Anyway, I’m feeling pretty god damn motherfucking good at work today, except for, you know, I fucked some little things up. Who cares. I hate that menial part of my job, I hate it I hate it I hate it- it’s over. It’s over. God damn, it’s fucking over, thank you Jesus. Thank you Lord.
Now all I gotta do is figure out how to get some god damn motherfucking money. Cobble a living together. Cover scripts for money. Get some bullshit job. Work for (REDACTED), doing some real estate scam. Something.
I will make it. It will be OK. I came to California with no money. Or, my grandmother had given me a $500 savings bond and I used it to buy a bicycle, a mattress, and pay the rent on a room. I got a job out of the newspaper the next day. Cold calling places. The job was telemarketing. I was good at it, but it killed me. Jobs kill me. I wasn’t built to work.
I was one of the best salesmen they had. My job was selling tickets to shows that benefited charity. Fifteen per cent of the money went to the charity and eighty five per cent went to buying the two guys who owned the company private jets and strippers for wives. I came on just as the national Do Not Call list was being instated. John Stossel was doing exposés. Everything he was saying was correct. People saw him on TV and started saying “Do Not Call List” like it was some kind of sorcery out of Harry Potter. They were thrilled to have these magic words– finally, some revenge on the person who had called them during dinner. It was always: you called me during dinner! Don’t answer the phone then, you fucking idiot. But great. We were fastidious about observing the Do Not Call List. Mailing them a copy of our Do Not Call Policy, some mimeograph from the copy machine of a 1972 junior high. Probably in that purple ink. Take yourself off the list, only the people who will buy will be left. They said it like they wanted to hurt me. They really hated me. But it was wonderful. You don’t want to be called; I don’t want to call you. Symbiosis.
But, they were always assholes about it. They were always horrible. People are their worst when they perceive themselves as slighted by the weak. They would really try to dig in to me, and get at me. I couldn’t say anything. This is what work means– people can come after you, and you can’t go back at them. People attacking me with words. I would think: I could stay on the phone with you and make you kill yourself if I wanted. I also have your address. I am astounded that more people aren’t murdered by telemarketers. I would have killed people. I can still recite the name and address of my wort couple calls. Dennis (REDACTED) of (REDACTED) street, Ben Lomond. Israel (REDACTED) of (REDACTED) street, Santa Cruz. I still want to put their full names and addresses up and say: find these people. Kill these people, whoever reads this web site. I want to register this site in the name of Dennis (REDACTED) so the person who wants to cut my balls off does it to him instead.
What kept me going, what kept me there, was that the people I worked with were real and unabashed human beings. My boss, Adam. Still using his actor name. He was a heroin addict, recovering, in AA. He had to have that job because he had a daughter. He had impregnated some shrew. He had to give up his acting dream and go to AA and take a shitty job managing a boiler room. But he was fucking funny. He liked good books and music and turned me on to great literature and films. Tom who sat next to me, a homeless man who lived in a tent in the woods and grew up being horribly abused and drank whiskey all day and had seen a man get his innards cut out screaming and his corpse stuffed with toilet paper and tossed off a high catwalk in San Quentin. Tom got picked up on an assault charge and his own mother came to court and testified against him. But he had a voice like Walter Cronkite. Tom was nuts but he would give you a belt of his whiskey; he played Brazilian guitar beautifully. He was a sweet man who would give you the shirt off his back. That’s why he was homeless. Good people get fucked. Also who knows what he did to get in San Quentin; maybe he killed a guy. Dave the assistant manager who was 50 and bald and couldn’t drive but pulled 18 year old girls who would come pick him up and drive him 50 minutes home. No better guy to trade fuck stories with.
Point being, they were all people who if it came down to: fuck your friend over and make the sale, or give it up, they would give it up. Hollywood is so competitive that no one who would not unflinchingly assrape their grandmother with a red hot crowbar will ever even be able to get a job bringing coffee. And every conversation with these people is like a DUI checkpoint when you have a buzz. You’re just trying to keep a game face on. Just trying to not reveal too much of the truth. There are a lot of people there I count as friends but they’ll either turn or they’ll fail.
Anyway. Now I’m gonna have to sell tickets to charity shows for retarded kids with murderous drunks and heroin addicts again. I’m gonna have to suck dick and collect cans. Fine.