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
Today's column brings us to the MXL Safety Glass
Company. It was my very first, but unfortunately, not
my very last factory job (see Laverne and Shirley). At
a factory, your job is to basically do whatever the
machines can't do until someone invents a machine to
replace you. At MXL we manufactured Safety goggles
and motorcycle visors. I spent all day either
putting safety glasses on a rack, placing protective
plastic stickers over the lenses of safety glasses,
packing safety glasses in a box, trimming off any nubs
that were left from the machine on the safety glasses,
or, my favorite, putting fucked up safety glasses into
the grinder. The jobs rotated everyday, so as soon as
I started getting carpal tunnel from one hand, I would
have another position and start to get carpal tunnel
in the other hand.
All the jobs had one thing in common- trying to avoid the foreman Ray, who was affectionately known as Ray-shark. Ray-shark's job was to stand behind each worker, stare at them to make them feel uncomfortable, and then tell them that if they don't hurry up, they will be fired. I, of course, got on Ray's bad side within two seconds of meeting him. I was wearing earplugs, and couldn't understand a word he was telling me. Later I confessed to him that I played drums and was almost totally deaf, and he said, "Oh, you should have told me earlier. I thought you were a complete and total moron. Now get the fuck back to work or your fired." I also got yelled at for crossing my arms waiting for the machine to catch up to me when I should have used the .2 seconds to do something or other that was productive and good for the company and the American work force and blah blah bullshit.
The only good thing about the job was the sexual harassment. The only other guys who worked there besides me and Ray-Shark were also named Steve. There was Coke-head Steve (not me) and hippy-burnout Steve (also not me), who were both age twenty at the time. Both Coke-head Steve and Hippy-burnout rode their bicycles ten miles to work everyday, because they had their driver's licences suspended until they were twenty-one for underage drinking. I drove because I never got caught drinking under age. The rest of the work force was butt-nasty, toothless, middle aged, corn fed, trailer chicks, who hadn't got any since their husbands got switched to night shift at the Donnely directory. Now, I admit that sexual harassment is wrong to do to chicks, but when it happens to a dude, it is the best thing since sliced bread, no matter how nasty the chicks are that are doing it. The ladies use to call me and the other Steves "Sugar-bear", and would applaud every time we would bend over to pick up a box. The ladies made us do booty shaking dances before they would let us go on break, usually two or three times in a row before we would get it just right. I felt as appreciated as the one punk chick in high school surrounded by fifty punk rock dudes. I could do no wrong with the ladies, and they would take the heat whenever Ray-shark was busting my balls. I was a god.
Alas my safety glass empire crumbled when I packed an entire shipment of glasses totally wrong and almost cost the entire work force, including Ray, their jobs. I can't remember, but I'm sure it wasn't my fault.
Next weeks column is The Demolition Man.
Don't miss Steve's other regular column: Steve's Not Having It