Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Sore Feet, Sore Heads And It's Still Raining Jobs

Every difficulty slurred over will be a ghost to disturb your repose later on.
---Frédéric Chopin

     I did eight hours of Labor Ready warehouse work today for Aaron Art Supplies. Add seven hours of waiting around the labor hall to get the job and I've had a long day. My feet are killing me, but my long dry spell of unemployment is suddenly over for some reason --- it's raining jobs and I don't know why --- so I'd better make hay while the sun shines, sore feet or no.

     Yesterday I spent three hours at my parttime job at the Arco scrubbing down the 14 gas pumps there. I'm catching up on all the exercise I never attempted over the last six years. My arms, legs and heart are holding up under all the strain. It's my damned feet that are slowing me down.

     It was supposed to be a 4 hour gig today of setting up display racks for a new art supplies store on Rosecrans, but the Aaron's supervisor picked the five hardest working? best? most industrious? least smelly? workers for another 4 hours.

     I cursed my small town work ethic and endured the four more hours of intense foot pain. It was a twenty-five man crew that started the day out, but the Labor Ready crack heads and winos walked off the job after two hours or so. We were down to ten or eleven men by lunch time.

     I called Mr. Lee at Scaife Protection Services this morning to tell him I had decided not to pursue employment with his (dubiously intrusive and unethical) company. I thought it was the correct thing to do. I tried to fax him an apologetic letter yesterday, but his fax machine wasn't working.

     I thought he would at least appreciate me letting him know, but the sonovabitch started lecturing me about proper procedure, telling me I should've said something at the interview, scolding me as if I was already his work slave, berating me as if I had stolen his lunch . . . on and on and on . . . and I just held my temper and thanked him off the phone.

     There's something wrong with that company. Everybody there smells of old socks and lost dreams. I was very proud of myself for not telling him to go fuck himself, his mother and his dog. He has too much personal information about me from my job application or I would've.

     Danette, the second to the last call girl I ever drove, called this morning out of the blue. She wanted to know if I would be available to drive her if she could get on somewhere again. She'd lost her car to the repo men and her latest driver/boyfriend has run off.

     I said 'sure', but I doubt if any escort agency will hire her on. She's already dabbled in the next step for call girls: street walking. It might not be too long before she's standing in front of my crack motel with the other crack hoes. Too bad. She was more honest than most of the girls I drove.

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