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 and 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.
By the second week I had a fairly sweet routine down pat. I would walk in at the crack of noon, clock in, and enjoy a cheese steak on the house. After lunch I would have my daily bullshit session with Grace, the admissions lady. We would go down the list of coworkers and talk about what each person did the day before that made them a complete and total moron.
Accomplishing that, I’d stroll outside and walk a couple of laps around the parking lot to work off lunch. Patrolling the parking lot was one of my favorite activities. If I was feeling anti social, I’d spend the whole day out there walking around. Kurt the boss thought I was the most devoted worker ever, so he’d call me over to the front door and hand me a ginger ale. The only problem with having that much time alone is that the mind tends to wander in places it shouldn’t. Once I woke from a Zen-like trance after about three hours to catch myself singing Morrissey’s "We hate it when our friends become successful" in a falsetto, degrading Chinese accent, going "Fa Ra Ra Ra" for the refrain. Sometimes skateboarders would shred a level below me in the parking garage,, and I’d watch. If I heard over the walkie that the manager was going to call the cops on them, I’d give the kids a heads up to get outta there.
I’d usually be a little tuckered out after by patrol, so then I’d take a nap. I’d go to my designated bathroom stall, put my walkie by my ear, rest my weary head on the toilet paper dispenser, and drift away.
If my nap ended prematurely by some geezer ripping ass too violently in the stall next to me, I’d go to the JC Penny underneath the Turf Club for a little shopping. People would ask me where the bathroom was since I was in uniform, and I’d tell them "How should I know?" If they threatened to call the manager I’d giggle like a man and say "Go ahead, I don’t work here." Good times.
Back to Grace. Like clock work, this guy in his early forties would walk past me to his usual table. He came there every day, with bags of racing forms that had strange mathematical equations penciled on them. The one waitress told me that he came in every day like it was at his day job. He figured out some mathematic formula that would pay him small steady wins, allowing him to bring in a steady, tax-free 40 grand a year. Genius.
Around 2ish, I’d mosey over to the table where my buddy Ed hung out. Ed was this South Philly guy who had to be pushing eighty. He was the only regular I bothered with. He was a tall guy, really suave, and if you looked past all those wrinkles, you could tell that this guy was a player back in the day. Ed would hold me spell bound with stories about his prime when he was a gigolo, wooing Russian heiresses and trailblazing American businesswomen. Old Ed was just enjoying retirement, blowing whatever nest egg he acquired on the horses. I figured he was legit, because he repeated a lot of the same stories every time with almost word for word accuracy. Even if he did make the whole thing up, fuck it, I’m going to believe the stories, I don’t care. He was my Yoda. One mantra he drilled into my head, "No matter how wealthy a woman is, no matter if she achieved the success by her own hard work, no matter how respected she is in the community, it doesn’t mean she’s not a complete loony." Words to live by, Ed, words to live by.
While chatting with Ed, I’d look over and see Ulah the floor sweeper walk in and wave. That meant it was time for the shift change. You’ll hear about the second shift next month.
Here are the past issues, in case you missed them or need to review:
January 2006 Security Guard, Part Six (The Turf Club Final Installment.. )
September 2005 Security Guard, Part Five
July 2005 Security Guard, Part Four
April 2005 Security Guard, Part Three
February 2005 Security Guard, Part Two
January 2005 Security Guard, Part One
December 2004 Headhunter
November 2004 Christopher's Bakery
September 2004 Bike Messenger
June 2004 Hospitality Staffing
March 2004 A new Temp Agency for Steve!
February 2004 The Civil Service scam
January 2004 I Become a Trainer
December 2003 Clean Water Action
November 2003 More Office Bullshit
September 2003 The Office Job
June 2003 Brick Factory
March 2003 Carter's Children's Ware
February 2003 Isaac's
December 2002 The Conclusion of The Incinerator
October 2002 The Incinerator Three
August 2002 The Incinerator, part 2
July 2002 The Incinerator
June 2002 Data Entry Yoni Style
May 2002 The Microchip Factory
April 2002 The Demolition Man
March 2002 MXL-Safety Glass Sweatshop
February 2002 Flagging
January 2002 Temp Agencies
November 2001 Corporate Movie Theater
August 2001 K-mart
Don't miss Steve's other regular column: Steve's Not Having It