Oh yeah that thing! Jobs–the reason I put my boss in my will (Slightly scented)

                                                                                                                     Charles Bukowski- Circa…Circa something

By: Samwell Rockhouse

Jobs are a funny thing. I had my first job when I was
sixteen and I loved it. I prayed for the first one to be marked with cash, it
wasn’t. It felt like it though. I was a young kid growing up in the prestige of
a suburban white neighborhood, sucking on peppermints and calling my
grandmother every major holiday and even some that weren’t. My job life has
been pretty laid-back in terms of energy put forth. I have worked as a guy who
stands around more than ever. The standing around to not standing around is at
a mesmerizing 6:1. I just didn’t like to let people know that, so I lied and
said I worked at the power plant even though there wasn’t one around.

are the best way to make money. You could sell drugs or invite peasants into
your house and sell them at 9 cents a pop on eBay but that just doesn’t make
the world spin like it did in the Industrial Revolution days. I never
understood the meaning of living under a false profit. Get it? I have been
thinking a lot lately in between pork chop conversation and salad bars about
what the world will be like 20 years from now. I don’t think there will be as
much Jim’s and John’s. I definitely think more names like Tristan will show up
again. Ah, what the hell, let’s get back to the main topic of the night, jobs.
I have been through some pretty serious jobs. I’ve burned more bridges than I
care to exemplify. I’ve even taken merchandise and cared too much to give it
back (for inspirational purposes refer to Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends
and Influence People”). My first job was at a mail warehouse. It was at a
company called Mail Solutions. I walked around a giant machine that sorted mail
into different bins; I never learned what those bins were. Two black guys ran
the machine. One was really big, the other was really skinny. They were nice
and cared for the prosperity of the working body. I worked there during the
summer of 2004 and I loved it. I’d pull into the parking lot, ready to stand
around, turning off my car, halting the 311 that blasted through the speakers.
Let me talk about 311 for a minute before we delve deeper. No other band was
used more during my high school days as an introduction to smoking pot than
that band. I remember the wagons were loaded and the bowls were stacked, and
311 just seemed to get everyone in the mood to put their mouth to the pipe. I
was the one in the back, tallying up the number of times it was listened to
while another chose a cul-de-sac to do their pipe plunging. I laughed, and then
took care to handle the piece myself. I’d inhale then for some reason laugh
more than anybody in the entire car. I’d see a street sign and think that it
was funnier than the entire performance of YMCA. I’d build up a rigorous amount
of laughter and ruin other people’s highs and didn’t even seem to care (You
should have seen me at St. Luke’s Hospital. I was a walking car accident). Let’s
get back to the main event, the big spaghetti burp, the surrender that wasn’t
mentioned on D-Day, the reason I crease my pants before going diving—jobs. That
first job, that sweet smell that leaked through the air vents and caved in my
lungs—Ahhhh. I’ll have to tell you the worst experience there because it will
only bring two sticks together for beating and grunting.

One night, before work, before
standing around for six hours, I chose to drink vodka. Vodka killed my
identity, stole my girlfriend and slapped my favorite barnyard animal (We’re
called Barnyard Lampoon for a reason). It was my first time drinking Smirnoff’s
flavored vodka’s and it was going to be the last time when I threw up that
night. I was in the basement, sniffing air and bullying the patio concentrating
on what would drown out my liver and leave it talking in gargles and piss
tackles. After about 10 shots, I enjoyed the toilet, I mean, I really loved
just kneeling down and speaking the way cavemen wished they could talk. I just
spoke in the driest heaves that Bukowski ever dreamed of on FM. I woke up the
next morning, cloudy with a chance of hangover, pulling teeth and demonstrating
how a motorcycle becomes a human being, strictly illegal in every state but
Alaska. I drove in my car and it felt like my steering wheel was driving and my
pedal was loosely crying. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in the car. I drove to
work, pulling in the parking lot, listening to “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. and
looking at the warehouse. Six hours in the warehouse and sweating out the
alcohol, only fascinated me in a place that wasn’t my body.  I walked in, I avoided the clock, it was a
pressure point that would put me in the sleeper hold. I smiled a drunken smile
and stood by the high-pressure machine and watched the mail fly by me. I had no
idea what was going to happen but then it was evident. I felt a rise of energy
that felt like puke coming from below. I walked away and found the bathroom, a
white door without any kind of sign. It could have been the closet for all I
knew. I walked in, saw a toilet and made friends with it faster than anyone I
ever knew. I knelt down and stayed there for 15 minutes. Finally the floor
supervisor came in and saw me. I had forgotten to lock the door. I looked at
him like a poor, sickly fella who got struck by a hot, fast lightning bolt of

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“I don’t know.  I threw up.” I said in a tone that caught the
four o’clock news.

“Maybe you should go home” He said
in an indifferent voice.

I went home. I gathered up every ounce of trust I could get
out of the situation and headed on I-75. Maybe it was another highway. I have
forgotten my Kansas highways. I just say whatever comes to mind and the guy in
Kansas says, “Oh yeah, you mean I-435”. Yeah that’s what I meant. I
hypothetically kicked my car into overdrive and headed back home.

had some other jobs too. I worked at a few restaurants, a diabetic supplier, a
valet for a hotel, another mail job which I still work at. The restaurant jobs
sucked. If you’re anything above a waiter, you’re Hitler, if you’re anything
below, you’re a Nazi. The waiters rule the industry. I’d clean off tables with
half-drank milkshakes and car seats made for booth’s and have the hostess give
me a look that meant depravity.  It
worked something like that.  I’ve had
moments of complete non-clarity and made some stupid decisions but in the end I
learned to become a member of society. Is this the end? Surely not.I still have
to walk on the moon, pile drive a senator, open up a mountain dew with my mind,
dig a ditch for water preservation. Those aren’t considered jobs though. Jobs
are those things that have people that yell at you, tell you to work faster, require
Icy Hot’s, make television that much more stimulating, and give you two zero’s
in your paycheck. They are required to help you live and give you a place with
a roof and air conditioning. You better get a job, or else join the nudist
colonies. Everything is easier naked. Catch ya later kids.


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