I have worked an assortment of jobs since I was sixteen years old. My first job was in southern restaurant chain as a busser/stocker. It wasn't a particularly difficult job, only tedious; marrying bottles of ketchup, cleaning up after people who must have had holes in their mouths, and mopping the bathroom floor.

Like most other teens, I wanted to work to buy stuff. My first big ticket item was a pair of designer jeans, a purchase someone complained about to no end. Why did I need a pair of sixty dollar jeans? What was wrong with less expensive clothes? Why are you trying to show off?

I moved up in the world with a job at a summer amusement park working in various food courts or restaurants. I'd leave that place smelling like all things unnatural, but here again, it was for a purpose. Amusement parks aren't as amusing when you work behind the scenes and know how the machine operates.

I don't remember when I decided that menial labor wasn't for me, or that I didn't like working for anyone else, or if I just wanted a more appealing job.

My next foray as a young working stiff was a job at McDonald's, which didn't last long. Learning that cash register wasn't as easy as you might think with all those color coded buttons, and daily or weekly specials. I have faint memories of working the entire store, bussing tables, lugging around that yellow mop bucket and Caution - Piso Mojado sign. The wet mop weighed more than I did at the time.

After working at McDonald's and a few other places which escape me, I enrolled in modeling classes out in a ritzy neighborhood on other side of town. I caught hell for that. I was determined to do something, anything besides handling frozen French fries and a lightweight headset. I remember one of the instructors, Aldo, a tall, heavily-accented Italian. Who'd have thought there were genuine eye-talians in Houston, Texas? He introduced us to skincare and I've used Borghese's Fango mudd mask ever since. I improved my posture and learned to walk like a model. Shortly after graduation, I began booking local and national commercials, and print ads. My shining moment was three thirty-second national McDonald's commercials. That audition was my first time actually competing for something outside of my comfort zones of school or church.

Fast forward. I landed the commercials and arrive on the set of a soon to open McDonald's out in the boondocks of Texas. The rehearsals and filming were great experiences. I danced the rumba alongside Renee O'Connor, who later was cast as Gabrielle, on Xena, Warrior Princess.

Every job since then, I've used tools from my acting training. I played the part of an aggressive credit collector for a major retailer in college, after having been a credit authorizer. I did a lateral transfer from Houston to New York City with the same company, different store. Back then, I was inconsolable, and didn't stay in the credit authorization department. I had to be a credit collector, again, if only to shore me up for life in New York.

Many years later, I've worked as a rollerskating restaurant host, food runner, software trainer/helpdesk agent, fragrance model, and booking appointments for a podiatrists in an outdoor booth in the dead of winter. The complete list, while not necessarily embarrassing, is too long to catalogue.

I've not been happier since hanging out my shingle as a Freelance Writer/Editor/Creative Writing Teacher. Health benefits aren't included, so I make a concerted effort to keep myself mentally and spiritually happy. First the mind goes, then the body!

ScribeNYC is a contributing author to The Diary of a Pauper, a Freelance Writer/Editor, and Creative Writing Instructor in NYC. His feature articles, film, and dance reviews have appeared online, and in various print magazines. He writes and edits commercial and literary fiction, creative non-fiction, and screenplays. He's the moderator and a participant of Morningside Writers Group.

I am, in a word, assbroke. Consequently, I troll newyork.craigslist.org for any job that will allow me to supplement my current income at my dayjob, which I kinda dig and don't want to leave for any reason. I'm up for anything except anything that would involve pimping out my girlparts.

That's how I met Joe. I answered one of those "Etc" ads.

"Are you pissed at guys? Bitter at your exboyfriend? Email pic if interested. Immediate reply."

Ah, yes. A dominatrix gig. Sure, I'll give it a whirl. I sent my headshot and my cell phone number. Yes, I realize not the smartest thing to do, thanks. Neither is ingesting eight cups of coffee a day, laughing at tards or mixing booze and anti-depressants and I do all of those things with wild abandon. So you can go suck it, you judgmental teetolaling douchebag.

Joe won't give me any info over email so we swap awkward voicemails and we're destined to meet at a Starbucks on the upper east side.

I reach Starbucks. He could be anyone. He has my pic. I don't have his. He could be the elderly Asian man who smilesat me and walks at a breakneck pace, especially for one so old. I dial Joe's number.

"What are you wearing?"
"Blue shirt, black pants. I have a cane."

Sweet merciful heavens. I find him on the corner. He's short with piercing blue eyes, a quick smile and dark, straight hair. I feel guilty for being a fast walker as he hobbles along beside me. He's maybe 36 and exceedingly happy.

He buys my coffee and we sit down. He's checking me out. I understand. It's part of his job. He's helping out a friend, Mary, who runs two dungeons in the city.

