On special assignment for the CIA

It was hotter today than yesterday, and you might remember that yesterday was frickin' hot. It wasn't quite as miserable, because I brought more water than yesterday, and drenched a rag and wrapped it around my head like an Arab. We had fewer and better behaved panhandlers than yesterday, too, and the ones closest to my stand were on acid I think, or some drug that made them very mellow indeed.

Working a block from U-Cal Berkeley, the concourse on a sunny day is crowded with pretty co-eds, in super short-shorts and bra-less sleeve-less low-cut tops designed to accentuate the cleavage. Presumably there are male students at the university, too. I wouldn't know.

Of course, I haven't got a hint of a possibility of a fraction of a ghost of a sliver of a hope of a chance with any of those lovely women, but everybody loves a parade, or so it's said. Personally, I hate parades, but a parade of short-shorts and halter tops made it a nice day in the sunshine.

♦ ♦ ♦

Jay wants me to sell fish five days a week, at least for the next two weeks, to see how business goes. This is good news, in theory, because I like being the fish guy and money is tight. I'm not sure I want to do anything five days a week, though. I quit at Macy's to get away from doing the same thing five days every week. But… as an experiment, I'll give it a go.

Being Jay's full-time fisherman means I can't be Judith's part-time maid, because there's no way I'm coming home from one job to work another. So I asked Judith, and she says I can pay rent and skip out on the housework for two weeks, and after that, we'll see. Selling fish is more fun than scrubbing toilets anyway, and the rent Judith's asking is still less than at Pike's place.

The biggest problem is that Judith's house is such a mess, if nobody cleans it up, the dust and dog hairs and cat poop might choke me in my sleep.

♦ ♦ ♦

Pike left a voice-mail, wondering where I'm at. "Have you been kidnapped? Are you in jail? Are you on special assignment for the CIA? Drop by and say hi, dude. I have some good buds, and oh yeah, I got a job."

Congrats on the new job, Pike. Tell me all about it some time, but…

He's my flatmate in San Francisco, but I haven't told him I'm moving out. He's not the kind of person who'd kick my door down and sell or trash my meager possessions, but I'm not sure at all about his girlfriend. She's a junkie, and I wouldn't put anything past her, so why take a chance?

My plan is to leave without telling them at all. I'll give them notice I'm leaving when they notice I've left.

From Pathetic Life #13
Sunday, June 25, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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