Let me tell you about my ride on the employment wagon. It started off promising- one interview, followed by an almost immediate job offer. An apartment, a too-good-to-be-true boss and perks such as free laundry (a rare commodity in a city where laundromats so many people spend so much time in them, they've evolved into an entertainment space, complete with stand-up comedy, like Brainwash Cafe, or need to distinguish themselves from the innumerable others, such as Sit n Spin, clearly located in the gay neighbourhood of The Castro). As is human nature, it's never enough. The small stipend, cute and cosy apartment in one of the city's better districts, the self-imposed lack of work ethic all started to stifle me: I needed more economic stimulation. So I turned to the virtual community noticeboard, the bulletin board to end all bulletin boards, the place where San Francisco, and it seems much of America, goes to when they want to buy, sell, barter, give away, donate, pass on, exchange, advertise, offer ,or complain about someone having soiled themselves in the line for the bank. In short, it's a free interactive community which is the first port of call for the strange sea of San Franciscans: craigslist.
A close friend of mine, let's call her Jezebel, was also in this predicament, only that unlike me, she did not have the good fortune nor the freedom of complimentary accommodation. Together, we trawled Craig's lists. Jezebel noted the number of jobs (under 'event' or 'talent') which required "beautiful females" to send in a picture of themselves in their underwear or, if they so dared, nothing, with the assurance they would then be judged either good enough or unsatisfactory for the job (always found under vague postings such as "underwear model" or "sexy ladies needed") and for which they would be paid a handsome sum of $500 an hour (at LEAST, one ad said). Rather than arty-farty New York photography studio types, we suspected pock-marked, gangly teenagers in Springfields all over were behind this.
During one particular dry spell, we applied for everything: promotional work, door bitching, porn, soft porn, hard porn, animal porn- and got rejected. I was offended: I loved porn. Why couldn't it just love me back?
Of course, I do have a small income. I've been working for Mike since August, and I couldn't be luckier or happier. I just needed something on the side, that little bit more pocket money. But not having the legal right to work makes it harder. I'd been offered a few jobs, all paying about $25-$30 an hour, only to flinch as those words hit me "So I just need you to fill in this form with your name, address and social security number..." The Social Security Number. Tax File Number. National Insurance Number. La Sécu. No matter what the country or the language, without one of these you feel like an alien, barred from the ability to participate in something so prerequisite to being part of society, people start a conversation with "so what do you do for work..." I'm trying to think back to the last time someone even bothered to check if I worked. "So, do you have a job?" Or better yet, assume someone is unemployed: "So, what's it like being on welfare?" "How much does Social Security pay these days?" No, we all work and if we can't, or don't, then it's a form of exclusion. Unless you're rich, and don't have to. Then you're just fucking lucky, and can we swap incomes? (Not lives, because mine is fabulous).
I won't mince my words- my job is a dream job. Let me take you through a typical da
y, chosen at random:
8.30am: wake up. Look out window. Oh yes, I'm in SAN FRANCISCO. That in itself is enough to make me jump out of bed and approach the day with a skip/spring/mince in my step.
8.45-10.00: Read up about the day's events, and tackle the New York Times crossword. Day by gradually more difficult day, this is becoming less of a confusing conglomerate of words and more of a coherent square.
10.30-11.30: Walk 'Montgomery'. Montgomery is the 2 year old Scottish terrier who I walk each day. He resembles an old man: beard, big bushy eyebrows which hang over his eyes to make him seem a little blinded. At first, the little shit was so badly behaved and disobedient that I couldn't even take him on the street, but instead had to walk him in the park, away from people. I'm proud to say that , after poking, prodding and dragging him along with h
is leash tied in a choke hold, I can now walk him anywhere. 'Anywhere' usually involves a stroll down to Jumpin Java cafe to attempt a final conquer of the day's crossword. That's how I like it: more Ben-centric, with less focus on the dog.
