Holiday Retail Associate - Hanover Mall KB Toys - 2000
This was my first real job, I applied for it the day I got my license. No idea why, just decided that KB toys might be a good place to work because some kid in my spanish class worked there and he wasn’t a bad guy. I quickly learned that the job had its perks--scoping babes at the food court, stuffing generic PS1 memory cartridges in my pocket while my dickhead boss listened to Linkin Park in the “breakroom,” and drinking the only candy sold in the store (which always came in non-solid form). But it wasn’t all fun and misdemeanors. First, the fucking KB Toys Christmas mix played on repeat. When you’re spending eight hours of a saturday stocking shelves and answering question about something called X Box that doesn’t come out for two more years, the last thing you want to hear is “Santa Baby” for the seventh time. Second, this time period was the apex of Captain Morgan consumption. I distinctly remember coming into work feeling like a spiced rum and sugar zombie covered in McDonald’s breakfast sandwich residue. Between my own breath, the smell of mall retail, and the average physical attractiveness of my full-adult colleagues--I usually pledged sobriety until the following weekend. Third, there was a leadership coup just after Thanksgiving where the easy-going Kate was replaced by the Iron-fisted Eric, and my shenanigans were no longer accepted, and I moved on.
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| God Hates Christmas |
Furniture Department Clerk - Building #19 - Summer 2001
Building #19 has a reputation for “treating their employees well,” but the real issue is how the employees treat themselves. Basically, the physical premise of Building #19 allows for employees to escape their depressing pondside trailers in Hansen. Life hadn’t been kind to these walking cigarette filters, so B19 was a step in the right direction. There was obviously no dental coverage, but anyways . I often drank cool-aid and ate gummy bears on the couches until a car arrived to pick up furniture. One guy tried to haggle me on the price of some office chairs, and I politely reminded him that (1) as a 17 year old part-time associate I did not have the express authority to lower the price of the items and (2) he was at fucking Building #19. Many times I engaged in conversation with Dan, my forty-something colleague that lived with his mother and was pursuing a music career. He specialized in the sale of discount oriental rugs and habitually wore black busdriver jeans and a vest. Some of my other friends were Sandy, who was a meth addict from central casting, and a bunch of kids from Whitman that were in a hard core band. I spent a lot of time smoking weed and listening to the D12 album in the parking lot, without such activities I wouldn’t have made it through the summer. I eventually spent $18 (including employee discount) on a sweet pair of Ecko back to school shoes, which fell apart two months into my senior year.
Offensive Lineman - Hanover High School - Fall 2001
There is no upside to the offensive line other than being on the field for touchdowns--which is kind of like being in the bar when someone else hits on Keno. From sixth grade on I became gradually slower, fatter, and shorter in comparison to my fellow athletes. By senior year I was a cool 200 lbs and could do nothing more than push people around in a clumsy and ungraceful fashion. The sole consolation was our option offense where I was allowed to “pull” out to the flats and maybe take on a smaller defensive back in the open field--where it looked like I somehow contributed to the play. Most of the time I tried to keep larger more athletic defensive lineman from murdering our quarterback. Several times I was called “cracker” by METCO kids from Hingham, Cohasset, and Scituate. And after months of grueling practice where the smell of my own balls wafted into my face every time I took a three-point stance in the mud, I was rewarded with a 5-5 season and the Patriot League “sportsmanship” award. This meant I was the biggest pussy on the team.
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| Fat |
Day Laborer for Fence Company - Summer 2004
Being the sole white guy in a truck full of ex-convict portuguese guys from New Bedford can pretty quickly convince you to stay in college. Generally, my job was to dig holes four feet into the ground while I acted unaware that the Portuguese guys were doing drugs because they thought I was a NARC. The days were colored with fight stories and arguments over the superiority of certain rappers and attractive female celebrities, in which I was not allowed to participate. I knew I wasn't missing out when some guy with a ponytail and fake teeth recalled how he and his friend "Gary" fist pumped to glory at a strip club in Providence. Halfway through the summer I was placed on a crew with a white dude from Marshfield that insisted we work until around 7:30 every night, so that was fun. I came to find out that he was himself a recovering OC addict, and his addictive personality emerged one day after a guy in West Roxbury gave us a bunch of beers to drink on the VFW parkway during rush hour. I returned to my junior year of college excited for a career away from post hole diggers.
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| Me and Gary Were Crushin It Guy!! |
Tax Accountant - 2010 - 2012
Ok, maybe the fence crew wasn't so bad. Tax accounting has its special cubicle in Hell. Not unlike the offensive lineman in football, but actually more like a punter. People have to do their taxes, they aren’t happy about, and you try to give them the best results. Similar to a punter pinning one inside the five yard line, the best result still kind of sucks because it means you don’t have the ball. Also, the work is most like counting a five gallon bucket full of M&M’s, and then having someone else count it to check your work. If they get a different result, you have to count it again. As you get promoted your job is to oversee the counting of M&M buckets. Another analogy is someone telling you to copy the entire phonebook into microsoft word, and they proofread your work for typos. You revise, send back, and eventually get to the point where there aren’t any typos (takes about two weeks). Then, your boss’ boss reviews it, and says you’ve copied the phone book for the wrong area code so you have do it all over. Fun times. Keep in mind you do this on Saturdays, and you’re surrounded by breathing calculators that live solely for the weekly order from the cheesecake factory. They inevitably cover their keyboard in honey mustard sauce and fall asleep under their desks.
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| If I work 15 hours today I can expense McDonald's |
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