By Steve Levandoski
Let's face it. If you are a musician you will probably never make enough money to pay the rent on that 2-bedroom apartment you share with 8 other people. IF you are lucky enough to get signed, the little money the record company doesn't screw you out of will be squandered on MC Hammer-type mansions (he's doing credit card commercials now), or tied up in some lawsuit. You will need to get a shitjob. I've enjoyed the privilege of having a losing about thirty different jobs in the four years since I dropped out of college. This is my guide for al you young bloods out there. Each issue will feature a different job I once had in chronological order,and how to take advantage of it while it takes advantage of you.
Here are the past issues, in case you missed them or need to review:
August 2001
November 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
October 2002
December 2002
I'm going to travel back in time to a job that I
forgot I worked before I joined Adecco. (Hey man, cut
me some slack, I've worked a lot of jobs, and hanging
out with Chris is bad for your memory.) I was a
sandwich maker at Isaac's Deli in Ephrata Pa. It
sucked.
Isaac's wasn't your average deli like the corner store in Philly. Oh, no. It was founded by two gay Mennonites. Look, I don't have anything against gay people (I love Will and Grace), and Mennonites are cool by me, but the combination of the two are deadly. It's like your grandma and your girlfriend. As separate entities, Granny and shortie are the sugar coatings on life, but imagine them joining forces like Voltron, and deciding to use their combined super powers to decorate your apartment. Your once swinging pad, or in my case shithole, would wind up looking alot like, well, Isaac's. Imagine a family restaraunt with neon pink flamingos thrown in for absolutly no reason what so ever.
Speaking of birds, the entire theme of the deli revolved around them. You see, the one gay Mennonite was an avid bird lover (why are bird lovers always called avid?) and apparently withheld blowjobs from the other until he caved and agreed to name every single fucking sandwich after a bird. A new hire had to take a test three weeks after starting, matching the sandwich with the 50 stupid bird names in order to get a whopping 30 cent raise. For example I still remember that a "pink flamingo" was: french bread with mozz. cheese, Mayo, exactly 3 oz of roast beef, lettuce, and tomato, grilled untill the cheese turned slightly brown. The owners were so cheap, they made us use a scale to weigh out the meat for every sandwich during the lunch rush, and clock out for smoke breaks.
I liked my manager Gina though. Gina, before I started working there, was rumoured to be a raving, crazy bitch, but her shrink put her on way too much Prozac, so she was always a little too happy. Once she hung up a poster she just bought of cute little animals balancing on each other while spinning plates like a circus act, with the caption 'easy does it'. She stared at it for about ten minutes with this medicated smile on her face, and that's when I knew we would get along. My other co-workers were alright. The waitresses took me to a party once, and one of them got wasted and puked on a fresh pile of laundry, but I'm sure you already lived this story. I also got along with this fat dude who carved 'fat' into his arm with a razor to make a tattoo cause he was fat. I think he was a little off. Anyway, we used to have fun betting each other to see who could hold thier hand on the grill longer. He never figured out that I would cheat and coat my hand in mayo before I put it on the grill.
I finally got sick of burning myself every day, and working hard, so I decided it would be worth the pay cut to work at the movie theater. Chip said it would be fun.
Don't miss Steve's other regular column: Steve's Not Having It