit after the minimum wage was raised, to what he was being paid after three years and as many raises. Chance took on a rich older girlfriend who kept him well stocked in presents including cloths, jewelry and plenty of booze. A few years later he came out of the closet, and probably found a rich older man to take the ladys' place. For all I know Bradley's still the biscuit guy.

Go To Next Job>>>>> Parking Lot Janitor>>>>>>

Golf Course Employee

I was only fifteen which meant I couldn't get a work permit from school. I wanted a job something awful. We had just moved to a new town, I had almost no friends and I wanted someting to do with my time. Plus I had develped a voracious appetite for music and wanted to buy more cassette tapes than mom or dad could possibly keep up with. Birthdays and Christmas were just to infrequent. My mom wouldn't let me work at the local swap meet known as Denio's Auction becuase, well, it was a bit seedy. I argued with her, but in hindsight she knew best. My friend Roger met a kid who worked there and the kid gave Roger a live demonstration of how peanut butter spread in the right places could get a dog to, well, treat you right. Movin' on...

The public golf course in town was rumored to hire young 'un for under the minimum wage but without work permits. Diamond Oaks was a working man's golf course and drew a pretty fun loving crowd. In the classic golf movie Caddyshack it was the slobs against the snobs. Diamond Oaks belonged solidly to the slobs.

I applied and was hired. It felt great to have a job, to be able to brag about it to my older brothers, all of whom had stayed behind when my mom, dad, baby brother and I moved north. I'd make them proud with how grown up I'd become now that I was the oldest sybling in the house.

The newest child employee at Diamond Oaks would start on the driving range. I thought this was the coolest. I got to drive a Quad-Runner ATV back and forth across the range towing a device that swept all the golf balls up and dropped them in baskets. I couldn't believe I got to drive something, with a real gas burning motor even. My mom was reluctant to let us drive the little cars at Disneyland, so I was not an experienced Quad pilot. The range had to be swept throughout the day, while the range was in use! While operating the quad you were enclosed in a cage that was welded to the vehicles frame. The golfers loved to see us out there and would aim for us. The balls would wack against that cage with such force, I would wince every time just waiting for one to come through and brain me. Mom said that Quads were dangerous, but I don't think this is quite what she envisioned.

One day a pretty decent driver was hitting his target (me) repeatedly and with great force. One ball hit the cage hard enough to actually get stick. I tried to go faster, or to weave, but to no avail. Finally, after the cage recieved another dent I sat up straight and gave the bastard the finger. After a brief moment of silence a cheer came up from the crowd followed by a hail storm of golf balls against the cage. I freed several more birds, recieving cheers each time. I finished the sweep and then made my way to the pro shop expecting to be fired.

"Good job kid." The boss didn't seem to know about my little temper tantrum. "Keep it up."
I was smart enough not to give up too much information. "If you get tired of giving 'em the finger point at your ass and tell 'em to kiss it." !!!

I was surprised and confused. "So you know that I flipped that guy off?"

"Flip 'em all off. They love it. I sold more buckets of balls today than I have all month. Word gets out quick when I get a new kid in here."

The entertainer in me loved this new stage and I began to pride myself on how many buckets of balls would move durring my shift. I learned to drive while waving my ass in the air, to push my knee up against the accelerator allowing a two handed flipping off, and most importantly I learned that you had to let the audience feel like they were getting to you. Long after I'd gotten to trust the cage with my life I'd jump and flinch and give an angry fist in the air when someone hit it especially hard. I have always had a tendancty to take things too far when I'm enthusiastic, and when I turned the Quad toward the golfers and gunned it, I was moved on to a new task.

Once the balls were swept off the range they had to be put through the washer so the could be put back in buckets and re-used. The ball washing machine was great in the summer. As soon as the sun went down we'd get to washing the balls and the golf carts. We'd all end up soaking wet, a nice treat after a day of working in the hot sun. Come winter this job became hell. The water was ice cold and the balls dropped into a deep basin that we'd have to reach into again and again until we couldn't feel the tips of our frozen fingers. The golfers liked to drink, usually the little one jigger bottles. They'd frequently leave a few of these in their carts and if the senior kids who got cart washing and parking duty brought in enough booty they'd share. This would help with the cold, increasing our inner warmth and reducing our giving a crap weather we got all the balls out of the tank or not.

One of the older boys taught us how to alter the carts so that they could go much faster. It was a simple matter of removing a limiter. Golf Cart rodeo became my favorite sport. Golf carts flying through the air, golf carts on two wheels Dukes of Hazzard style, and finally golf hart landing on me, it's full weight coming down on my shin. Miraculously I came out of it with just a limp and a need for some butterfly bandages. No accident report was filed, and so no golf cart priveledges were lost.

I went golfing once and found it to be the most boring sport every created. Not even the jigger bottles helped. I decided I'd rather spend my off time learning to caddy so I could earn even more dough (and jigger bottles).

My brothers came up to visit for Christmas and I was proud to take them all to the range for some free driving practice. Someone must have called in sick and so my brothers and I had a great time driving golf balls against the cage as my boss drove it back and forth across the range. He gave lessons and was well respected as a semi-pro golfer so he didn't give the finger or shake the fists and it became a challenge to see if we could get any reaction from him at all.

