2014 was a banner
fucking year
As a highly educated artist (I have an MFA), I have never flinched
when confronted with the idea that I would need some sort of part time
employment to supplement the income that I fail to gather from the sales of my fantastic
works of art. If you are a frequent visitor to my blog, you will know that I
have worked part time as a dish washer at Hooters, been employed for a short
time as a gas station cashier and even fell far enough to teach art as an
adjunct art professor at a number of community colleges in the area. Regardless
of the source of the supplemental income, as an educated artist, I knew that
non-art related jobs were part of the larger picture. Not everyone can afford
to buy eight foot by four foot engraved day-glo Plexiglas drawings for display
in their home or office.
As the year drew to a close and the days began to get shorter and much
colder it became very clear that, if I did not find some sort of 'job', my
studio would not have any heat. To be completely honest though, even though it
started to get chilly way back in September, I didn't really try to start
looking for part time income until December first. I know the early bird gets
the worm, but I really thought some art collector would come through and write
me a fat check for all of my art and I could retire. I really did.
Well, I needed a job and I knew that seasonal work was not something
that could be frowned upon. Easy money is nothing to be ignored in my book and
seasonal work is some of the easiest
money to be had. Let's face it, no one really has any firm expectations of
someone who you know will be gone a day or two after X-mas; and when it comes
to low expectations, I am all over that shit in a flash. I mean, show up for a
month or two and do a really half assed job with the firm expectation that no
matter how crappy of a job it may be you would not have to cry about it for too
long. I am on that like a fat girl on a sale at Lane Bryant.
If I knew how easy finding a seasonal job was in December, I would have
started looking in September. No fooling. I literally opened the Muskegon
Chronicle, applied for the first good job I saw and in two days I was having a
phone interview with some human resources lackey. I was a smooth as warm butter
on a stack of flap jacks. Two days later I was accepting my new offer to be the
new part time Merchandise Arrival Associate at that swanky Younkers at the
Lakes Mall. It was a cake job, unloading trucks of merchandise and prepping it for the sales floor. I know it sounds like
a schmuck job for someone as highly educated as myself (I have a Masters
Degree). But, it's easy and it would keep the heat on in my studio for a little
while.
It was a Tuesday and I showed up for my first day 10 minutes late, I
mean fuck them, I work on my time bitch. Right!? Well, that was immediately frowned
upon by Jason who was supposed to be my new 'superior'. The first thing out of
his fucking mouth to me was that two more late arrivals was grounds for instant
termination. Jesus, how stupid is it that coming in on time for a part time
minimum wage job should be right at the top of the list of things that they are
looking for in new seasonal workers. I can think of at least seven things that
would be more important. Showing up wearing
pants and sober is numbers two and three at least. Ten fucking minutes
never fucking killed anyone. That first day, I vowed to show up 30 fucking
minutes early every fucking work day and just hang around the back room off the
clock just to be a big pain in the ass to Jason and his goddam time-clock. Well
that plan worked pretty well until I showed up to work late on Wednesday for my
second day of work and was promptly chewed out by Jason and his goddam three
strikes rule.
The first and second day were full of paperwork, W2 forms, training
videos and instruction on how to properly accept new merchandise from a
semi-truck trailer. The third day was when the real work started. I was one of
eight 'new hires' and one of the only two men. Of the two men, I think I was
the only straight man in the crew. My 'gay-dar' pretty much sucks anyways, but
I would have wagered that the other guy was gay. Well, that really isn't
important is it. We all must coexist, right! I mean, if some dude next to me
likes the taste of semen, who am I to call him a goddam freak. To each his own,
right? I have never faulted another man
for wanting to turn away from pussy, more for me I figured. Besides, Brandon
was kinda cool. He liked to comment on all the women's clothing that would come
out of the trucks on these huge rolling steel racks.
"Fat girl prom dress"
"Mom jeans"
"Sperm dumpster slut wear"
"WHORE-ISH"
"FAAA-BU-LOUS"
I thought his comments were pretty spot on and kinda funny. How would
a rack of size 16 pink sparkly cocktail dresses NOT be fat girl prom dresses?
Brandon was a riot when we started getting the racks of jumbo sized lingerie.
He would, take a sample right of the rack, put it on and dance around in the
truck trailer snapping his fingers. Well I thought it was funny. The two women
working in our team, Margery and Joan, always seemed to have huge sticks up
their asses when it came to Brandon's colorful high jinks.
