The Job Pirate Read online

  Once it grew dark enough out, I moved my Cadillac to the next block over and snuck back to my apartment through the alley. I knew the Town Car would also be leaving soon—its owner was a chauffeur, and I heard him getting ready next door. It wasn’t more than five minutes after the Lincoln pulled out when that big behemoth RV chugged its way up and eased right into that long, open spot. Its headlights extinguished and the engine gasped before silencing. All the drapes were drawn but I noticed a small TV flicker awake in the back, unsuspectingly. I had laid out the cheese and he had fallen right into my trap.

  With my apartment lights still off, I grabbed my pellet gun and opened my kitchen window. I cut a small slit into the screen and slid the barrel of the pistol through. Camouflaged behind the blossoms of the tree just outside, I began firing little lead rounds at each of the RV’s side windows. I heard about a dozen tinks of pellets bouncing off glass until recognizing that one unmistakable sound of a window shattering. A big one near the back, by the sleeping quarters. And it was going to be a cold night, too.

  I felt immediate gratification at breaking his window and hopefully sending glass shards all over his warm bed. His little TV stopped flickering, and he was presumably now glancing out from behind his darkened drapes trying to find his RV’s assailant. But he would not find me. And the next day he would disappear to some other street forever. It turned out to be one hell of a long, electrifying investigation, but the case of the Cadillac’s broken windshield had been solved.

  THE GRAND DISILLUSION

  JOB #1

  I had just graduated from high school with the most solid of “C” averages to help guide me into adulthood. There was a strange electricity coursing through me during that sweltering August of 1990—school was finally finished forever and I could now, legally, start the exciting adult life I had always dreamed for myself. It felt like a whole world of possibilities was dangling right there in front of me, like fruit for the picking, and all I had to do was reach out and grab it.

  Eighteen years old, living in a tiny pool cabana in the backyard of my parents’ house, with an old Underwood typewriter my best friend and confidant—I thought I had it made. For a few years, at least. But Dad thought differently. My plan to become a novelist had been set in stone since my sophomore year after reading The Old Man and the Sea, but my father had a very different agenda in store for me now that I was officially a grown-up.

  “Get a job or sign up for community college,” were the first words out of his mouth once he sat down at the dinner table. “We haven’t seen you in almost a week … been holed up in that damn room out there. You’ve got to do something with your life.”

  “But, pop, this is a really pivotal time for me. I’m just now finally beginning to hone my skills as a writer. Hemingway was—”

  “Oh, horse shit! Hemingway … you need to get a Heming-fucking-job! And get a haircut while you’re at it. You look like that … Henry Fonda from that … Peg, what was that piece of shit?”

  “Easy Rider,” Mom replied. “And it was Peter Fonda. His son. But you do need a job, honey. Even Peter Fonda had a job before he made it as an actor.”

  “Peter Fon—where did Peter Fonda come from? I’m not trying to be an actor! I’m a writer.” There was a brief pause while everyone was chewing, so I added, “And writing is kind of a job, if you think abo—”

  “Oh, horse shit!” Dad blurted out in mid-swallow. “As long as you live under this roof, you’ll be gainfully employed. Since you don’t want to enroll in community college, that’s the way it is. Job time! You need to live life first before you can write about it. And doing that requires money, which requires a job.”

  Wow. My god. He was right. My dad was absolutely fucking right. Up until that dinner, the highlights of his 18 years of sage advice had been 1) Always bet on the horse that takes a shit just before the race; 2) Let the garbage disposal run for 30 more seconds; and 3) Dog shit doesn’t pick itself up. But then from out of nowhere springs a statement so profound and so uncommonly logical as I need to live life in order to write about life. So simple yet so philosophical—existential, even. My father, the Buddha of North Hollywood.

  But then he grabbed another spoonful of peas and added, “The bill’s in the mail for that gem. Just get a fucking job.”

