So instead I'm working for The Man. Well, not lately. I work in non-profit. But before that, I had some terrible jobs. Over the years, I've tried a lot of jobs-successfully and unsuccessfully. I've exaggerated my resume by giving myself a degree in Physics (which surprise, later got me fired), worked for criminals, been chased, shot at, degraded, sexually harassed, adored, promoted, bitten/clawed, forced to wear polyester, witnessed violence, been heckled by children, and ordered to work in a dank, dark, windowless room making silk flower arrangements. Ok, I made up the last one.
Here's my top 5 worst jobs:
1. My first cocktail waitressing job was at a frat bar that had a clientele comprised of macho buffoons, their dumb-as-a-box-of-hair girlfriends, and skanky bar flys (male and female). The owner hired me because I had "great tits". While I worked there an employee was raped, another chugged a bottle of jagermeister and refused to cook with his clothes on, I hit a man in the face with a bottle after he punched his girlfriend, and I was guaranteed at least one incident of inappropriate groping plus a pitcher of puke to clean up each night. Oh yeah...and I made shit money.
2. I worked a string of activist jobs when I was younger. Yes, door-to-door canvassing. It didn't sound that hard. All you had to do was elicit money from strangers after disturbing them at their homes. And if that wasn't enough, you also had to make a nightly quota or risk getting the ax. I didn't have a lot of success at first until I started making stuff up. I'd ask people what their favorite charity was, and then say I was part of that organization. However, this does not work if the person thinks the NRA is a charity. Said person might pull out his rifle, point it at you, and then send his dog to chase/attack/maim you.
3. Ok, technically this wasn't a paying job, more like court-mandated community service for shoplifting (as a teen). When you are a prolific shoplifter and steal from 14 different mall stores while on a bender, you're bound to get a generous amount of community service hours. And in the case of my partner, a generous amount of bitch slaps to the face and body. The judge may believe you have a demon inside you, so he sends you to a Lutheran church to fulfill your obligation. Cleaning the pews is actually relaxing and gives me time to fantasize about being a backup singer for Siouxsie Sioux. Giving those little privileged brats pony rides in a muddy, pony toilet bowl ring was not.
4. Who doesn't love animals? Why not try a career as a Veterinary Technician or Assistant? I'll tell you why. a) Because it's depressing. You might have to drag a just-euthanized Mastiff down the hall on a blanket (it weights 250lbs) and get someone to help you shove it into a freezer. b) There is always at least one cat who will stalk and attack you every chance it gets. c) Animals can produce a remarkable amount of waste no matter their size and d) Veterinarians. What a bunch of assholes.
5. This one is a tie. Telemarketing and working at a fast food restaurant. There's nothing sadder than this: Cold-calling the old and not very bright folks, telling them they're won a free month at a gym, and subsequently hearing the absolute joy and excitement in their voices. Hell 1, Jenny 0.
Since high school, I've had only one other fast food job. It lasted 2 days. The restaurant had a vintage feel, its well-worn restaurant equipment probably built in the 50's. It felt very waspy and I was afraid to use the drinking fountain for fear they'd tell me I had to use the one for "non-whites". The scariest contraption was a manual french fry cutter. It was a giant silver monolith with an imposing weighted lever, a shiny waffle-pattern grille, and what looked to be an execution block. While holding the potato in position on the grill (suspended over a sink full of water), the operator would need to quickly and forcibly pull down the heavy lever to cut the potato into french fry-like strips. This had to be done in quick sucession and repitition, yielding 75 lbs when completed.
I was opposed to the idea and had refused on a couple of occassions. A manager type escorted me to the machine in an attempt to prove it was safe and "no big deal". To my horror, he began to tell a series of pointless jokes and stories. When he stopped abruptly, I assumed he had run out of material. Nope, he had cut of part of his little finger and it was now floating among the cut potatoes. The man working the grill casually assessed the situation and yelled to the floor manager, "We've got a floater!" Cue emergency procedure consisting of everyone yelling, blood squirting, procurement of ice-filled dixie cup (for the finger), and finally followed by me running out the door never to return my company shirt.
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