"Come on Brandon, you shouldn't be doing that with the
clothes", they would huff from beneath stern frowns.
"Brandon, stop fooling around...come oooooooon"
Yes, the work was simple, boring and did not pay alot. But,
it was honest work and the first couple paychecks were a nice change of pace to
my payless Fridays. As a highly educated artist, (I have a Masters Degree) I
looked at my small job as a creative endeavor. You know, kind of like how Van
Gogh lived among the simple working folk while he honed his craft. I was
drinking up every minute spent in the back room of this Younkers with the full
expectation that it would drive a complete series of new paintings.
...or maybe it was a huge waste of time. Sometimes you
really can't tell.
The first month or so
fucking flew by and the next few weeks were looking promising until some shit
happened. Younkers provided a small clock radio for the back room and had a firm
policy that the first person from the shipping and receiving team clocked in
had choice of the radio station for that shift. Brandon always managed to be
that person every goddam day. He was always there way before anyone else and as
bright and bushy tailed as anyone could be. He told me that his mother works at
the Chucky Cheese as a cleaning woman. Her job was to clean the entire place
before 10 AM. That meant she got to work around 4:30 in the morning and she was
Brandon's ride. That fucker waited in her car in the freezing cold ever morning
until the Younkers employee entrance opened at 5:45 am. That's why that cock
sucker always had first dibs on the radio station.
Brandon's choice of music was what you may call a 'Top 40' station
and was probably a good choice based upon his unorthodox 'personality'. Muskegon
only has a handful of stations, Brandon's 'Top 40' one, public 'hippy' radio,
country, four religious stations and one talk radio news station. Based upon
his choice of nail polish, I sure as hell would not have wagered that Brandon
was a country music fan. Anyways, Brandon loved his music. Certain songs would
come on and he would start dancing and singing. Other times, songs would come
on and he would yell back at the radio.
"Oh no he di-int"
"Shut your mouth you whore"
"Do me, Do me"
Before I got this job, I knew nothing of contemporary American
Popular music. So the pops and whistles emanating from the clock radio was so
fascinating to me. The thought that the songs being played were the most
popular songs in America, was amazing. For almost two months, the top two songs
in America were played every ninety minutes. The number two song was a bouncy
tune that insisted that men enjoy the sexual company of overweight women and
that women need to embrace their fatness. The number one song in America was
sung by a blonde millionaire part-time lingerie model and consisted of her
informing the great unwashed masses of America that they need to 'Shake off'
any harsh criticism and be proud of whatever they think they are. Oh boy did
Brandon love these two songs, whenever they came on he would dance and sing around
Younker's back room like a crazy man. I grew to appreciate the songs as
unofficial anthem of the oppressed.
I don't think Margery and Joan felt the same way about
Brandon's choice in music as I did. They always seemed so goddam serious about
this crappy job we all had. Whenever Brandon started dancing, Margery would
always give him a huge stink eye and Joan would remind him to get back to work.
Then one morning, Margery got to pick the radio station.
It was a Wednesday. Margery and Joan had arrived right at
6:30 am and set the clock radio to Muskegon's only news-talk station. I arrived
to work hearing the chatter of weather and traffic reports filling the
receiving bays. It was the first and only morning that everyone had beat
Brandon into work. When he did come in a half hour late, you could tell he had
been crying. From what he could sob out, his mother had been fired from Chucky
Cheese on Monday and he had to take the bus to work. He said the state came in
Monday afternoon for the monthly health inspection and found that the entire
place was a shit hole and infested with lice. They demanded that it had to be
shut down immediately. I guess Brandon's mom had been cutting some corners
because when they emptied the ball pit, they found almost a half inch layer of
coagulated urine and vomit. Brandon's mom took the fall for it all and Chucky's
decided to outsource the daily cleaning to some big company when they reopened
on Friday. He was really upset about it and said that he was supporting his
whole family now.
For the next few hours we all worked quietly while the news
and traffic reports were repeated every fifteen minutes. It wasn't until around
noon that Brandon even realized that we all were listening to Margery's radio
station choice.
From the radio came a familiar beat. It was the Pretenders
'My City Was Gone'. The heavy bass line beat out a slow chain of 'bumps' and
for a few seconds I felt like dancing in the half empty semi-trailer. But the
sound was not what I was expecting, the same bass line repeated three more
times like a scratched record. On the fourth loop I heard the voice on Mr. Rush
Limbaugh welcoming us to his daily radio show.