"Do you have any questions for me," he asks.
"I have a list." I pull out a pad.
"Great. Shoot."
"Nudity?"
"None whatsoever. Well, the guys get naked but you don't. You're just tying them up."
"Money?"
"You'll have about three training sessions and then, as you develop a list of clients . . . "
"But you don't know, like exact figures."
"No. You'd have to talk to Mary."
"Clientele."
"Runs the gamut. Construction workers, businessmen, tourists."
"I heard it was mostly Hassidic Jews."
"There are a lot. How did you know that?"
"I don't know."
"I hear they don't shower."
"Naked and smelly?"
"Well, yes," Joe's eyes twinkle. Occasionally, his right one rolls into the back of his head. It's alarming. He's so friekin' happy. If I had a cane and one good eye, I don't know how happy I'd be.
"Anonymity?"
"Of course, we'd come up with a name for you."
"Costume?"
"We have extras. Mary has a ton of stuff so until you develop a wardrobe of your own, you're set."
"Safety?"
"In the eight years that I've been involved in the business, I've only witnessed two questionable acts."
"Is - " I can't believe I'm talking about this in a Starbucks on the Upper East Side. "Excrement involved?"
"No. Never. This is a very clean facility. That's a whole other thing."
"Well, that's all I got."
Joe looks at me admiringly. He's so jolly. I just don't know what to do with him. I thought he was supposed to be interviewing me.
"Um, well, Joe, do you have any questions for me?"
"When can we go out?" His eyes dance and he laughs.
"Ha. Ha. What's the next step here?"
"Is this something you'd be interested in?"
"Sure."
"Well, then, I'll talk to Mary and put you two in touch."
"Cool. Great. Thank you."
Joe considered to look at me with those twinkling eyes. I'd only been mildly uncomfortable until this point. He smiles at me.
"You'll really like Mary. We're supposed to go to Great Adventure this weekend."
"Really. You and other employees?"
"Yeah. She says it'll be fun and if I give 'em any trouble, they'll tie me up and throw me in the trunk."
"Goodness."
"Yeah, she's a blast."

I left the Upper East Side and grabbed a slice, made my way into Central Park to catch the last of Modest Mouse's set.

I thought for sure I'd hear from Joe or Mary but it's been a week and I got nothing. So I'm still broke but I'm also not tying up men who supposedly don't shower.

I met guy a few nights ago at a gathering. Lets call him toolbox, because that is what he was. Toolbox called himself a producer. He was probably about my age, early to mid 20s. I nodded and smiled at the producer line. He took this to mean I was impressed, and then when on and explained to me what a producer does, like I was an average 2-year-old. Yeah, I work with a couple other guys at this company, we're putting together our second feature now, I talk to people to get them to give us money, finesse it out of them really. You can imagine the air quotes and the confident attitude coming out of this particular tool. The next five minutes involved him describing what he did, how he got there, and where he saw himself going.

Mind you, this guy had not asked me more than my name in our entire conversation. Had he, he might not have been so quick to dismiss film school, of which I happen to be an alum, as useless; Toolbox went to a school in the South and then got a job at a production company thanks to dear old daddy. Had he bothered to ask me anything, he would have also learned that I know far more about the filmmaking process than he does, have worked in it longer than him, and have friends in the same assistant-type job that he has, and know that none of them would refer to themselves as being the producer of a film. He might have also learned what a production designer does (hint: its not hire the extras). Now, what burns me is that Toolbox, despite being dumber than dirt, despite being more pretentious and full of hot air than your worst art critic, does have a better job than I do. He probably earns more as well. This just goes to show that you can come from nowhere, go to film school, work your ass off for several years, and still be looked down upon by some dumb trust fund baby with a well-connected father. Dear Toolbox; fuck off, and I hope your movie tanks. Sincerely, everyone else in the entertainment industry who actually had to WORK to get where they are.

I recently received an email from my sister's new in-laws. It wasn't so much an email as it was a bill. A bill for the recent bridal shower that I wasn't asked to help host or assist with in any way. I'm a single girl in NYC with debt up to her eyeballs, working a daygig to support my creative endeavors. The in-laws live down south where the pace is slower and expenses are lower. Please read below, won't you? Between the passive-aggressive and insinuating tone, the abuse of smiley-faces and exclamation points . . . the mind simply boggles.

Subject: Hello from Georgia!
Hey!
I hope you are doing well! Things in Georgia are fantastic...I'm back towork with summer school and enjoying the warm weather. I hope you are all rested from our festivities last week. I'm still trying to recover...too many late nights! Especially the evening of the wedding, I think mom, dad, Geoffrey and I were at the house cleaning up until after midnight! Overall, it was my favorite wedding I have been too...which is not a surprise because my brother knows how to throw a good party! :)

Well, mom finally had time to sit down and tally up the cost of the shower in Virginia and send me the final damage. We both owe her $105 for all the food and decorations. I still don't think she charged us for everything...it's expensive to feed that many people. I know the Alabama shower was about that much and we had half the people!! Mom also split it with us so it wasn't as bad as it could have been! :) I wrote her a check earlier this week for both of our shares so they could go ahead and deposit it...I know they spent a lot on the wedding, and although I'm sure they are fine without it.....I thought it might be nice for them to get a little back!!I'm pretty sure you have my address but here it is again....just incase!

