Work?

Right now, our nation is in economic turmoil. People are losing their jobs right and left, and big companies, the ones that aren’t going belly-up that is, are laying off large chunks of their work force. The United States is staring down the worst recession in eighty years, and I’m starting anew in a California economy running on life support after a writers strike and an impending actors strike. I am so grateful to have a job right now, you have no idea, even if it is a job meant for seventeen-year olds that need gas money so they can drive to their magic shows or buy magazines to flip through or whatever the hell it is kids do these days for fun.

Tonight was my first night of work. Myself, along with the other one they hired on to do the job had an evening of training. One of the coordinators (think assistant manager) sat us down and went through a packet of information that told us all the ins and outs of the job. We each took a turn reading a paragraph; similar to what you probably remember doing when you were in second grade. Remember how you would groan and roll your eyes when it came time for the kid to read that had problems with all consonants and you just could not wait for them to finish so that someone competent could do their thing and continue the march of time? The other hire had a tough time getting through his first paragraph. It took approximately three minutes longer than it should have to navigate to the space break. He fumbled over words like “similar” and “greeting.” Whatever. I’ve already seen the fruits of the labor of the California school system. This does not come as shocking, simply disappointing.

I proceeded to read my paragraph with the utmost of ease. Thanks for reading to me when I was younger, Mom. Also, for not giving me Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

Then it came time for the coordinator to read (remember: coordinator=assistant manager). The coordinator was having just as much trouble as the other new hire getting through his paragraph. That was disheartening for several reasons. But you, dear reader, probably see this as disheartening for your own reasons, so I’ll let you fill in the blanks yourself.

After writing my signature and date multiple times on several different sheets of paper regarding protocol we didn’t actually go over, it was time for hands-on training. I liken it to taking center stage at a Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus show, but I have been known to embellish things before, and this time is no exception.

Tonight, we were trained on how to seat guests of the theater. This involves waiting for a guest to arrive with a ticket, walking them up the aisles to their designated row and seat, march back down the stairs and proceed to wait for the next guest. That’s it. And I’m getting paid $9.00 an hour to do it. I worked at a grocery store as an assistant manager for that rate, where a slow day consisted of doing the nightly bookwork, hopping on a cash register when lines got too long, running stock, solving any grievances that came up regarding a food stamp card that had been used so many times the electronic strip would no longer read, and keeping a Bosnian from cracking the skull of some black guy with a tire iron. I worked at a meat packing plant for $9.00 an hour with a man from Laos named Tom Rasavong (enough said). Now I’m getting paid $9.00 to show people to their seats at a movie maybe a dozen times an hour. Once all the movies go in, there is nothing required of me until it’s time for a movie to let out, at which time I open the door and thank people for frequenting our theater. It feels like there is more that I need to be doing. Should I be building something? Maybe do some high dusting? Any pedophiles in a van out front I need to call the cops on? Nope. I was told just to seat and not worry about anything else. After the shows have started, I find myself wandering in and out of theaters, watching tidbits of several different movies over the course of my shift. Within the first week I’ll have probably watched the semi truck flip over in “The Dark Knight” at least two dozen times. I’m strangely drawn to “Vicki Christina Barcelona.” I’m not a huge Woody Allen fan and had never actually seen one of his films until a couple years ago when a certain someone turned me on to them. Yet, I keep coming in time and again to watch it. Maybe it’s because the other movies playing right now include some snobby French film called, “Tell No One,” that has such overt symbolism it would make Oliver Stone blush, a documentary called, “Man On Wire,” (which I predict you will come to know as an Academy Award winning film in 2009) that is really a movie you don’t want to just jump into select parts of (plus, it too, has a glut of French people in it), “Bottle Shock,” a movie about wine (again, too French), “Traitor,” starring Don “Hey, Remember When I Was Bankable In Everything? Remember?” Cheadle, and “Mister Foe,” a movie starring the boy that was Billy Elliot.

