Smoky Man and Gary Spencer Millidge, �Alan Moore: Portrait of an Extraordinary Gentleman�
- Something I brought to Hawaii that I should have left behind: My big Swamp Thing statue. Not that I don�t like it, but because it broke in the mail.
- Something that I left behind that I could use right about now: A J.O.B.
Before I jumped on the plane, one of the lesbians asked what I planned to do for work. I told her about the financial aid and that I�ve saved enough to pay rent for at least two months. �Besides,� I told her, �I�m not too concerned about finding work, as I can do pretty much anything.�
After a beat I added, �Not that I�m being pompous. I just mean that in terms of working, I have no shame.�
After I switched my student standing to unclassified status, I discovered unclassified students are not eligible for financial aid. I originally thought I would take a job on campus, but found I�m not eligible for campus jobs either � unless I take four classes. I�m only taking two classes this semester, because that was all I could afford on my credit card. Joseph Heller Strikes Again.
So I have to look elsewhere for work. Since I got here, however, the purple has taken its sweet fucking time washing out of my hair. That�s certainly curbed a lot of the prospects.
Mother, now is not the time for �I told you so�s.� Thank you.
But while biking around the area between my home and work, I came across a little store and walked in to browse around. There weren�t many people inside and I started chatting with the woman behind the counter. Soon she was asking what area of the mainland I came from and what I was studying, and seemed genuinely interested in my answers. On a whim, I asked if they were hiring.
�Can you work nights?� she asked.
�Yes,� I said.
�Weekends?�
�No problem.�
She raised her arms toward the sky and started singing. �Hallelujah!� she cried, over and over again. �I�m going to tell the boss about you tomorrow morning. Can you bring a r�sum� in?�
�I�ll need to type one up, but that�s no problem.�
�Do it. Make sure you do it. He�s been talking about putting an ad in the paper next week, so this will be perfect!�
And what is this place, you ask?
Nosy little fucker, aren�t you?
It�s a used bookstore.
Oh dear god.
The next day, however, turned out to be a holiday of some sort. They�re fond of holidays here, as we�ve already had two. My campus, and therefore the computer lab on campus, was closed. I had to find a Kinko�s and pay by the second to draft up a piss-poor r�sum�. But the woman at the store loved me. I even ran into her again and she leveled her finger at me, telling me I�d better come in the next day.
The owner, however, wasn�t as enamored. As (bad) luck had it, he was swamped with a book buy when I came in. Eventually, he said I could just drop off the paperwork.
I didn�t want that. If I�m being judged by appearance alone, I�m fucked. I hung around and eventually got to tell him about what I�ve done for the last five years, what I�m doing with school, and how much I know and love books.
He didn�t look impressed. I saw the ad in the paper the next week. I stopped in again to hand in a letter of recommendation from my old boss, and he said he�d be going through the applications next week.
Which should be finished right about now. After I finish this entry and a paper for my journalism class I�ll check with him one more time, but I don�t hold out much hope.
So I started looking again. While checking with the local papers I noticed that the alternative weekly was looking for writers to cover the bar and club scene.
Kee-rist, that�s even better than the bookstore gig! And it�s something I did in England! I gathered my clips, wrote a proper r�sum�, attached a cover letter explaining that while it might seem poor judgment to send a newcomer to cover local culture, this is what I did in England and I walk in to each place with no preconceptions or biases. I sent off my materials to the publication.
And I haven�t heard anything. When I finish with this entry and the paper, and checking with the bookstore, I need to write the editor and see if he received my material.
While reading past issues of this magazine to get a feel of what they looked for in a writer, I found an article on a local club called Pink Cadillac, which catered toward the goths, death-rockers, and freaks. The lesbians took me to a local dive bar called The Hideaway that turned out to be next to this club. I excused myself and walked over the Goth club.
It was late, and I was hoping that the five dollar cover charge might have been lifted, as I didn�t have five bucks to spare and just wanted to look around. It wasn�t. �Ah, it�s only five bucks,� the doorman said, �What�s five bucks?�
�At this point, it�s about everything I own,� I told him.
