The Last Dance

My weekends are somewhat intolerably consumed by a seasonal second job. I’ve had the job for 20 years now because, despite my incessant belly-aching, it’s very lucrative. It just makes me about $21 an hour, but I’ve set up a complicated system of larceny and kickbacks that would make the shiftiest unethical M.D. proud.

The job is managing a big old mansion and accompanying grounds during posh rental events like weddings, bar mitzvahs, corporate gatherings… Whatever. I’m the Worst Case Scenario guy so, on occasion, I’m standing knee deep in sewage and changing fuses, or scrubbing up puke, or putting out fires, or calling paramedics. But, as is the case with Worst Case Scenarios, they are few and far between. For about 90% of my time, I sit in a little office and watch Netflix.

Even though each events gets me a couple hundred in real pay, and another couple hundred in kickbacks from vendors and caterers, and another couple hundred in stolen alcohol, it’s still a pain in the ass to lose my weekend to a 12 hour, late night shift (or, during the high holy months, two or three 12 hour shifts a weekend). In the end, I pretty much vanish from the social calendar between April and October and gorgeous summer spells are spent working seven days a week and never actually seeing the sun.

Tomorrow will be my last 12 hour shift for the season. I won’t be called up for duty until next April. A large part of me is thrilled – starting in November, my weekends return to me. A time of rest, or a time to see all of my friends (who routinely forget that I exist over the summer).

The flipside is that my monthly income is suddenly cut by about a thousand bucks. With that hanging over me, what ends up happening is that I spend my off season months hiding at home, in the dark, nervously counting kilowatt hours.

But that doesn’t really get me down. I’m just glad for the chance to recharge. Customer service 12 hours a day seven days a week does not a happy Nacho make.

So wish me well tomorrow. Come Sunday – it’s time for a toast. With myself in the mirror. And a glass of the cheapest champagne I can find. And don’t turn on the fucking lights! I can’t afford it! Use the candles I made by scraping off my own flesh and boiling it down with mucus and cum.


Comments are closed.