  That next morning, once my folks had already left for work, I came into the house to get my cup of coffee. The pot was unusually full and still hot, and taped to the tiled kitchen counter was $15 beside a note that read “Haircut today! Then job hunt!” Dad knew my routine. He knew the coffee pot would be my first stop.

  But it was that second cup of coffee that gave me the idea to cut my own hair in the bathroom mirror by grabbing a handful of my ponytail and blindly chopping several inches off the bottom. And then just like that, I was $15 richer. I put on the best shirt and slacks I had then bought a pack of non-generic cigarettes and some cheap sunglasses from the corner market.

  I walked the streets of Burbank and analyzed the various businesses with “Help Wanted” and “Now Hiring” signs in their windows. I wanted a job that paid well, but also one that I could actually perform, and that would also hopefully provide some colorful new experiences to put in my novel. I was starting to get excited about joining the workforce and making some real money finally. It was time to start living life. It was time for autonomy and independence; it was time for self-sufficiency; it was time for my own roof over my own head. And having a paycheck would provide all of that, and probably better drugs too.

  I filled out an application at Circuit City, because there was something so sinisterly cool about being a salesman. But the manager explained that a knowledge of stereos and televisions was mandatory, long hair was unacceptable, and the wearing of sunglasses during an interview was unappreciated. Strike one. Lesson learned. I walked out and decided to follow the direction of the sun next.

  I strolled around for some time until coming across Warner Brothers Studios, and I explained to the security guard that I was interested in a career as a film screenwriter and wanted to apply inside. He shook his head from inside his little security shack and pointed back toward the street that I had just come from. I saw my own reflection in his mirrored sunglasses and wished to hell I had used that $15 to get a real haircut instead of smokes and shades—it looked like there was a blonde helmet sitting crookedly on my head.

  I decided to call it a day after my first two rejections in order to reassess my whole job-hunting strategy, but as I was walking home I discovered an eclectic-looking thrift store tucked between a little plumbing company and a neighborhood bank. But before stepping inside Ritzy’s Vintage Finds, I pulled my hair into a ponytail, removed my sunglasses, and unbuttoned my shirt to the third button down from the collar to give myself a breezy, wayfaring, drifter sort of look. It was the type of style, I imagined, that all thrift-store salesmen had. They must have all been world travelers and fashion nomads, I concluded, to find such a wide selection of vintage clothing and Hawaiian shirts, and to be able to offer them at such bargain prices.

  “Can I help you find something?” a pasty, middle-aged woman with dreadlocks asked from behind the counter. I hadn’t even noticed her sitting there behind all the hanging Mardi Gras beads, feathered boas, and fuzzy rearview-mirror dice.

  “Ah, yes. Good afternoon to you,” I replied as professionally as I could; I even clenched the arm of my sunglasses between my teeth, like my dad did when he was speaking to someone in a serious manner. “I was curious as to your employment … to your needs of employment … if you might be in need of some employment … for an adult that—” and then my sunglasses fell from my mouth and hit the glass counter; I left them lying there between us and clarified what I had been trying to spit out all along, “Are you hiring, by chance?”

  It took her a few seconds to absorb everything that had come out of my mouth, and after she handed my sunglasses back to me she answered, “Well, we could use someone to help out around the store. It doesn’t p
ay much, but we need the help.”

  “Really?”

  “We were just going to put a sign out for summer help, but you beat us to it.”

  “That’s just … that’s just great!”

  “Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning about nine. You can meet my partner and fill out the application and stuff. He’s better at that sort of thing.”

  “Great! I’ll see you tomorrow morning! And thanks a lot.”

  I walked home congratulating myself on finding not just a job, but a great job, and on only my first day of searching. I wasn’t just going to be a salesman of exotic, one-of-a-kind clothing and costume pieces, I was going to be the best goddamn salesman they’d ever seen. When I got home I started leafing through all my mom’s fashion magazines and familiarizing myself with styles of dresses, names of fabrics and prints, proper skirt lengths, and which colors were this season’s hottest. I typed up mock conversations with fictitious customers and finessed my educated answers over and over. Why yes, ma’am, this blouse was made in a small Cuban village by talented artisans. It’s yesterday’s couture at today’s low prices!