Now a day can include any number of tasks. I like to think of my work days as being in a kind of spectrum of 'intellectual involvement'. Most tasks require a minimum of this. Walk the dog, clean the kitchen (load dishwasher, empty garbage, wipe down marble benchtops), make the bed, put away strewn clothes, do laundry, dust with my feather duster, windex shiny surfaces without getting too distracted by my own reflection... These kind of tasks take up the majority of what some would call 'the working week'. To me, however, it's more like an arrangement a grown-up child would have with their parents than paid employment: in return for doing your 'chores', you get to live rent-free, and I'll give you a little bit of an allowanc
e, plus treat you to lunch, give you a bit more cash here and there when you head off for the weekend with your friends.
Then there are the days when I perform some physical labour: this week, we gravelled the back of the apartment, a large concrete space, mostly unused, from where you can see the ubiquitous San Francisco skyline, definitive against the blue sky most days, completely veiled in fog on some, and in the evenings, glowing defiantly against the black backdrop.
The task of gravelling was lead by Mike (I'm more of a sit-back-and-wait-for-instructions kinda guy), and it involved driving about half an hour to a landscape supply store, and choosing a gravel type. Did you know there are about 15 different kids, with names like ginger (an unassuming light brown), molten lava (a brilliant red colour), marble arch (regal-looking and the most expensive), or pea gravel (shiny and cute like a pea) After choosing our type, a diminutive Chinaman came in his monster truck and dumped a load in the back of ours. And then he gave us our gravel.
Now we needed to get this ginger rock into our backyard and cover the space. Let me preface this next part by saying that if at any point in your life you see someone digging, or using a shovel in any way at all to move materials- this includes roadside workers, construction guys, or any member of a chain gang or other forms of forced labor- you need to stop, and take off your hat or scarf or stole or anything it is you are wearing, and SALUTE THEM. That crap is hard work. I have a new found respect for those labourers, whose intellectual ability I thought was beneath mine but whose physical prowess I can only dream of.
So we had to move the load in the back our truck into a pile in our backyard. Shovel after back-breaking shovel, the load diminished and my biceps ballooned. I did enjoy the kitsch houseboy status- all sweat and dirt and sun, wiping my sweaty brow while taking five, sipping on an iced lemonade, and making eyes with the old neighbours looking through their laced curtains. They have to get their joy somewhere don't they? Who am I to deny them that? We went back and forth about 6 times over the next three days, and now the backyard is as beautiful as the work was repetitive and strenuous. Suffice to say that was one of my harder working weeks.
Some days, however, I will work alone and this is where I thrive: daytime TV, a fully stocked fridge with artery-clogging delights such as blue cheese, cold cuts, ice-cream so creamy you wonder if you've frozen whipping cream by mistake, and views of the city from every room. Of course, the menial tasks ("fluffing the apartment") must be completed and after two hours work I'm ready to head off to the park and perhaps finish that crossword.
A close friend of mine, let's call her Jezebel, was also in this predicament, only that unlike me, she did not have the good fortune nor the freedom of complimentary accommodation. Together, we trawled Craig's lists. Jezebel noted the number of jobs (under 'event' or 'talent') which required "beautiful females" to send in a picture of themselves in their underwear or, if they so dared, nothing, with the assurance they would then be judged either good enough or unsatisfactory for the job (always found under vague postings such as "underwear model" or "sexy ladies needed") and for which they would be paid a handsome sum of $500 an hour (at LEAST, one ad said). Rather than arty-farty New York photography studio types, we suspected pock-marked, gangly teenagers in Springfields all over were behind this.
During one particular dry spell, we applied for everything: promotional work, door bitching, porn, soft porn, hard porn, animal porn- and got rejected. I was offended: I loved porn. Why couldn't it just love me back?
Of course, I do have a small income. I've been working for Mike since August, and I couldn't be luckier or happier. I just needed something on the side, that little bit more pocket money. But not having the legal right to work makes it harder. I'd been offered a few jobs, all paying about $25-$30 an hour, only to flinch as those words hit me "So I just need you to fill in this form with your name, address and social security number..." The Social Security Number. Tax File Number. National Insurance Number. La Sécu. No matter what the country or the language, without one of these you feel like an alien, barred from the ability to participate in something so prerequisite to being part of society, people start a conversation with "so what do you do for work..." I'm trying to think back to the last time someone even bothered to check if I worked. "So, do you have a job?" Or better yet, assume someone is unemployed: "So, what's it like being on welfare?" "How much does Social Security pay these days?" No, we all work and if we can't, or don't, then it's a form of exclusion. Unless you're rich, and don't have to. Then you're just fucking lucky, and can we swap incomes? (Not lives, because mine is fabulous).
