On the McJob

It's after midnight in downtown Atlanta. Night shift. On the McJob.

EXCLUSIVE! Your hardy narrator has gone from "bona fide newsgatherer" (what it says on the back of my NUJ card) to "corporate security specialist" (guard dog).  Handbags. Handguns. Knives. Robbery. Rapes. Suicides. Scumbags. Yes, Guv. You get to see all sorts on the old McJob. 

$11 AN HOUR? DUDE, WTF!?! Too bored to resume "career duties", and fearing a pandemic induced Great Depression, I took the first "McJob" that I could McFill way back in November of Twenty and Twenty (2020). 

THE PLOT THICKENS! Yes. Unable to get a land a gig as a hack, or blag a measly commission, your ink-stained hero was forced to join the working classes of this godforsaken colony and do some work-proper. Reels one back to the age of 23 and the Discordian Number of Chaos... almost 30 years ago... Do we move forward? Or is life just an illusion and there's no such thing as progression at-all? Bah fiddlesticks! I'm too stoical to contemplate such!  If the Gods wish to test this mortal, then let the axe fall!

FROM KNIGHT OF THE REALM TO KNIGHT OF THE NIGHT WATCH!?! Tues to Friday, 2230-0630. Saturday, it's a grueling 12-hour shift from 1830 to 0630.  Just in time for daybreak, public transport and a shortcut home via the haunted plots of Oakland Cemetery. Only one day off.  Monday. Hardly enough time to regenerate. No wonder serfs look weary. 

IS THIS FOR A STORY OR SUMMINK!?! Austrian handguns are drawn from Italian handbags. If this was the mid-1980s, that might qualify as designer violence, but, here in the 21st Century, it just seems plain old retro. Did I neglect to mention the crazies on the street, or at-loose on the premises, having sex and/or attempting to commit suicide in the toilets? Your hardy narrator has had to draw on his powers of interpersonal communication to deescalate such and much.

 

McD'S PAYS $15 AN HOUR!!! Never mind the career, where's the Old Bill? Better call 'em up pronto!  The plods, the Atlanta Police Dept, show up 20 mins later even though the site is opposite the call center for the Atlanta Police Dept. Still, look on the bright side; I have not had to assault anyone.

Yet...

Lots of folks I know would rather draw on their savings, or subsist on government furlough payments, than occupy a McJob proper. I was talking to a hot shot pal of mine in London town and he was yakking about work drying up. I told him to go get a job stacking shelves in a supermarket, or driving for UPS or Amazon. But he's not so full of the protestant work ethic (nor full of it like myself.) "I've been partying ever since I was 17, basically" he confessed, aged 57 and small change. 40 years. That's some party-harty! A few weeks later, he's got cover shoots for fashion mags and old rags that I used to work for! What's he got to complain about? Nowt lad. He's back on top. But what about me? What do I do now? I dunno, senor. Maybe I take a siesta and come back later. 

I sold an article to Air Mail, the new online publication by Vanity Fair supremo, Graydon Carter.  $800. And they paid quick. $800. That's the equivalent to two-weeks' wages on the McJob. Maybe I need to sell some more articles, get back in the game, amigo? $800 and they have still not run the article. Maybe something was wrong with it? Maybe I'm canceled? I dunno. Time for another siesta. Need to sleep on this revolution thing. 

My Old Man (the Bill is Upon His Name) once said that it's a good thing when your life begins to resemble the plot of an old movie.  But which movie?  And, more pertinently, what character?  This has been on the front of the mind because one of the sites I've been tasked to guard just happens to be the most haunted hotel in Atlanta.  The basement is super creepy. I half expected Scatman Crothers to emerge from the industrial deep freeze with a tub of ice cream. There's no Room 237.  No spooky twins. No haggard hags. No rivers of blood gushing from the elevators. BUT I have used the time to work on a novel...

Coming up to a year on the McJob as a Guard Dog. Will I be barking next year? Arf! Arf! More than likely.