Jobville

Since I am approaching the start of a new job, one which, though unglamorous, will no doubt be by turns pleasant, boring and sometimes heartbreaking. Not everybody is cut out to work with senior citizens, but I've done it before, long ago. I was a smug, unthinking 26 years old and did alright with it. But now I am so much better equipped to anticipate their moods, listen to their war rationing stories and fetch the silver serving platter down off the top shelf in the kitchen for them.
In celebration of this new paycheck accompanied pass time, here are some disastrous jobs from the past.


Teenage Cave Guide - this involves going down into the hole everyday leading herds of tourists who are only taking your tour because there's nothing else to do. They are hot, it's lunchtime and the kids are still whingeing about "why couldn't we have gone to Disneyworld, like you promised?" This means your spiel about moonshiners, formation of sedimentary rock [ zzzzz] and average cave temps makes the normal urban 12 year old tourist extremely mean, with glazed over eyes like Charley Manson. It also helps very little that the tour guide is clad in a bright red jumpsuit, which -even at 120 pounds [ age19] makes one resemble Roseanne Barr with a police flashlight. That summer-due to electrical problems- the lights often flickered on and off while I was alone down there, repainting the dampish white lines on the cement. This dark wasn't just dark; it breathed and had fangs.

Girl Insurance Claims Adjuster-which came along after I was much older, and had developed a bit more savvy about how to deal with crusty people. No amount of company funded training however, could've really prepared me for going on cold calls in rural areas. The Ozark Mountains are known for their fiercely independent, no nonsense inhabitants. Even toward the end of the twentieth century, a young female in heels and nice clothes was an object of suspicion out there. One never, never just drives up in the actual driveway, next to the house. One stands at the edge of the yard and hollers politely [?]their name and the reason for the visit. If one hears the inimitable sound of a rifle bolt being drawn back -sigh. Time to go...wrong house. So sorry to have bothered you.
I decided early in the game that I was NOT going to end up on some milk carton, my youthful black and white photo tossed out on the daily garbage, or run over by a city bus in the rain. Needless to say, my insurance career ended right before Christmas, circa 1987.

Professional Statue Polisher- this is someone who is hired to do clerical work, initially then it's somehow found out that said person can paint signs, dress windows, create parade floats and generally make something out of thin air, at little more than a day's notice. Though I was officially a museum registrar, after the regular incoming manuscripts [ if one can relate to a handwritten 16th century prayer vellum as a 'regular book'] were carefully vacumned, catalogued and put away, I was off to, well ...polish statues with a toothbrush and a tube of Crest on 28 degree days. The compound was enormous, and housed several almost scale sized buildings, modeled after those in the Holy land.Located in a heavily wooded area, one walked out to the buildings -to repaint, to re-attach wooden trim.
During my time with this institution, I conversed with lizards who often stood looking out the windows of the smaller diorama buildings, tiny claws clutching the window sill, tongues flicking in and out, their beady eyes looking all around. A friend of mine considered making a tiny Pope hat for one of them, but then how to put it on? A tiny elastic band? A white ribbon?

I have been chased by more than one camel on the same premises. I know now that donkeys are sweet natured and costumes need to be shaken before being picked up off the shelf, due to timber rattlers' fondness for piles of heavy fabric when the weather turns cold. Back in the day, I sometimes found myself wearing a middle eastern street walker costume- regular cast member out sick. Same property, different job.
Off and on, in different capacities, I worked at this odd place. I didn't really hate it...all the time. I loved it on occasion. But nothing I've done before or since has ever taxed my resources on such a regular basis. But the one thing: Never did I feel more alive. I never knew if I needed a toothbrush or a hammer or a fresh coat of Egyptian eyeliner to go to work. Every day was newly minted, and sometimes I miss it.