10
The Dark Side: why I can't work
BY LAURAH NORTON
Features Columnist
I've been unlucky in the job
market. It's not that I hate working
(well, actually, I do). I just have a
Ki.
ji£Kf>-r|
ap|. N i| ■*
Wouldn't you hire this sterling, perfectly stable example of
American youth?
bad habit of getting fired. I don't
punch customers or projectile vomit
or anything.
Mostly, I just scare them. Not
that I do it on purpose (usually); it's
not like I prophesize a great plague
or warn them of the coming Arma
geddon. I just don't like interacting
with other life-forms. It doesn't
come natural (surprise, surprise)
and I end up sputtering and twitch
ing when I'm forced to hold a civi-
I' ed conversation. Pathetic.
In any case, I can't hold a job.
Most of my work experience has
been on the "Welcome to McSlop!
Campus Candid
El
HHr % i l Y > r
.i^^KiAi M ii
Musicians brave the cold to provide soothing music to an uptight campus.
Features
Can I take your order?" level (these
kinds of jobs create serial killers. I'm
serious).
I spent most of my formative
years slinging sandwiches at a deli.
We had roaches, mold, and well, they
Chris Snyder
floor was blacker than the void that
is my closet. How pleasant!
Working at the deli stunk. My
vegan straightedge coworker would
(loudly) sing "Don't you know
you're eating death? The taste in
your mouth is the corpse on your
breath!" as he made ham sand
wiches.
It depressed people.
Thankfully, that job ended
when the floor in our restaurant ran
domly caved in during the lunch
rush (really). The singing vegan
actually fell into the basement (there
is justice!), and I decided to try my
luck at a cappuccino bar.
That was a very, very stupid
idea.
There is nothing worse in this
life than a bunch of Gen-X yuppies
that are skim-vanilla-tall-iced-latte
junkies. They shake as they order
their drinks, eyes glazed over with
the thought of a five buck caffeine
fix.
The coffee bar was located in
an expensive bookstore in a Land
Rover/take pets to psychologists
part of town, filled with people with
"Friends" haircuts and bank ac
counts longer than their social se
curity numbers.
I hate this type on principle.
Yet, I was suddenly forced to serve
them espresso and really expensive
hired me. The
management
wasn't real par
ticular. I wore
an apron and
scarf in my hair
(imagine WaHo
head napkins),
and had to deal
with customers
when they said
the roast beef
tasted like dead
raccoon.
The place
was disgusting:
there were vines
growing in the
bathroom (re
ally) and the
fr WASEERRIM COLDER,MEMOS JN SUMMER, SQUIRRELS SLEEPIN\ W£ WENT TO THEOLDSQUIRREL.
WERE BARE, UK.EDARK FIN6ERS. DREYS, MADE MOSTLY OF LEAVES. SANFORD'S ATT/C WAS MORE
MANV V 7WF SQUIRKETS OUT IN WINTER WE NEED CLUTTERED THAN SVEB. X
WERE GEFFLVB BEAM FOR WINTER. (FARMER QUARTERS- COULDN'T BEUSVE HOW FWO/ACORNS
x vas C>6TVA/O> \ERVOUS... ~7 V / X TXXFR \ HE'P HOARDEP. CHIP AND T HAPN' T
\Y \\J > T MUTER, SANFORP PALKEP,
W / \ F 'I BVT K£N X TOOK-
L^ILIILIBSSIMBHSSM ML 1 ILL A LOOK A ROUND HIS PLACE.
u VTA/£P ONE OF HIS BOOKS\ , - /(4- . 1 I WHY IV/)5 £ ft) / #//£ CONCENTRATE ! "\
IV NEVER. SEEN ONE UP CLOSE. YJHHI \\ WORRIED ABOUT ( HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED
WHAT DIP THOSE MASKS MB AN, IS THAT I I THOSE BOOKS? ITO LOOK AT BOOKS AND
J WOUDTREP * 6U Y's /\ I MA/7 7 W/P A PLACE TO BE WAR* ( J
WA'/A/ >/£" 3W A#£ 9AMFORD / / [ \I ,) \
6REW PUR/OUS. IMMEDIATELY, K J I Y F>W\ IF I I FL
/V£ SENT US A WAV. ft 1 1 > 1 I Ml//1
——a ii'j 3t>r FIRST TIME WE WENT IN, ■■gHaKSKSI
THAT'S HOW WE SETTLEPON THE JAB| BTWE^^MHN
LIBRARY- IT WAS TOO BUSY KNUSFL^KHU
THE PA\, BUT THAI N/DHT
tiui£ 72? x/£
G-RG/GF OF ACORMS INSIDE. ■■■■UHHH
I 9/W 4 Miv/C ABOUT TO SWOOP CHIP WAS IN HEAVEN, HE I'JFL
DOWN ON CHIP, IT TOOK A MOMENT TORE THROUBH CORRIDORS OF RTXFI
TO REAUZE THIS HAM: WA2 DEAD- BOOKS, XUMPEP FIZOM SHELF MHEMUJIMMIM
THERE WERE DOZENS OF BIRDS TO SHELE, AND BOUNCED ON M'M'JFET
THE SOE? COUCHES.
V ANP THERE WERE PLENTY OF PLACES THE IECNJ HEU OTF CKY P~^T
TO HIPE. ALSO, X WAS A UTJLE P^Y> '*
QJRJOUS A&UL THE BOCKS M&ELF. J THE GOUFORDUNL
cnris uaristrom
The Guilfordian
December 12,1997
sandwiches that (still) tasted like
dead raccoon. (Isn't it ironic? Don't
ya think?) It was the kinda place
where you wear a fancy apron and
have to hide behind the espresso
roaster to smoke.
I lasted a week. I did my job
decently, considering the clientele
no spitting or head spinning; I even
smiled (well, once). I was fired on
the grounds that I looked weird and
I might make people think about
"unpleasant things." (the possibili
ties are endless!) I didn't really care,
except for losing the free coffee/high
octane speed fix. Gave me more time
to read comics and play with
eyeliner innovations and stuff.
I mean, you can't forget what's
really important.