From Pathetic Life #12
Saturday, May 13, 1995
Didn’t get to sleep until past midnight last night, and when sleep finally came, I dreamed that I couldn’t get to sleep.
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The alarm went off at 6AM, earliest I’ve set it for months, because I’d agreed to work for some guy starting at 7:00. Bused halfway to San Jose, and we moved everything out of his garage onto the yard for a big junk sale that started at 8:00, and then he said thanks, goodbye, and handed me a fivespot.
Uh, no sir, there’s a four hour minimum — but I paused for a moment, replayed our conversation on the phone from a few days ago, and realized I hadn’t mentioned the four-hour rule. I had assumed I was helping him all day, but that was my assumption, not something he’d said. So instead of making $40 or $50 for waking up so early, I got one measly hour’s pay, no tip, for an hour when I could’ve been sleeping.
My fault, though.
To avoid having this happen again, I wrote my spiel on an index card and taped it to the wall, including the bit about “You gotta pay me for at least four hours.” Problem solved for next time, long as I remember to read the index card while talking to prospective clients on the phone.
So it’s unexpectedly almost the whole day off, which I can’t really afford. Invited Pike’s cat into my room, because it’s always fun to watch her pounce and eat the roaches. Thought I’d write some zine reviews, but instead I’ve rewritten the above report twice, because I keep forgetting to save the file.
Sleep — don’t leave home without it.
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Whoops, so much for a day mostly off. There was a phone call, so now I’m switching into my scummiest clothes, heading out to Twin Peaks to help some stranger paint his house. “Four hour minimum,” I told him, and also I said, “I hope you have a sturdy ladder to stand on, cuz I’m fat and I crashed through a light-weight wooden one once.”
He laughed at that, and said he’d have me paint at ground level, and he’d go up the ladder. Sweet!
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And I’m back. I need more clients like that client — he paid $60 for six hours work, twice my asking price. He’d said “painting the house,” so I’d assumed exteriors, but it was inside, the living room and dining room, and as promised, he did the ceiling work. With the extra money he paid, maybe I’ll be able to buy Sarah-Katherine’s breakfast at Beth’s Café next week, instead of going dutch.
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Pike had good news, too. He’s found a job doing phone surveys, which is the same work we did together when I first knew him a few years ago. The pay stinks and the hours won’t be steady, but it’s a paycheck. Good work, Pike. Any work is good work.
Now hang on to that frickin’ job, pay next month’s rent on time, and we’ll be OK living together here in the slums.
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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