After a bit more conversation, I asked if they were hiring. �You know, I think we are,� he said. �The boss needs somebody to pick up empty bottles, empty ashtray�s, clean up booths��
�You need a barback. I can totally barback.�
He took me upstairs and made the introductions. Things seemed to go well, with him asking my schooling and past employment. He seemed pleased when I said I was available any night, and that I lived less than a ten-minute bike ride away. He had me write down some basic information like my social security and phone number.
One problem there � I don�t have a phone. He takes my e-mail instead. Two days later I pop in again. The place is really busy this night, but he recognized me when I approached. I gave him the lesbian�s phone number in case he wanted to call. He had my information right at the bar � no searching through piles of forgotten papers. I took that as a good sign.
Two days ago I stopped in again, this time as a customer. We talked a little more, and I discovered the club is going to start a punk night with DJ�s. I told him about the stuff I did at the Cinebar.
�Vinyl or CD?� he asked. I told him about the vinyl.
�Did you bring any over with you?�
�I brought most of it. In fact, I shipped over three crates worth of records, almost all of it punk.�
�OK, well, that isn�t going to start for another few months, but I�ll keep that in mind!�
I still haven�t heard from him. When I finish with this entry and the paper, and checking with the bookstore and e-mailing the editor from the weekly to see if he�s received my material, I need to go back to the club and see if they really need a barback.
Last week I again went searching through the city on my bike. While going to the huge mall near Waikiki to look around, I walk past one of those angst-filled stores catering for the young rebel. While passing, I see a sign in the window saying �Now Hiring.�
�No,� I think to myself with finality.
Then I remember that I�ve finished 24 packages of Top Ramen in the last month.
I turn around and enter the store.
In an impromptu interview of sorts, I notice that compared to the other employees with the huge full back tattoos, millions of facial piercings, and the guy that has the goatee thing that�s even longer than that guy from Anthrax, I look like a conservative fuddy-duddy.
Which I guess I am, if I say things like �fuddy-duddy.� Dawg.
I go back for a real interview, though they apparently have so many applicants they have us go through a group interview to weed out the retarded. Besides myself, there is the girl who looks 17 and has never worked retail in her life, and the guy who looks either like a football player, or a fratboy with close-cropped hair and a pullover collared preppy shirt. To try and punk it up a little, he had a small wristband with spikes on it, which looked totally out of place and goofy and he probably borrowed it from his little sister. Or Rob Halford from Judas Priest.
Our interviewer starts asking each of us different questions. I�m not sure, but mine seemed easier than others. She seems pleased with my answers. When the interview is winding down she tells us that they receive 25 applications a day, so they can�t call everybody back. She looks at the 17-year old. �We should have our decision finalized in two weeks. If you don�t hear from us, you can assume that you didn�t get the position.� She looks at the jock. �But if you have any questions, feel free to call us and talk to us about it.� She doesn�t look at me until she�s switched to a different topic.
Dear god, I might have this job. Working in a mall. Listening to pseudo-punk at a ridiculous volume. Selling Anarchy t-shirts for 18 dollars. I think of how I can sabotage this.
�I have a question � what exactly are the laws dealing with age of consent here? Oh, and I plan to inform every customer that it can�t be considered rebellion when you�re paying prices this outrageous, is that OK? Also, on the application you asked about felonies, but that�s only if you�ve been convicted, right? Finally, I�d just like to say, go fuck yourself.�
But Top Ramen overkill and the threat of scurvy keep my mouth shut.
They called me back yesterday, saying they needed a different number from my job at De Anza. This means my application is being taken seriously. And now that I�m finished writing this entry, I have to go drop off the information that they need.
And since I�m actually out of Top Ramen, and I just received a credit card bill that has a minimum payment of $75.00, I�m going to do that before all those other things I need to do.
Imagine how I feel about this.
ENDNOTES: Thanks to Siona who just bought three of my books though you didn't give me your address, honey. That's what I need, more people buying my books. Holy fuckfire, why don't I have more fans on my buddylist? I need to get hooked up with 12% Beer or something. I'll even sleep my way onto the list, but please don't start me off with Disco the Kid.
