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
After I I worked my way out of a job at the
pickle packing plant I went to Addecoo HQ. By this
time they were totally sick of my antics and made me
sit in the office for about six hours with some other
fuck-up. Then they said that they had a job that paid
eight bucks an hour. I didn't shit myself, but there
was definatly some moistness in my boxers after I
heard I was being paid that extra dollar. I could
finally afford KB.
I drove for about an hour to Slumbia PA to some building in the middle of nowhere. Me and the other dude signed off with the chick behind the counter, and waited in the lobby. "What is this place," wondered Dude. Then we saw the a picture the wall. We were sent to an trash incinerator.
Me and dude were then directed to a back corner office to meet our foreman. The foreman was this big fat fuck, with a skinhead haircut and mustache, named Herb Malone. I was very, very, very scared. More moistness in my pants. He issued us saftey glasses (not the brand I made in the factory, thank God) and some earplugs and said that he hoped that we didn't mind getting dirty, and that next time we should bring stuff to change into after we shower. Showering at the work place was the first indication that this was going to be the gym class of shit jobs. Showering is never a good sign.
The incinerator had five floors. The garbage trucks went up a ramp to the fifth floor to be droppped in the hopper (big hole). The trash went down the hopper into a series of burners and filters to the bottom floor were all the ash was separated from scap metal and then hauled away to a land fill. It's an extremely complicated process that was explained many times in minute detail, but I still cannot comprehend. Our first duty was to sweep the first floor of the incinerator, then wash it down with a powerwasher, which is a hose powerful enough to rip a hole right through your work boot (I learned this within .2 seconds of operating the motherfucker). Then we went to the fifth floor. The top floor is where the trash is dropped off and then picked up by a huge crane that puts it into the hopper. The crane operator is on a platform that eventually builds up trash deposits that need to be swept back into the pit. That's where I would come in. Sporting dust masks, me and dude used industrial strength janitor brooms to sweep the trash back in slots that were cut in the walls of the platform. The smell from that pit was the worst thing I have ever experinced in my life, and I have hung out with a lot of hippies in my day.
Me and dude finished up our day and reported back to Herb. He filled out our time cards and asked if we would come back. Dude said their was no way in hell he would even drive past this bog of eternal stench. Herb said that he didn't blame him. Then Herb asked me. I said yes. I couldn't pass up the eight dollars an hour because I was saving up money to move to Philly. Herb didn't beleive me at first, then said to come back at seven thirty the next day.
Next month The incinerator 2.
Don't miss Steve's other regular column: Steve's Not Having It