Into the Fire
By the time you’ve reached my age you’ve probably worked a few jobs in your time. I’ve had my share and started working at an early age. When I was in 7th grade my father was my employer (a mean fucker who didn’t tolerate showing up late to the job site or laziness) and gave me five bucks a week to pick up and bag our dogs’ shit. Three different size dogs. Three different size shits. It was a wholesome positive experience that had to be completed immediately upon waking up.
“Son, did you pick up the turds today?”
“Ok. If I go outside I better not find stacks of dog crap peppering my backyard.”
Years later I worked for May Company in the domestics department. I knew nothing about sheets or shams or towels. But it was a gig and it gave me money to buy weed and Jack in the Box’s famous dog meat tacos. The woman that hired me was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my eighteen years of existence. I loved her with all my heart and wanted to marry her and give her multiple babies. To this day I can see her beauty strolling by. Light brown hair, green eyeballs, nice full lips. And the kicker: she always wore dresses. I love women in dresses. Did then. Do now.
I worked for Kmart for three months. My boss was a career slob and flaunted a giant bushy mustache. It was hideous. But he didn’t care what anyone thought about the melting Baby Ruth that rested on his lip. He was putting it out there like if it was the thing to do. I gave him my two-week notice when I realized the job sucked.
“This is great company to grow with,” Mr. Baby Ruth told me with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to resign?”
Smell Like Roses
I also worked for Stater Bros. as a box boy. I worked with a checker named Danny who farted on purpose while checking out customers. His favorite victims were old people and teenagers. He’d look at me and smile when they came to his check stand. I knew what was coming and would already be laughing. It was on. He’d be scanning bread, milk, bacon, then: brrrrrr. I’d laugh so hard that tears would stream down my face. I don’t think I ever laughed so hard in my entire life. It was the foulest most hilarious thing I ever witnessed. Fucking Danny.
I Want Your Sex
I worked for JCPenney in the shoe department. I worked with this sultry brunette who was pure sex and nothing else. My first day on the job she climbed up on a ladder and gave me a peek at her girl bits and the bottom of her perfect ass. She was a scandalous she-devil and a man eater. Before I left the job we banged each other on the sandy banks of the Mojave River. There was another lady who worked with us that was missing a few teeth out of her grill. When she smiled she resembled a house with broken windows. She was fired for stealing some stringy lingerie. Which was weird because she was the last thing you’d want to see in a g-string.
I worked in the restaurant business for many years. I worked every job from dishwasher to manager. All the jobs were unfulfilling, unmeaningful, shitty, and fully pathetic. I pissed away a lot of good years serving booze and burgers to thousands of starving assholes. I hated all of them and myself.
Give em’ the Ax
I once worked as a school teacher at a dysfunctional school full of dreadful kids who smoked cigarettes and weed, wrote on the walls, popped Ritalin, and hated life. I saw two teachers carried out of their classrooms due to nervous breakdowns. The whole staff wanted to wire the place with dynamite and blow it to hell. I still have nightmares of those little bastards tying me up and chopping me into little pieces.
“Ok, we stabbed Mrs. Blonde Bitch thirty-one times, stole all her jewelry, and littered her forehead with spit wads. She won’t be crying on Principal Dicklicker’s shoulder anymore. Ok, so what so we do with Mr. Romero?”
“Chop his Mesicun ass up!”
One job I’ve never had (but one that I oddly find interesting) is a sign holder. I doubt that sign holder is the technical job description. It’s probably something like advertising consultant or existential messenger. Anyhow, you’ve seen these people hanging around. They’re the ones that stand on sidewalks or street corners holding signs for businesses. I live close to a main drag that’s lined with these people hustling business. Pizza. Nail joints. Oil and lube. Jewelry. Furniture. Taxes.
Like with any job, I’ve noticed that some people seem to enjoy their jobs more than others. Some folks just stand there like zombies. They lazily sway the sign back and forth and frown at the passing cars. There’s this one guy who works for a local strip club that I’ve passed by dozens of times. You would think the dude would have some fire, flash, zeal, considering that he’s peddling pussy. You know? But no. He’s dead on his ass and just holds the sign still, sucks on his bottom lip, and stares off in the distance. He’s probably on dope.
Then there is this dude that works for a mattress company. He kicks ass. He gets down. He flips the sign high in the air and catches it. He spins and twirls the sign in an advertising blur. He points at cars and dances. Then he does this one trick where he straddles the sign and acts like it’s a motorcycle. Oh, yeah. He revs it up and then takes off. I’ve never seen anything like it. No one has. He’s the King! The King of the Sign Holders!
One day I had enough. I’d seen enough. I had to interview this guy. It was a must! I pulled in the parking lot and proposed my idea. I’d interview him, take his picture, and give him the fine stage that is The Nervous Breakdown. He’d answer great insightful questions. He’d shine. He’d ride his mattress sign off into the damn sunset. But no. No! The guy couldn’t string along a simple sentence. He was dull, uninspired, and half-dead. He was cross-eyed and smelled like lamb chops. I didn’t understand. I was mystified. Where did all that sign-flinging talent go? What happened to the motorcycle man? I was defeated. I had wonderful inquiring questions such as:
- Have you ever gotten laid from this gig?
- What kind of motorcycle is your sign?
- Do you go to parties and tell people what a bad fucker you are, that you’re The King of the Sign Holders?
- Have you ever considered giving lessons to potential sign holders?
- What do you think of Gene Simmons’ hair?
But it wasn’t to be. Like so many other things in my life. Like becoming a palm reader. Like kissing Anna Hernandez on her cherry-colored lips. But I’ll carry on. After all, summer is right around the bend and I have a handful of new books to devour.