When I tell people I've had over 50 different jobs they often look at me like I have a goiter. They're kind of disgusted, but intrigued, and would probably poke me with a stick if they had a stick. So, here's a stick, poke away you fiends.
Like I said, I've had a lot of different jobs, all of which were hilarious/humiliating in some way. It might take me a while to list them all here. Look for updates randomly...
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Paperboy
When I was about 12 years old I moved from Brooklyn to Staten Island for some reason. I was totally heartbroken - I lost all my friends, and access to good pizza. Soon enough though, I got accustomed to this new life in Staten Island, this life in "suburbia". I made new friends. One of these new friends offered me a job helping him with a paper route. My first job ever. Huzzah.
Initially I only helped him on Sundays. The Sunday edition would be thrown from the back of a moving truck either directly at us while we stood there waiting, or at some immovable object somewhere in the neighborhood. Every Sunday we would go looking for this secret stash of newspapers if we missed the delivery.
The giant stacks of papers were never in the same spot. One day they would be gently stacked against a particular tree. Another day they would be hurled halfway to the shoreline or positioned strategically in the middle of mud puddles for some reason. Where ever they were, it was our job at 5am every Sunday morning to find them, haul them back to the garage, put them together, and deliver them to the loyal Staten Island Advance subscribers on our route.
Somehow my buddy commandeered a shopping cart to aid us in this endeavour. I still, to this day, have no idea where or how he got this thing, he refuses to tell me even after almost twenty years later. I have no idea why he is so secretive about the origin of this shopping cart. Did he pry it from the cold, dead fingers of some vagrant he found decomposing in the marsh? Did he trade his virginity to the local supermarket manager in exchange for a shiny new shopping cart?! Frankly, after so long, I'm growing bored of this mystery.
Anyway, hauling these gigantic stacks of newspapers back to our garage was a chore in and of itself even with the shopping cart. Those bitches were heavy as hell, and usually covered in plastic, which was inturn covered in one or more of the following: mud, water, dog/animal urine, unidentified liquids.
We had about 200 houses on our route, all within the confines of the Captain's Quarter's townhome community. We'd finish around 10am, after which he would hand me a twenty dollar bill, and we would immediately ride our bikes to the shopping center, and spend all our money on comics and chicken parm heros.
Eventually my buddy, who was two years older than me, got a real job and I took over the route alone. Now I had to deliver papers 7 days a week. On days I couldn't deliver the papers, one of the other kids in the neighborhood would do it for ten bucks a day.
I never really made any money after my friend gave me the route. I'm not sure how he made money doing this. Most people would "tip" at the end of the week when I would come around to collect their subscription payments. The tip would often be words of encouragement or warnings to keep the newspaper out of the rain. Rarely would it actually be money. Cheap bastards. I think I made two dollars one week.
Initially I only helped him on Sundays. The Sunday edition would be thrown from the back of a moving truck either directly at us while we stood there waiting, or at some immovable object somewhere in the neighborhood. Every Sunday we would go looking for this secret stash of newspapers if we missed the delivery.
The giant stacks of papers were never in the same spot. One day they would be gently stacked against a particular tree. Another day they would be hurled halfway to the shoreline or positioned strategically in the middle of mud puddles for some reason. Where ever they were, it was our job at 5am every Sunday morning to find them, haul them back to the garage, put them together, and deliver them to the loyal Staten Island Advance subscribers on our route.
Somehow my buddy commandeered a shopping cart to aid us in this endeavour. I still, to this day, have no idea where or how he got this thing, he refuses to tell me even after almost twenty years later. I have no idea why he is so secretive about the origin of this shopping cart. Did he pry it from the cold, dead fingers of some vagrant he found decomposing in the marsh? Did he trade his virginity to the local supermarket manager in exchange for a shiny new shopping cart?! Frankly, after so long, I'm growing bored of this mystery.
Anyway, hauling these gigantic stacks of newspapers back to our garage was a chore in and of itself even with the shopping cart. Those bitches were heavy as hell, and usually covered in plastic, which was inturn covered in one or more of the following: mud, water, dog/animal urine, unidentified liquids.
We had about 200 houses on our route, all within the confines of the Captain's Quarter's townhome community. We'd finish around 10am, after which he would hand me a twenty dollar bill, and we would immediately ride our bikes to the shopping center, and spend all our money on comics and chicken parm heros.
Eventually my buddy, who was two years older than me, got a real job and I took over the route alone. Now I had to deliver papers 7 days a week. On days I couldn't deliver the papers, one of the other kids in the neighborhood would do it for ten bucks a day.
I never really made any money after my friend gave me the route. I'm not sure how he made money doing this. Most people would "tip" at the end of the week when I would come around to collect their subscription payments. The tip would often be words of encouragement or warnings to keep the newspaper out of the rain. Rarely would it actually be money. Cheap bastards. I think I made two dollars one week.
Finally I had enough, and one day I just stopped delivering the papers. I didn't call the regional manager to let him know. I left huge piles of newspapers to rot on the street corners for weeks. I remember watching the piles grow as I commuted to school.
 |
| No, really. |
I never heard anything about it, never got a call. I have no idea what happened to all of those papers or who took over the route and after literally a few days, I forgot I ever had this job in the first place.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Nuisance Log Part 3 - Warm Brown Water
I love coffee. I mean, I freaking love coffee, can't go a day without it. I drink it usually first thing in the morning after getting dressed. If I don't get it first thing in the morning or reasonably thereafter my day is ruined beyond repair, and all hell will most certainly spill forth upon this earth.