  At the dinner table that night, I boasted about how easily I had found a job in the lucrative world of pre-owned clothing, and what interesting literary experiences I would collect by being a salesman. I explained over Mom’s Mystery Goulash that once I saved up enough money I would get an apartment of my own and officially begin work on my first novel. I then crowed a bit about probably being sent to Paris at some point to search for next season’s vintage fashions, and how I might just end up staying in the City of Light because of its amazing literary scene. Dad nodded his head, politely placating me. A thrift store wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he had told me to get a job, but I think he was just happy that I wouldn’t be spending the entire summer getting stoned with the pool man.

  The following morning I perused Dad’s closet for the sharpest blazer he had, slipped on my freshly polished “Grandpa’s funeral” shoes, and walked the mile up to my new place of employment. The woman I spoke with the day before, whose name I learned was Ella, introduced me to the owner of Ritzy’s Vintage Finds. His name was not Ritzy, I discovered after introducing myself. It was Robert. Plain old Robert, and he looked nothing like the jet-setting apparel connoisseur I had imagined. He wore a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt and a Gilligan hat over graying hair, and he reeked of body odor, stale beer, and mothballs.

  “Hey, buddy. Heard you’re starting today. That’s good, we could use you,” Robert said. “You might want to lose the blazer, though.”

  “Is it too much?” I asked.

  “No, it’s fine. I just don’t want you to get it all dirty.”

  “Ah, gotcha.” I took off the cream-colored coat and draped it over my forearm like a fancy waiter with a cloth napkin. “Ella said something about some paperwork I need to fill out?”

  Robert took the coat from my arm and flung it onto a chair beside the counter. “Naw, don’t worry about it. We’re going to keep this on the down-low, if you dig it? It’s better for both of us that way.”

  “Oh, sure,” I replied, “that’s cool.”

  “Ella told you we’re going to start you at $5 an hour, right? And that’s a tax-free $5 an hour. But keep that between us, yeah?”

  I glanced at Ella behind the counter, thinking he meant the “between us” was to keep this information from her. But she was barely three feet away and staring right at us. There was no way she couldn’t have heard every word we said. But I looked back at Robert and gave him a subtle nod.

  The bell on the front door then rang and a 40-something woman and her teenage daughter walked in. The girl immediately pointed at a white nurse’s costume hanging on the back wall, and they both navigated through countless racks of multicolored clothing to examine it up close. My previous afternoon of fashion research immediately kicked in, and I whispered to Robert, “That’d look great with some black Mary Janes. Very authentic. Would you like me to go handle this?”

  “No, that’s Ella’s department,” he replied. “I need you for something else. Come on, follow me.”

  As we coursed our way through brimming racks of shirts, dresses, and jackets designated by different decades scribbled onto cardboard pieces, I couldn’t help but wonder what exciting task lay ahead of me. Would he start me out in 1920s apparel then let me gradually progress to the ‘70s? Or perhaps a little tutorial first about coordinating blouses with skirts, or which colors truly complemented a houndstooth print? The further into the store we walked, the more eager I became.

  “Wouldn’t this scarf look just terrific with that maxi dress over there?” I asked him, trying to show off my blossoming expertise.

  “Kinda,” he said without even looking at it.

  We made our way into a back office, past a bathroom without a door, and then finally to a two-car parking lot directly behind the store. Although technically outside, the 10-foot by 10-foot asphalt patch was surrounded by two cinderblock walls and a large, metal trash dumpster. An opaque piece of ribbed green plastic covered the entire enclosed area, showering us both in an eerie, spearminty glow.

  “See those bags up there?” Robert pointed to several bulging canvas sacks lying on some filthy crates, each big enough to satisfy Santa Claus. “Why don’t you go ahead and pull those down for me?”

