Trapped in the abyss

Okay, now for the cathartic part, wherein I attempt to escape from hell by confronting the beast or, in this case, beasts of my day job past. So, without further ado, I'd like to chronicle in approximate order, the actual jobs I've endured over the years. Maybe you can relate.

It all began during one hot as hell summer in Texas (symbolic, yes) at the age of 12. My job: to clean out the warehouse of my uncle's underground sprinkling company. I got paid a full day's work, however, I think I only put in a few hours of actual labor, as it was just too damn hot. And besides, I had Space Invaders to kill at home. The days of Atari bliss would soon end though, as the next summer I graduated to working on the crew of said company, calling ourselves "Underground Irrigational Engineers" for fun. Of course, there was nothing fun about it. In short, we were ditch diggers. Not a bad job for a teenager, as it paid well, but it was hard work. Imagine spending your summer in above 100 degree heat in a muddy trench for 8 hours a day, and you'll have some inkling as to what it was like. They used to nickname me the "waterboy", partly because of my penchant for visiting the water jug every chance I could get, and partly as a jab for being the boss's nephew. Besides a few friends, the rest of the crew was made up of Mexican laborers and ex-cons needing a legitimate job to pay for beer and cigarettes. The Mexicans worked their asses off, while the ex-cons mostly got high and made us "waterboys" do all the dirty work. Of course, there was a pay-off at the end of each day, "beer-thirty" as it was called, where we would be treated to the finer things in life like, well, cheap beer and the real stories of the trailer trash set. The ex-cons always had tales about horrible initiations into motorcycle gangs, doing time, and what life was generally like at the bottom of the economic ladder. The stories would usually end with some tidbits of wisdom such as, stay in school, don't do what I did kid, then a demonstration of how to light a zippo by snapping your fingers. I still use that trick to this day. At the time, I was also going to drama class a few days a week at the Dallas Theatre Center, showing up for rehearsal in my dirty clothes to upstage all the freshly scrubbed no-talent rich kids. I was definitely playing Pony Boy to their "soc" money. But I digress.

I had several gigs during high school. I flipped burgers and scooped ice cream for a fast food chain in the south. I spent much of my time trying to get lucky in the ice cream freezer with a girl who worked there. In my fantasies, I like to think we melted a few gallons. I delivered pizza in my "Bug", racing my friend in his Camaro to see who could deliver the most pies in a night. I usually won. But, I have to say, the most memorable gig was as a bus boy at this haunted restaurant. It was a converted railroad boxcar that, as the story goes, was put on top of where a church used to be, but had been demolished after a preacher was allegedly murdered there. Whatever the truth, the place was definitely home to a poltergeist or spirit of some kind. I could tell you some stories, but then I'd never finish this blog. Let's see, I also waited on tables, roofed businesses in Dallas, and spent one whole summer just before college building pre-fab homes. We built four a day on an assembly line. I moved from routing windows and dodging nails from the nail guns the workers were using on the roof (no, we didn't have hard hats), to being in charge of assembling the plumbing. I was 17, and only one of a few at the plant who could read blue prints; a skill I acquired from my underground engineering days.

While attending college, I worked at a fast food seafood restaurant, and if there ever was a motivation to get a degree in this world, having to clean the grease vats out at the end of the night, which took forever, would be it. Not to mention that, afterwards, if you still had any energy to go to a party, you smelled like day old fish and chips. What else, oh yes, I loaded trucks at a dog food packing plant. That was loads of fun, no pun intended. My supervisor was an ex-Marine drill sergeant, so every day was like the opening scenes in Full Metal Jacket. Yes, these drill sergeants are really that hysterically funny and scary all at the same time. Next, I got a job loading trucks for a large chain of drugstores throughout the U.S. The only positive thing I can say about this phase of my day job hell is that I stayed in shape. From there I got into the movie business. Not as a player, of course, but as a counter. My job was to count the number of patrons at a given movie theater and compare that number with the number of tickets sold. After having to watch Back to the Future II twenty times in a row, I quit. I then stumbled upon another interesting gig maintaining candy displays at convenience stores throughout the DFW area. Yes, there are such jobs.

It was at this point, I entered what I like to call my Tarantino phase, working at various video stores as the resident film geek. It didn't pay much, but I got to see lots and lots of movies for free. And I don't care how cliche it's become, it IS the poor man's film school. After this, I entered my Glengarry Glen Ross phase by working as a salesman at various telemarketing outfits in LA. I was a "toner pirate"(don't ask), a salesman for various collection agencies, and eventually wound up selling free government information to hapless callers suckered in by those, "tiny classified ads" in the back of newspapers and magazines. I then moved up to customer service, then customer service "Manager". I've had too many "temp" jobs to count, and also did time at a financial planning company (more like a cult, but that's another story), where I spent the majority of my time instant messaging my friend, another writer, about potential movie ideas. Oh, and I also played a lot of Doom and surfed the Internet. While all of this was going on, I actually managed to get paid a little for my writing. Now I'm in education, and thinking of getting a teaching credential, something I probably should have done ten years ago. Of course, by now I thought I'd be rich and famous which precludes the notion of having a secure job for my future. Now that the future is here, and I'm not rich and famous, I'm rethinking my whole strategy. I've got a lot of experience, but nothing really to show for it except the experience. And the stories I guess. It's ironic, but after all this time of being a writer, I've never really written about my own life. They always say, "write what you know". Well, if all you know is day job hell, then... I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me, I have an idea for a script...

Some time in the near future... Part Three: Escape from the abyss

Part One: Into the abyss

Recently, I've been thinking about day jobs. You know, those boring life-sucking gigs we as artists have to endure while we pursue our dreams. Of course, this got me thinking about my own experiences in day job hell over the years and, unfortunately, how I've yet to escape. Now I have to say, going back through the mists of time trying to recall all of these jobs has been no easy task(I've had a lot of them, as you'll soon read), but that really wasn't the hardest part. One of the most difficult parts of this exercise was accepting that I've done all of these things, but have nothing tangible to show for it. No real estate or investments or cool cars, absolutely nothing of monetary value for all my toil and trouble. All I have are memories and lots and lots of real life experience in the trenches(literally). But even this wasn't as painful as coming to the realization that these gigs have somehow defined my life despite my best attempts to think otherwise. See, I've always had this silly perception of being more, or better, than what I've come from or done and, therefore, not defined by my own experiences. I was a so-called "artiste" in denial. Well, the illusion I've created for myself has vanished into oblivion. I feel like a fucking alcoholic who's suddenly had a moment of clarity. How cliche, but there it is. And I must say, clarity sucks.

Yes, I've come to the painful realization that I am exactly what I've come from and experienced. My art, my craft, and my life in day job hell are inextricably linked. Bound together in ways I never contemplated before until just now. I think this is what they call in psychology, "growth". I call it, "being scared shitless with the terrifying reality of reality". Whatever it is, I now know that I cannot separate my real self from my perceived self. This may seem obvious to some, but to an artist it's not. At least not to me. The illusion and denial kept me going during the toughest times in day job hell and, without it, I wouldn't have survived. Now I'm staring into the abyss of my own hell, trying to find a catharsis in the midst of this horrifying revelation. Care to step off with me?

To be continued...