As things would have it, I made my first industry connections at Mister Foe. I seated two gentlemen the next night, whose names were Brian Taggert, a writer, and Bob Thompson, a producer. After asking if I were in actor, I explained to them that no, I was a stunt performer/ writer. If I had still had my nametag from the Santa Monica rooftop pool party, there would not have been any question as to what I was. Nevertheless, we chatted until the movie started, exchanged information, and made plans to talk in the future.

When the call of duty is not calling for me and I’m not sneaking in to watch The Joker perform a magic trick, I talk to the other people I work with. Most are high school kids; some are young community college upstarts. As I do so, I carry somewhat an heir of superiority about me, coming as no surprise to anyone that has ever talked to me. However, this is different because I feel this job and the current situation is below me. Yet, seeing as how this is the only job I’m apparently qualified for, maybe my erudition is falsely acquired. Maybe this is exactly where I belong. No, that’s not true. I know the difference between a nickel and a quarter, and I also know not to put them in my mouth and swallow them (we’ll keep working on that one, Max. Remember, baby steps). But hey, it’s a start. Something to keep me in Los Angeles until something more up my alley comes along.

Returning home to the hostel, Ruby and Rose were already asleep, as it was past 8:00. Both need approximately ten hours of sleep a night, and then they awaken early so they can get a start on tilling. That left me alone with a glum Sait. He was sitting at the dining room table, catching up on episodes of “24.” I went up and asked, “Hey Sait. How was your day?”

“I miss Marko,” was his response.

Poor guy. Sait arrived from Turkey around the same time Marko showed up in California andboth hit it off immediately. They would wake up at the same time, spend practically every waking moment together, and both turned in at the same time every night. They were inseparable—like Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, or Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar, or Jay and Skittles. Now, circumstance has driven them apart.

Fortunately, during one of my breaks at work—okay, not so much a break as it was down time—I made a Marko finger puppet for Sait and that kept him busy for hours.

You Get Job!

Round two of the job interview went down today. This time I had to face down the manager known as Nida. After a grueling twenty minutes of interview questions, she handed me my first job in California—floor staff at The Landmark Theatre. Mark this momentous occasion, September 8, 2008, on your calendars, people. I was informed I was one of two people to make the cut. Take that all you high school sophomores and juniors. I took your job. Guess you’ll have to bum marijuana cigarettes off mommy and daddy for a little bit longer.

For whatever reason, I felt pretty good about myself after this slight victory, so I celebrated. On my drive back up Pico, I hit up a Ralphs and bought a half-gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of chicken.

The celebration continued. Remember the greasy longhaired ponytail guy? He was pretty confident that he dropped a $100 dollar Go America! bill through a crack in the patio in the back yard of the hostel, so I watched him for about half an hour, bent over, ass crack peeking out over his faded black jeans, trying to retrieve this imaginary money with a car antennae smeared with cake frosting on the tip. Even after I lost interest in the spectacle, he continued on, pursuing this $100 bill well into the early hours of the next morning. I also couldn’t help but think that if instead of trying to retrieve this money, if he went out and worked for a day or two, he could recoup his loss. But I think he worked a day already this month, so maybe the antennae/frosting technique is the best alternative.

This job couldn’t have come at a better time. For one, Ruby and Rose will be leaving at the end of the week, so I’m going to need something to do to while away the time. For two, I’m practically broke. I have just about enough money to return to Iowa on, which I don’t want to do. It’s only been a month. I still want to try my best to survive at least until the first of the year out here.

Although later that night, a harsh reality set in—Marko informed us he was heading back to New Jersey. It was abrupt and came out of nowhere. We were all stunned. His plane was to leave early the next morning. Previously, he had been working part-time on a paint crew run by a distant relation. This job was not proving viable to pay for the extremely high cost of living out here. Having already lost Hiro, losing Marko was another constant exiting the hostel.

Such is life; people entering and exiting on a whim. By the end of the week, Ruby and Rose will be leaving. We have cell phone numbers. We have emails. We’ll stay in touch. But it won’t ever be the same. We’ll always have that special bond of the six glorious weeks we spent living the hostel life together, and who knows? Maybe our lives will intertwine again. Stranger things have happened. But no matter what, it won’t be the same as it was. Such is life.