  The task required climbing on top of the crates and using every bit of strength I had to haul each hundred-pound sack down from its resting place of what looked to be years. Dust, leaves, and rat shit pellets rained down on me with every yank. By the time I pulled down the eighth and final bag, my white button-up shirt and ironed tan slacks were drenched with sweat, soiled with muck, and stained with suspicious brown spots. I collapsed onto the final bag to catch my breath, while Robert unfolded his arms to toss me a can of spray paint.

  “Now aren’t you glad I told you to take your blazer off?” he asked. He noticed me examining my newly polka-dotted slacks. “That rat shit should wash right out. Give it a good soak.”

  He slid on a pair of leather gloves from his back pocket, opened one of the canvas sacks, and pulled out an old, tattered pair of black combat boots. Two rats shot out from the sack and bolted under the trash bin exactly one second before I leapt off that same sack and landed several feet away in the Karate Kid’s crane stance.

  “Holy shit!” I barked. “Did you see that?”

  “Yeah,” he replied casually, “don’t let ’em bite you. It’s not fun.”

  He smacked the two boots together to shake off the dirt and rat pellets then turned them over to show me their soles. “You see here, these are both size 12 and in pretty good condition. This is what we’re looking for. I want you to spray-paint a little dot onto each sole when you find a good pair like this, then clean ’em up a little and stack them over by the wall.”

  “Is there a specific number of good pairs you’re looking for?” I asked, already knowing the answer I was going to hear but hoping for a different one.

  “As many as you can find!” He snapped back. “There’s eight goddamned bags there. Should be a couple hundred good pairs.”

  “And what about the not-good pairs? What should I do with them?”

  “Seriously?” he asked, his red eyes squeezed together. Then when he realized that I was serious and still waiting for an answer, he added, “You don’t put a red dot on them. I thought that might be a given.”

  He turned and was about to walk back inside when I asked my follow-up question: “Is there a pair of gloves I can use?” He stared at me for a few seconds, looking almost offended by such a request. Then he pulled off his left glove and tossed it to me.

  “One should do you fine. And don’t get paint on it,” he said before slamming the metal door shut behind him.

  I was amazed at how many pairs of boots those canvas sacks held. I had pulled out, cleaned off, and spray-painted the soles of at least fifty pairs before the first sack was even empty. And that’s not even counting the ob
literated boots that didn’t receive a red dot, or the rats that skittered out into every direction. By my calculation, I had spent about an hour and a half on that first sack, so I lit up a cigarette and took a little breather before starting on the second. Halfway through that Camel, I discovered how blackened my right gloveless hand had become, and I could only wonder how much of it was dirt and how much of it was rat shit. As I took another drag with that same filthy hand, I thought about all the health hazards of putting those feces-stained fingers that close to my mouth. But on the flip side, I also now understood the actual labor involved in being able to afford a pack of real cigarettes like Camels. The pros outweighed the cons on money versus disease, so I smoked that cigarette right down to the filter, but as carefully as I could.

  The second bag was just as arduous and disgusting as the first, but I learned to pass the time by imagining the lives those boots had led before ending up at Ritzy’s Vintage Finds. Some were from the German military, some Asian, but the most ragged pairs came from one of the Arabic countries of the Middle East—at least that’s what language the “100% leather” on the boot tongue looked to be written in. Then I thought about how many soldiers might have died while actually wearing these very same boots, and if Robert had gotten a discount in price for something like that.

  He came out again just as I started on the third sack, and he made a little joke by asking when I’d found the time to change clothes. I glanced down to find that my tan slacks were now completely brown and my dressy white shirt was a blend of beiges and black smears.

  “And you got my fucking glove all filthy, man!” he added, and quite seriously.

  I decided not to respond to that and instead asked when I could take a lunch break. He looked at his watch and replied, “As soon as you’re done there.”