Steve's Guide to Shitjobs (or.. What's The Least I Can Do?)

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.

March 2003: Carter's Children's Ware

This Month I'm jumping forward going back to the temp world. (Yeah, that sentence made no sense to me either). I was called to work at Carter's Children's Ware, where coincidently, my mom used to work before I was born.

Carter's was a factory that made cheap ass children's ware at made in the U.S.A. prices. When I walked in I saw that most of the workers seemed fairly content at their posts on the assembley line. It was mostly ladies that were busy gabbin' about soap operas or younger girls wearing headphones to block out the older ladies talking about soap operas. I was like "Dude this job is totally brainless, right on." Then the foreman walked up to me and said "You're Steve right? We have a special job for you. I'll be back in ten minutes to show you". The words 'special job' are the two scariest words in the English language to a temp worker. When he turned around I ran to the nearest phone and called Adecco.

"What do you want now, Steve?", said Adecoo Bitch.

"I want a transfer," said I.

"Steve you just got there," hissed Adecco Bitch.

"I know, but I hate it."

"Steve I'm so sick of you. Alright, but you have to work there three more days. (click)."

So the foreman comes back to show me my special job. At the end of the assembley line there was a chute were an endless stream of boxes shot out. I saw a guy cut apart the boxes and put them on wooden palletes or in the crushing machine depending on what type of box they were. Why it mattered, I don't know. Then he had to bind up the boxes with this little hand-held cranky thingee that incorporated this thin ribbon of metal, and use metal shears to cut the ribbon. The guy was running around faster than Chris Peelout in an unattended candy aisle. The foreman than said, "You got it Steve? Take his place." The Guy smiled and said, "Good luck, no one has ever lasted more than a week." It sucked.

That night I got totally wrecked, and came in the next day. I now know why Postal workers go insane. I was keeping up aright, when out of the blue, I was attacked by my arch-nemesis, the beer shits. I ran to the bathroom, and did battle. Just as the beer shits were doing the death circle down the crapper screaming, "I'LL GET YOU NEXT TIME STEVE, NEXT TIIIiiiiime...," I looked at my watch. I was in the john for twenty five minutes. I ran back to my area, and I see the foreman up to his head in boxes looking good and pissed. It took both of us the rest of the day to get caught up. He told me never to come back again. It was awesome.

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
February 2003

Don't miss Steve's other regular column: Steve's Not Having It