Usually I make my own coffee at home, carefully, lovingly, using the finest beans I can afford, measuring precisely, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar. Sometimes hazelnut flavored cream is incorporated for a subtle note of praline nuttiness. The end result is a thick, dark, fragrant, hot mug of deliciousness. Guaranteed to jump start your day, like a pleasant, rich, sweet slap-in-the-face.
Sometimes I travel, which removes me from my home coffee laboratory. I am left to crawl begging and desperate from my hotel room to the nearest coffee shop, praying that what they have to offer will be a quality substitute. I prefer a local coffee shop over a Starbucks any day simply because of the consistent quality of the java from these establishments. Starbucks tends to burn their coffee, and it all tastes vaguely of kerosene for some reason.
Sometimes there are no coffee shops nearby. I will steadfastly scour the area looking for one, sometimes driving miles out of my way, enduring traffic jams, hostile neighborhoods, packs of wild animals. Dunkin Donuts is often my sanctuary in the cataclysmic zoo that is the American cityscape. There seems to be a Dunkin Donuts in every city I visit, and more often than not there are several of them strategically scattered around. Their coffee is always fresh, even at 3am on a Tuesday. Not very strong, but there is nothing like a "large hazelnut with cream and sugar."
Sometimes I spend an hour driving around looking for a coffee shop or a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts only to have my spirits crushed and my plans cancelled. At this point I will resort to emergency tactics, which often bring me to the first gas station I see. This is the beginning of the end.
I frantically burst into the gas station market, and there, floating like a steaming oasis in the middle of the floor are various pots of coffee. My initial reaction is always the same: salvation at last! I rush over, knocking people out of the way, hockey-checking the rotating sunglasses kiosk, diving for that little styrofoam cup of morning sunshine. Panic stricken, I pour that black gold into my cup, find the piss-warm cream bottle laying on its side and dispense a generous dollop, and shovel in several scoops of sugar.
I pay the man.
I get back in my car.
I let the scalding coffee cool off for a few minutes.
Finally, after what seems like eons, I take a sip.
Warm brown french vanilla flavored water.
I toss the abomination out my car window aiming for the bus shelter full of commuters, vengeance in my eyes, an audible growl on my lips. I head back to the hotel at mach 4, breaking all known traffic laws, hurling obscenities at anything within earshot: people, animals, children, religious leaders, veterans of foreign wars, orange traffic cones, more commuters in bus shelters, etc.
I collapse in a heap of myself on the floor of my hotel room, broken, crestfallen, reaching to the ceiling with a claw-like hand. I manage to drag myself to the window, and there, shining like a beacon of victory, next to "Pams Flapjack Palace" a sign: "House of Java," behind the hotel on the street I didn't notice before.
Usually I make my own coffee at home, carefully, lovingly, using the finest beans I can afford, measuring precisely, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar. Sometimes hazelnut flavored cream is incorporated for a subtle note of praline nuttiness. The end result is a thick, dark, fragrant, hot mug of deliciousness. Guaranteed to jump start your day, like a pleasant, rich, sweet slap-in-the-face.
Sometimes I travel, which removes me from my home coffee laboratory. I am left to crawl begging and desperate from my hotel room to the nearest coffee shop, praying that what they have to offer will be a quality substitute. I prefer a local coffee shop over a Starbucks any day simply because of the consistent quality of the java from these establishments. Starbucks tends to burn their coffee, and it all tastes vaguely of kerosene for some reason.
Sometimes there are no coffee shops nearby. I will steadfastly scour the area looking for one, sometimes driving miles out of my way, enduring traffic jams, hostile neighborhoods, packs of wild animals. Dunkin Donuts is often my sanctuary in the cataclysmic zoo that is the American cityscape. There seems to be a Dunkin Donuts in every city I visit, and more often than not there are several of them strategically scattered around. Their coffee is always fresh, even at 3am on a Tuesday. Not very strong, but there is nothing like a "large hazelnut with cream and sugar."
Sometimes I spend an hour driving around looking for a coffee shop or a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts only to have my spirits crushed and my plans cancelled. At this point I will resort to emergency tactics, which often bring me to the first gas station I see. This is the beginning of the end.
I frantically burst into the gas station market, and there, floating like a steaming oasis in the middle of the floor are various pots of coffee. My initial reaction is always the same: salvation at last! I rush over, knocking people out of the way, hockey-checking the rotating sunglasses kiosk, diving for that little styrofoam cup of morning sunshine. Panic stricken, I pour that black gold into my cup, find the piss-warm cream bottle laying on its side and dispense a generous dollop, and shovel in several scoops of sugar.
I pay the man.
I get back in my car.
I let the scalding coffee cool off for a few minutes.
Finally, after what seems like eons, I take a sip.
Warm brown french vanilla flavored water.
I toss the abomination out my car window aiming for the bus shelter full of commuters, vengeance in my eyes, an audible growl on my lips. I head back to the hotel at mach 4, breaking all known traffic laws, hurling obscenities at anything within earshot: people, animals, children, religious leaders, veterans of foreign wars, orange traffic cones, more commuters in bus shelters, etc.
I collapse in a heap of myself on the floor of my hotel room, broken, crestfallen, reaching to the ceiling with a claw-like hand. I manage to drag myself to the window, and there, shining like a beacon of victory, next to "Pams Flapjack Palace" a sign: "House of Java," behind the hotel on the street I didn't notice before.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