Margery and Joan's eyes lit up and they became gitty like
young school girls at the sound of Mr. Limbaugh's rich tenor voice. It was the
first time in months I had seen them smile. They were really happy to be
hearing this radio show.
"OH NO, I AINT LISTENING TO THIS SHIT", Brandon's
lispy voice wailed from the half empty semi trailer.
I was over near the pricing table when I saw Brandon came
charging out of the trailer towards the clock radio, his arm extended ready to
turn the tuning knob away from Mr. Limbaugh's show. Joan beat him to the radio
and stood guard while Margery reminded him of Younkers back room radio policy.
"We were here first, so we get to pick", Margery
burped.
"I AINT LISTENING TO THIS SHIT", Brandon reminded
them.
What happened next was surreal. Margery was hugging the
radio while Joan stood blocking Brandon from getting to her and it. Brandon was
dancing and spinning trying to out flank Joan and take the radio out of
Margery's hands. All the time, all three of them were yelling at each other.
"PEOPLE, IS THERE A PROBLEM?"....
It was our boss yelling from the employee break room. Instantly
we all turned and answered 'NO' in unison. Margery placed the radio back upon
the receiving desk. Joan turned and went back to pricing polyester sweaters and
Brandon ducked back into the empty truck trailer. After about twenty minutes
things simmered down, Joan and Margery were both working side by side at the
pricing table muttering quietly to each other while Mr. Limbaugh spoke about
our dear President and Brandon and I were rolling garment carts off of a truck.
Brandon looked as if he was going to cry. He was not having a good day.
With every story told by Mr. Limbaugh, Brandon was becoming
more and more agitated. Then he cracked. Brandon walked over to Joan and
Margery at the pricing table and calmly stated,
"Rush Limbaugh is a racist. That's why I can't listen
to him"
Joan demanded that Brandon was wrong and that Rush Limbaugh
was not a racist. Margery asked if Brandon had ever even listened to Mr.
Limbaugh.
Brandon confirmed that he had never listened to Mr.
Limbaugh's radio show...
"NO, The man is a racist. Only RETARDED people listen
to him"
With Brandon's statement, a look of sadness came over
Margery...
"Retarded is not a nice word and you should not use it"
"FUCKING GODDAM RETARDS", Brandon unloaded right
in Margery's face.
With that, Margery bowed her head in defeat and Joan placed
a consoling arm around her.
"Brandon dammit, her son is a 'special needs'
person", Joan quietly stated.
Brandon became erect as he blurted...
"WELL THEN THE LITTLE FUCKING RETARD TAKES AFTER HIS
MOTHER"
With that, a look came over Margery that reminded me of the
time I told some little kid at the mall that the Easter Bunny was just some guy
in a suit. Margery's world began to collapse upon itself as her eyes began to
well up with tears. She turned and ran wailing. Joan followed after her but not
before giving Brandon a look that would have frozen any 'straight' male.
"Goddam bitches", Brandon spoke.
Then Brandon turned and entered the truck trailer as if
nothing had happened. I followed in shocked disbelief and we proceeded to roll
the next apparel cart out. When we exited the trailer, a member of store
security was standing on the platform.
"Brandon, Jason needs to talk to you"
Brandon shot me a look that he knew what was going to
happen. The security guard and Brandon walked towards the store offices. In
about thirty minutes, the security guard returned and asked if the coat hanging
near the pricing table was Brandon's. I said that it was and he took it.
No one ever returned and turned the radio to WBLV,
Muskegon's classical music radio station.
I worked quietly alone for the rest of the day.
My shift was about over when Jason, my 'superior' met me
near the pricing table. He wanted to know if I would be interested in staying
on as a full time employee. I thought about it for a second then told him that
I would need to stay part time because my job as an artist was my full time
job. Jason looked at me like I was swinging a dead cat over my head.
"I'm offering you a full time job here"
I reiterated that I already had a full time job and that I
would be happy to stay on as part time.
"I'm sorry we only need a full time person. Are you
sure?", Jason returned.
I told him that I did would not consider full time
employment and he told me that my
services would no longer be needed. We shook hands and I clocked out for the
last time.
I am an artist. I am a highly educated artist (I have a
Masters Degree). Working full time as a shipping and receiving clerk would
degrade my creativity. Do not get blinded by the sparkle of silver and stand
firm to what you believe and who you are. Besides, it's spring time and I can
turn the heat off in my studio.