I asked for Christmas day, a big golf day, off to hang out with my brothers before they went home. My request was denied. I got up Christmas morning, opened presents, had way to much candy and realized about a half an hour after my shift should have started that I'd forgotten to go to work. I called in and explained what happened and told them I was on my way. I worked what was left of my shift in silence and as I entered the pro-shop to clock out I found a check with my time card. My would be golf pro boss had the old guy who worked with him in the shop tell me that they wouldn't be needing me anymore. I was fired on Christmas day from my first real job. I was crushed. I resolved never to be fired from any job again. I was a little relieved too. I would have a few months to enjoy my unemployment before turning 16 and qualifying for a fast food gig.

Go To The Next Job >>>>>>>>>> Kentucky Fried Chicken>>>>>>>

Salesman for Captain O

It was the fabulous prizes of course that drew me in. It would be a few years yet before talking to a cute blonde operator like "Bridget" would have much appeal. But the bike, the tent, the giant freaking trampoline! I knew I had to have it all. And it meant I'd have a job. I wanted a job. I was not excelling at school despite being told that I was "gifted" so I wanted to get past this school thing where my gifts were failing me and on to the job thing as quickly as I could. Besides, doing well in school wouldn't put a gianthings like shining shoes and selling Ice t freaking trampoline in my back yard now would it?

At this point in my life I had no peers who read comic books, only my Grandpa John, who also introduced me to Mad magazine. The ads in comics seemed like an amazing time machine to a cooler time. None of my friends knew that they could hatch live pet sea monkeys, see through women's cloths or earn fabulous prizes! I knew that my dad had all kinds of ways to make money when he was a kid in New York. He got to do cool Cream on the beach. I had long wished for opportunities like that, but in the purely residential Southern California sub-urb where I grew up even lemonade stands suffered from lack of foot traffic.

I finished reading my comic, making sure that Conan kicked the werewolf's ass, and then I called the toll free number. Just dialing the number felt very adult. I talked with Bridget, or one of her pals and my free sales kit was on the way. This meant I'd be getting mail! How cool was that? Mail, coming to the house, for me! I was passing up my older brothers in giant leaps for sure.

Six to eight weeks was an intolerably long time in those days, but at last my sales package came.
I tore into it immediately.

This kit was slick and pretty much guaranteed my success. And if the kit wasn't enough the instructions included a little script that made me sound so pro I was sure I could sell anything. I decided to practice on my mom.

I put on a nice shirt and my best pair of corduroy pants and knocked on the door to our house.
My mom answered and I gave my speech. "Good day Ma'am..." I started, and then I went on to explain how convenient I was making her life allowing her to take care of all her greeting card needs without leaving her house. My mom wanted to be supportive but the idea of my going door to door just made her nervous, and I'm sure that, as excited as I was, she knew I was being scammed. She looked at the cards regardless, and at first she started warming up to my new endeavor as some of the cards were cute or pretty. Then came the prices. "Keith! That's twice what I could buy this stuff for at the store."

I was ready for her. "But mom. You waste gas and time going to the store. These cards will come right to your house."

My mom warned me that selling these cards at these prices would not be easy. My three older brothers began arriving home from their hard day of torturing small animals or some such sadistic play and as they began taunting my new career. Mom quickly ordered a few sets of cards.

I headed out to make my fortune, not following my mom's instructions to only knock on the doors of people we knew. Most folks told me quickly that they were not interested. I knew, from Captain O's instructions that I had to get the sales book in to their hands. Captain O might not have experienced screen doors or security gates. My neighbors would open their door, but there was still the obstacle of getting them to open the damn screen before I could push my book into their hands. I was tiring quick. Three house and no sales was leaving me disillusioned. So, I began skipping straight to the houses of folks we did indeed know. Maybe mom was right.

Mrs. Gonzales, known to me as Carlos' mom was thrilled to see me. She brought me in and went over my catalogue carefully, product by product. She told me again and again how great this was, how much time I was saving her, how wonderful these cards were. And she ordered a good forty dollars worth. After at least a half hour of this I was well aware the I was in the presence of an unbalanced woman. But hey, I was selling merch. I left her house and returned home from a hard days work.

As I entered the house my brothers' taunting started immediately. "Are you a millionaire now Keith?" "Did you sell all your cards?" Showing them a big fat check from Mrs. Gonzales only brought more taunts, but only after a moments hesitation that told me they did think maybe I'd make something of this.

I put the check and the order formthat I had yet to finish filling out in a drawer where it would be safe, and I forgot about it. Mrs. Gonzales never got her cards, I never got my fabulous prizes and Captain O never got his forty dollars. From time to time I'd remember that package sitting there and I'd get a head ache. It was my introduction to a special headache that I'd get to know well as I got older. It's the headache of 'I'm not taking care of business, and it's stressing me out, but I know that I'm going to continue to not take care of business.' The first few times I saw Mrs. Gonzales after that she'd tell me how excited she was that the cards were coming, but after a while she realized what was up. She didn't give me any grief about it, but I sensed, or maybe imagined that she had decided I was no good, a faliure, yet another disappointment in her life. My entry into the work force was a pretty accurate sign of things to come.

I continued to look at the Captain O add and fantasize about those fabulous prizes.

Go To My Next Job >>>>>