Monday, August 3, 2015

A Small Victory

I know I'm going to sound like a wuss, saying a measly thirty-some hours of work kicked my butt, but it did. In all fairness to me, it was a pretty action-packed six-day week except for yesterday — my friday*, thankfully — and I'm seven years out of practice at the business of toiling for The Man. It's a good thing I'm off til Thursday; when I start my regular four-day work week, which even during peak season shouldn't be more than I can handle. Getting the medication for my ailing legs upgraded helped considerably, as did buying a pair of orthotic insoles. I just need to remember not to succumb to the temptation to rely on Rockstar™ to carry me through those days I start off punchy; just don't stay up late and drink a cup of tea with breakast.

I never imagined I'd end up being a housekeeper at a hotel ... though I prefer to list my occupation as janitor because it lends more prestige to my proletarian standing. Mind you, even though I've spent many years being a wastrel I'm not terribly beholden to feeble-minded country-club class consciousness; I just appreciate that I'm “legit” and not lumping bags of recyclables anymore! Sure, I have to report my income to the housing authority and will end up paying a third of my gross toward rent, but in doing so I'm that much less a welfare schmuck — and, let me tell you, that's one DISMAL institution, being a freeloading loser! It's not just dispiriting and disenfranchising, it fills hearts full of bilious delusions of entitlements and inverted classist self-aggrandizement.

And, most importantly, I did it myself! I didn't rely on some parasitic poverty-pimp social service agency; I saw the “Help Wanted” sign in the window, filled out the application, handed it in, and successfully sold myself in the job interview — something for years I thought impossible, which I now realize was a perversely cherished belief that kept me from moving forward with my life. (Like I said earlier, being a bum is an institution.) Sure, the hotel I work at is the kind of flophouse Bukowski would have felt at home in, where social security checks are converted into cans of malt liquor and pipes loaded with crack; but for the most part it's not any worse than most janitorial work and is better than some (jack shack clean up, anyone?).

This small victory over bottom-of-the-well disgrace is brought to you by sobriety, incidentally. If I hadn't quit drinking ... has it already been almost a month? ... I probably wouldn't have lasted this long, if I'd have even bothered to apply in the first place. I'll have to make sure I pick up a thirty-day coin Thursday (which is all those pathetic twelve-step cult masses are good for, far's I'm concerned).


* I spell Friday in the lower-case when I'm referring to the end of my work week.

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