It was great getting to know you a little better at the wedding. Marie comes from a very nice family! Take care and have a good weekend!!Kind regards, Janine

I left a party last night in Astoria, late, alone, going back to my apartment in Williamsburg. For those who do not live in New York, this is known as a long-ass fucking way home. This was about 1AM, and I was at the mercy of two different trains. One of which I watched go past me as I was two blocks away from the subway. And thus now I had to decide whether or not to spend the hour getting home or using the small amount of money this Starving Artist had left on an overpriced cab.

I was at this party for the networking opportunities, supposedly. When you are a freelancer, and one with tenuous job prospects at the moment, you will go ridiculously far to meet and chat up people who might get you work, such as, - Hey, so I know this guy I used to work with on Law and Order, now hes doing something on Comedy Central now, a lot of the crew will be there, told me about this party, its in an abandoned warehouse down by the river, want to come? And sure, I could stay home, my broke ass on the couch watching 70s sci-fi films and lamenting the fact that I have no steady employment. But no, its time to go and network.

Seriously, its mind-numbing, not to mention brain-sucking, not to mention just plain boring half the time. When you go to a party to network, they cease being any fun and become more like a game. I can hear people to my right and left discussing the Communist overtones of The Smurfs or what their favorite new book is, but meanwhile I get stuck talking to the guy who works for the guy who runs The Sopranos about such scintillating topics like his car or the really amusing (but not) stunt his bridge-and-tunnel roommates pulled last weekend when they were, quote, really wasted. Meanwhile I calculate in my head how much longer I can put up with this before asking him if his company is hiring and whose email can I get ahold of to bombard with witty messages about why they should hire me.

I have friends, mostly in LA, who are extremely good at this. They work at agencies and production companies, and live in LA, so being fake-nice to people who can further your career is pretty much second nature to them. No offense to anyone in LA, but yeah, you know what I mean. Anyways, they have this mastery of looking so increfdibly competent and creative that people remember them and want to work with them, and it’s not easy to do. I myself have found good phrases to throw in include new project, the producer said, meetings, and crazy busy. I happen to be pretty bad at this skill. I often wonder if I should maybe be proud that I am unable to do fake-speak and am unable to feign interest in boring, but important, people. Then the answer comes - No, I really shouldnt be. Morals and scruples are for those with a steady income and a career that they can be proud of. The rest of us can't afford it. To shorten this ever increasing rant, networking can be extremely tiring, and this is why I left this party in Queens at 1AM. Of course nothing was accomplished, so I treated myself to a $15 cab ride for absolutely nothing. Raise another glass for the young and disillusioned.

Tonight is my first Diary of a Pauper blog entry. I have toyed with the idea of artists as cannibals in New York City or Los Angeles , devouring agents, producers, editors, underpaid editorial assistants, and overpaid personal assistants who seemingly take pleasure in rejecting fiction submissions, artwork, demos, and director's reels.

What if artists treated those in power like they treated us? What if artists never returned power brokers' phone calls and e-mails? If young writers or musicians treated their agents with disdain, treating them like spoiled children who needed a spanking, I think they'd at least consider their tone of voice.

I often times think of (bad) agents and others behind the scenes as child prodigies gone wild. They were once talented or believed to be talented children and teens (overbearing stage parents optional) who grew up to exact vengeance on other creative souls. This might be a very bleak picture, but visit a random office in New York and soak up the energy oozing underneath the door. It's easy to walk away from the wheeling and dealing, more difficult to make it work in the entertainment/media industry.

In a parallel universe, I cast agents and others who control artists' destinies in a production reminiscent of Mad Max meets Gladiator meets The Hounds of Baskerville wherein the aforementioned power brokers have to fight for their lives in an arena or coliseum against artists they've wronged or ignored, or run for their lives in a thick, wooded forest from hybrid artists/hounds with fangs and claws hell-bent on devouring their flesh and souls. I don't know if there'd be prizes for outlasting the combatants in the arena, or making it safely to the end of the forest. I'll think about that for my next entry.

ScribeNYC is a contributing author to The Diary of a Pauper, a Freelance Writer/Editor, and Creative Writing Instructor in NYC. His feature articles, film, and dance reviews have appeared online, and in various print magazines. He writes and edits commercial and literary fiction, creative non-fiction, and screenplays. He's the moderator and a participant of Morningside Writers Group.