Daily proceedings are sliding into the familiar drudging monotonies I find myself in whilst unemployed. Although I’m not officially let go until tomorrow, there’s already a feeling of slight helplessness.
Quitting a job used to be cause for a holiday. Actually, now that I think about it, I’ve actually been let go at more jobs than voluntarily quitting. This is not including any jobs where, oh, let’s say… I was probably fired because I’m gay.
Yet now that I’m relatively grown up and have bills to pay, I can’t really afford to crazily splurge my final pay cheque on drugs and holidays as much as phone bills and rent. These thoughts were echoing around my mind as I woke up over the past few days, once again calling in sick and continuing my habits of becoming a little lax in attendance at work. It’s difficult to become motivated to attend work when you know whatever you produce is going to be thrown out without being looked at anyway. At least I now know how journalists for Green Left Weekly must feel.
Yesterday morning I grumpily made my way down the street, grumbling and worrying over what work I’d be doing next. There’s little chance I’ll be working for another dot com – as much as I enjoy the work environment, I’m prepared to withstand the ever-present risk of dismissal due to the marketplace remaining as stable as Matthew Perry’s drug rehabilitation.
Bemoaning myself in thoughts that I was on the fast track to becoming something akin to a skintly paid pleb who photocopies and makes coffee for a living, I impatiently stabbed at the traffic light button in front of the pedestrian crossing I was waiting at.
‘Nobody will fucking talk to me,’ a voice suddenly yapped beside me. I turned to find a man who appeared only too keen to share his obviously highly-valued body odour with the surrounding community. ‘It must be because I’ve got tattoos and Nikes,’ he decided.
‘Maybe,’ I absently replied, not particularly wanting to engage in extended conversation.
‘So, will you give me $2.20?’ he requested, as if his Nikes completely validated his need for pocket change. I glanced at the wad of $10 and $20 notes clenched in his left fist and began to open my mouth.
‘Er, what about…’ I began, before swiftly being cut off.
‘No, I just need $2.20,’ he confirmed. ‘Look, I’ll give you something for it.’
I raised my eyebrows, hoping to Christ he wasn’t a misguided prostitute who’d wandered into the neighbourhood from King’s Cross.
‘I can give you half a pack of cigarettes,’ he offered. ‘Or some ganja, or my Smashing Pumpkins CD, or…’ he motioned with his hand as if to infer there was a veritable showcase at his disposal, unlockable only with my $2.20 deposit.
Considering his proposal, I finally offered a response. ‘To be honest, I don’t smoke cigarettes. I’m not too fond of dope anymore either,’ I continued. Nike Man narrowed his gaze, not believing my excuse. Apparently my Deftones t-shirt was betraying my true addiction to all things narcotic.
‘Which Smashing Pumpkins CD is it?’ I requested. Not owning any of their works on CD, I couldn’t see the harm in it. It’d be a cheap beer coaster at any rate if it turned out to be unplayable.
‘Adore’, he confirmed eagerly.
‘Right,’ I nodded. ‘So how long have you been trying to get $2.20?’ I asked.
‘A few hours,’ he hissed, as if unwilling to share this sort of begging insider information.
‘Because you’re in the complete wrong area,’ I nodded around me. ‘You’re in a business district. These people have no hearts. They’d slaughter their firstborn if it makes them look good to the man.’
Nike Man scratched his infested head and thought about this.
‘Also,’ I went on, ‘Whilst these kinds of people are unlikely to be stirred by Billy Corgan, those that are will turn you away regardless – everyone knows ‘Adore’ is a shitty album.’
Obviously having touched a sore point, Nike Man grimaced. He looked at the wad of notes in his hand and perhaps pondered if he should go and purchase a copy of ‘Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness’ instead.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing with so much money and claiming only to need a few dollars more, but sorry. Try a scummier, more tourist-infested part of town; and offer more than that piddling scrap of weed,’ I dismissed, walking across the road as the signals changed.
As I strode over the pedestrian crossing, my job prospects clarified a little more with each step I took. Not only had I realised just a week ago that being a cunt was a possible job option, I had now opened my eyes to the possibility of business development. If I can get someone begging for money sorted, what’s to say I can’t solve a flailing dot com’s woes?
My job aspirations continue to widen my horizons. Just watch – within the week I’ll be applying for everything from a right-wing politician to bassist for a garage punk band.