I won't mince my words- my job is a dream job. Let me take you through a typical da
y, chosen at random:8.30am: wake up. Look out window. Oh yes, I'm in SAN FRANCISCO. That in itself is enough to make me jump out of bed and approach the day with a skip/spring/mince in my step.
8.45-10.00: Read up about the day's events, and tackle the New York Times crossword. Day by gradually more difficult day, this is becoming less of a confusing conglomerate of words and more of a coherent square.
10.30-11.30: Walk 'Montgomery'. Montgomery is the 2 year old Scottish terrier who I walk each day. He resembles an old man: beard, big bushy eyebrows which hang over his eyes to make him seem a little blinded. At first, the little shit was so badly behaved and disobedient that I couldn't even take him on the street, but instead had to walk him in the park, away from people. I'm proud to say that , after poking, prodding and dragging him along with h
is leash tied in a choke hold, I can now walk him anywhere. 'Anywhere' usually involves a stroll down to Jumpin Java cafe to attempt a final conquer of the day's crossword. That's how I like it: more Ben-centric, with less focus on the dog.Now a day can include any number of tasks. I like to think of my work days as being in a kind of spectrum of 'intellectual involvement'. Most tasks require a minimum of this. Walk the dog, clean the kitchen (load dishwasher, empty garbage, wipe down marble benchtops), make the bed, put away strewn clothes, do laundry, dust with my feather duster, windex shiny surfaces without getting too distracted by my own reflection... These kind of tasks take up the majority of what some would call 'the working week'. To me, however, it's more like an arrangement a grown-up child would have with their parents than paid employment: in return for doing your 'chores', you get to live rent-free, and I'll give you a little bit of an allowanc
e, plus treat you to lunch, give you a bit more cash here and there when you head off for the weekend with your friends.Then there are the days when I perform some physical labour: this week, we gravelled the back of the apartment, a large concrete space, mostly unused, from where you can see the ubiquitous San Francisco skyline, definitive against the blue sky most days, completely veiled in fog on some, and in the evenings, glowing defiantly against the black backdrop.
The task of gravelling was lead by Mike (I'm more of a sit-back-and-wait-for-instructions kinda guy), and it involved driving about half an hour to a landscape supply store, and choosing a gravel type. Did you know there are about 15 different kids, with names like ginger (an unassuming light brown), molten lava (a brilliant red colour), marble arch (regal-looking and the most expensive), or pea gravel (shiny and cute like a pea) After choosing our type, a diminutive Chinaman came in his monster truck and dumped a load in the back of ours. And then he gave us our gravel.
Now we needed to get this ginger rock into our backyard and cover the space. Let me preface this next part by saying that if at any point in your life you see someone digging, or using a shovel in any way at all to move materials- this includes roadside workers, construction guys, or any member of a chain gang or other forms of forced labor- you need to stop, and take off your hat or scarf or stole or anything it is you are wearing, and SALUTE THEM. That crap is hard work. I have a new found respect for those labourers, whose intellectual ability I thought was beneath mine but whose physical prowess I can only dream of.
So we had to move the load in the back our truck into a pile in our backyard. Shovel after back-breaking shovel, the load diminished and my biceps ballooned. I did enjoy the kitsch houseboy status- all sweat and dirt and sun, wiping my sweaty brow while taking five, sipping on an iced lemonade, and making eyes with the old neighbours looking through their laced curtains. They have to get their joy somewhere don't they? Who am I to deny them that? We went back and forth about 6 times over the next three days, and now the backyard is as beautiful as the work was repetitive and strenuous. Suffice to say that was one of my harder working weeks.
Some days, however, I will work alone and this is where I thrive: daytime TV, a fully stocked fridge with artery-clogging delights such as blue cheese, cold cuts, ice-cream so creamy you wonder if you've frozen whipping cream by mistake, and views of the city from every room. Of course, the menial tasks ("fluffing the apartment") must be completed and after two hours work I'm ready to head off to the park and perhaps finish that crossword.
