Parting Shot
On Money, and How I Get It
By Mark J. Lucas |
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I've had a lot of jobs.
A lot of jobs.
I hate to burst the bubble of any potential writers out there, but the pay isn't astronomical. Don't get me wrong, I'm well-paid for what I do, but it isn't a fortune. I'm not sure what Vogue pays, but I'm sure Carrie from Sex in the City must have been stealing from that parade of men, because there's no way a single column pays for a Manhattan brownstone. If they'd pay me in the upper six figures to write about how hot women can't find men, I'd be drinking martinis three meals a day, too, but that day hasn't come. I do it because I love it, and as such, I have had many side jobs to supplement my income.
Take Babies 'R' Us, for example. At the time, they paid eight bucks an hour and we got a check every week. What I didn't know is that it was akin to working on the bomb squad. God forbid we should be out of Baby Italia cribs. Now I've got a woman screaming at me in Spanish, and she's not even Hispanic. Her husband is then forced to yell at me, too, as if I'm hiding the product in the back, because I love it when people yell at me. I'm pretty sure he was just yelling at her, through me, like I'm some kind of frustration lightning rod. All of this takes place under 20 million candlepower lights to the soothing sounds of Michael McDonald, Aaron Neville and Kenny G.
Contributing writer, Mark Lucas
Then, there was the debt relief call center. Yeah, that was great.
"Hi, Lerlene. My name is Mark Lucas, from Debt Elimination Servi-hello? Hello?"
"Hi, Levant. My name is Mark Lucas, from Debt Elimi-hello? Hello?"
"Hi, Candy. My name is Mark-hello? Hello...hello?"
For eight hours a day. Good thing they paid me on commission. It allowed me to "make as much money as I was really worth," which to them was, evidently, nothing.
Working as a waiter was interesting. Somehow I was supposed to buy into the idea that the gentleman at the table in front of me, proudly clad in the Dale Earnhardt memorial T-shirt, was a feudal lord of some sort, as he and his brood would burn their assistance check ordering me about as if they were the only ones in the T.G.I. Friday's that Sunday afternoon.
"More ranch!" they would command, as I ran about with their draft beers in suspenders and a striped shirt. It's a low moment when you and three cooks from the Chili's next door find yourselves out back smoking cigarettes in total despair, earnestly reminding yourselves that at least none of you had to wear roller skates like the waiters at Sonic Burger.
By the way, any employee who has ever been in charge of cleaning a bathroom has said this aloud:
"What the f#@*?! On the wall?! What the hell is wrong with people?!"
And that's the women's restroom.
And the list continues:
Library Clerk - quiet, boring, pay was terrible.
Welder - horrific burns, couldn't stand listening to ICP all day.
Bus Survey Taker - got robbed.
MC for a burlesque troupe - like I told my girlfriend: "It was appalling, the way those women were parading themselves around! It isn't worth the $300 per night they paid me, plus free beer. Worst three hours of my life. All I thought about was how much I missed you."
My friend had a job as a phone dominatrix. Rich guys would call her up and have her yell at them on the phone about how stupid they were, and how they weren't real men...for $4 per minute! Then she'd tell them to wear women's panties to work, and then call them an idiot for actually doing it. She even pulled a move called "financial domination", whereby she would hang up on them half way through the call, turn her rate up to $45 per minute, and then when they'd call back, she'd tell them that they'd just been ripped off, AND THEY LOVED IT! Remember that. Somewhere there's a businessman, in his office, wearing women's underwear, being shouted at on the phone by someone for $4 per minute. He could be your boss.
It just goes to show you, if you can get rich people to buy something, you'll make money. Pets, too. If you can invent a dog sweater or a cat calendar or something, you're golden. Wedding stuff makes you huge money. Ever priced one of those cakes? My cousin paid more for her wedding cake than she paid for her car. Then there's scrapbooking. If I spent what some people do on scrapbooking, the only pictures in the thing would be of me crying into my checkbook. I'm gonna open up a store that sells nothing but pet stuff, wedding supplies and scrapbooking material. I'll call it Moneybags.
Aw, who am I kidding? I'll never stop doing this. I love my job, and I think the reason I appreciate it so much is because I've had so many bad jobs before it. Not that I wouldn't appreciate this job if I hadn't had bad jobs before it-that's not what I meant. Those other jobs were bad, but this one isn't bad-I don't mean it isn't bad. It isn't bad at all. It's great! It's wonderful! It's the best job in the world! Before, when I said it didn't pay a fortune, I didn't mean it. It is a fortune! Those other jobs meant nothing to me, good, bad, or otherwise, but in comparison to this job, they were all bad. Terrible. Here. Here's where I want to be. Nowhere else...
...please don't fire me.
I can't go back out there.
Those other jobs were hell.
Originally Published: August 1, 2009
