When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be Paid

At this point I was forced to take stock of my situation. I was out of money, having already depleted the tips that I had earned as a valet the Emmys. I had no idea when or how the Mysteriously Absent Concessions Company planned to pay me for my first game. The Random College Student was supposed to pay me my wage from the Emmys, in cash, before a week had passed, but it had been more than a week and I hadn’t heard a thing.

It’s one thing to go into an odd job knowing that you might get screwed. It’s another thing entirely to suspect, after doing the odd job, that you have in fact been screwed. As the probability of non-payment increases, my faith in the good will of my fellow people and my ability to throw caution to the wind and hope for the best decreases. That is to say, my faith and positive outlook completely evaporates. I become a raving bitch.

I emailed the Random College Student, since this is how we had communicated in the past, and asked her when I might be able to meet her and collect my earnings. I received no response. I tried again, and got no response. At this point, my emails had a “tone.”

The friend who had hooked me up with this gig was called in for support, and she recommended that I try to call the Random College Student. I hate calling people. I don’t know why. It’s something deep-seated and isn’t likely to change soon. Evidence suggests that I like to write words down, and one can assume that this has something to do with my choices when it comes to message transmission. But in pursuit of my wages, I broke down and called. I left a message. Happily, I soon received a reply in the form of a text message.

I was not a fan of texting until the fall of 2007. Before this, I had eschewed this mode of communication as much as possible. I don’t do business on craigslist.org with people who exhibit excessive punctuation errors and a general lack of style, and I don’t communicate with my loved ones without spelling out the words “you,” “are,” and “laugh out loud.” However, my phone bill for October of 2007 skyrocketed after I had thumbed a virtual library of things like, “YOUK!,” “Pedroia!,” and “Fucking Lugo,” to everyone in my phone book. I bought a text package from my phone service provider, just so I could be prepared for the next season. Nevertheless, I consider texting to be a cheap imitation of the written word. I personally don’t think the act deserves a name with such a rich and noble etymology, to be frank.

But, as I am constantly called upon to consider, not all people are just like me. Some people like phone calls. And some people like texts. You have to be willing to experiment and see who prefers what. And if you really want to get hold of someone, (if they owe you money, for example) you’re going to have to adopt their mode of communication. As substandard as it may be.

So we texted a few times, and determined a meeting place. The Random College Student was going to meet a friend of hers for drinks at a Los Angeles area Mexican restaurant with a vulgar, anatomically-themed name. Naturally, I was further impressed. But agreed to meet her there that afternoon.

I did a little research and found that this restaurant was at a mall that was quite outside of my beaten path. It would take some driving, followed by parking, to get there. I decided that I would see if any stores at this mall had posted any help-wanted adds in the retail section of craigslist.org. If they had, I could apply and make the trip at least that much more justifiable.

I didn’t really want to work in retail. But this is what I told myself:

While I don’t have restaurant experience, I do have retail experience. It’s not as lucrative, but when all the banks are failing and your only other source of income depends largely on something as mercurial as Manny Ramirez, and even then, could only possibly last another month, a job in retail will have to be good enough. Suck it up.

As it happened, one store that was just about my speed needed some new sales associates. So I met the Random College Student, collected my cash, and went to The Store to apply. All the things that needed to happen at all the other places I where I had applied suddenly happened here: they needed help, the afternoon was quiet, the hiring manager was available to talk to me, I had my resume with me and all my references’ phone numbers. I filled out the application on the bench in the mall, turned it in to the hiring manager, and was asked to return later that week for an interview.

It was a strange mall, I thought, and way out in the middle of nowhere, but I had an interview. And some cash in my pocket. So I bought myself some Pinkberry and felt my faith in my fellow men and my ability to hope for the best rise back up to normal levels once again.