The Job Search - January 2010

The Job Search

One September morning, a few weeks after returning broke from the 1983 Edinburgh Festival - a festival, by the way, where we thought we would become rich and famous rock stars and buy new houses for our mums – Geoff and I woke up very hung-over from drinking way too many beers, a variety of shots and doing God-knows-what with our mind and bodies.
And since neither one of us were able to really see or think straight or hold a cigarette – or hold anything for that matter – without our hands shaking, we decided this would be the perfect time to go out into the bright New Haven morning and find jobs.
Actually, it would have been a perfect morning to go back to sleep, but this finding a job idea was a decision we made about four hours earlier – at 4 a.m. – a time when people sitting up listening to Bob Marley and John Lennon, drinking and chain smoking all night, usually make crazy plans – probably because the safety of the darkness outside usually protects them from taking any immediate action. But, in this case, we decided to actually do it. To accomplish this task, I was determined to fight through the hangover; the cottonmouth, nausea and pain in the front of my head that felt like someone was actually trying to hammer a railroad spike into my fucking skull.
Besides, we needed jobs! Rent was due in 15 days and we had just about nothing, except a few dollars that was still earmarked for beer and experience in the restaurant business.
I knew the morning would be rough when I stood in the shower and the water pelting me actually hurt! Shaving was excruciating. Must have been for Geoff as well because it looks like he stopped shaving half-way through.
But, once I found a suitable – although not all together clean – oxford shirt and almost pressed khaki pants to put on, I sat in the recliner chair in the living room for an ice water and cigarette while I put on my shoes and what I thought were matching sox. The morning music I picked out to get us up and on our way was the album Berlin by Lou Reed (although my morning may sound a little more like “Sunday Morning Coming Down” by Kris Kristopherson).
Lou Reed’s Berlin is a masterpiece for the dark montage of the shattered, tortured lives it presents. No happy songs and no happy endings – these are songs that are sung from the perspective of junkies, a cheated-on husband and a suicidal anti-heroin. It may have been one of the worst choices of music for us to listen to as we started our day. Somehow I bypassed Squeeze and The Kinks, which would have at least put us in an upbeat - if not inspired - mood! But, honestly, Berlin was out of the album cover and easier to maneuver onto the turntable with my unsteady hands. And at the time, it just felt right!
We were hungry and in vile moods, but figured the water and cigarettes we cautiously consumed – for fear of throwing up – would suffice as we struggled to piece ourselves together to go out and find work.
When the song “How Do You Think It Feels” came on the stereo, Geoff grabbed his pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and slipped them on and started belting out the song to the record.
I must look almost as cool as Lou Reed now,” Geoff said, between singing the Lou lines “How do you think it feels… to always make love by proxy…”
We both probably had the same question stenciled on our faces whenever we looked at each other: “What the fuck are we doing?” But we needed to start bringing some cash into the house.
I don’t know if the thought ever occurred to us that we would probably be better off getting more sleep, having a good breakfast and doing some laundry first to better prepare us for our venture.
I don’t think it occurred to us either that restaurants usually hire pleasant, upbeat people and that our current condition made it hard to disguise our contempt for all life forms we came across that day. We even sneered at people we passed on the streets walking downtown.
Our red eyes, sickly pale faces, wobbly manner, chain smoking and thrown together clothing made us questionable candidates – at best – for any job.
Just weeks before, at the 1983 Edinburgh Festival, we were musicians; performers in a musical/comedy troupe. For five weeks, that was how we were defined. That’s who we were. We shed our personas as waiters and bartenders – working hard to maintain our apartments and fast lifestyles. In Edinburgh, we performed in Halls, in auditoriums, in courtyard performing spaces, on the back of a flatbed truck and on street corners, holding our own to appreciative crowds who bought enough tickets – or tossed enough pounds into our guitar cases – to keep us in fish and chip dinners and tins of Tennants Lager during our stay. In the end, though, we didn’t have nearly enough cash to return home. I sold my guitar while Geoff was able to get a loan from his mom to get back to Connecticut.
Now we were walking – unsteadily – down Elm Street talking about the Berlin story, the genius of Lou Reed and how whenever we put that album on during any gatherings someone eventually freaks out – usually during the song “The Kids” about how the character Caroline has her children taken away because she is such a bad mother. As the song/story comes to a close, there are the haunting cries of two young children calling for their mother.
I always thought the best writers are those who can bring their characters to life. For a songwriter to do that is more of a challenge, I always thought, because the song canvas is a little more limiting than other forms of writing. But thee are a handful of songwriters – like Lou Reed, Pete Townsend, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon and, of course, Ray Davies – that are absolute masters at bringing their characters to life.
The problem is, you have to be careful with what characters you are bringing with you for the day.
“Hey man, you got any spare change?” some black guy hanging in front of the Greek Village deli and convenient store asked.
“No man,” I said as I walked by.
“Come on, man, I need some change,” the guy said.
I thought we would keep walking and he would barely be a memory in few minutes time.
“You need change? Than get a fucken’ job,” Geoff shot back.
“Come on, Geoff,” I said. “Let’s go…”
“I know you got some spare change, mother fucker,” the black guy yelled.
“If I have to be out here looking for a job, then maybe that’s what you ought to be doing instead of standing out here begging for change from people who work hard for it,” Geoff yelled.
“Fuck-you mother-fucker,” the guy yelled.
“Fuck-you,” Geoff shouted back.
In a flash, it seemed, they lunged at each other and had a grip on each other’s shirts as they tumbled to the ground, still tossing “fuck-you mother-fuckers” back and forth like a verbal – but still full contact – ping pong match.
I picked-up Geoff’s sun glasses from the ground and pulled Geoff off the guy and just about dragged him away as he continued yelling.
I was repulsed by the strong stale booze and bad body oder smells of the loser in front of the Greek Village. At least I hoped it was him.
Three blocks into this adventure, and things weren’t looking good. Geoff brushed the dirt and dust off him – and shook the dirt out of his hair – but the damage was done. What little bit of a good mood we may have been able to muster for a job interview was left on the pavement.
“My glasses, please,” Geoff said.
I handed him his glasses, he slipped them on and said, “It wouldn’t have been done any differently in Berlin! Except maybe I would have killed the fucken’ guy!”
We made occasional references to the Berlin album throughout the day, as Geoff would hum – or sing – various cuts from the album. “How do you think it feels,” he sang while crossing York Street. “When you’ve been up for five days…”
Our first stop was to a restaurant on Broadway, on the outskirts of Yale, to say “Hi” to Brian, a manager we knew, and to let him know that we are available for work if he had any openings, or heard of any openings.
“This must be my lucky day,” the assistant manager said as she walked into the bar area to greet us.
Brian wasn’t in and we were stuck with the assistant manager, who I refuse to refer to as anything but “Bitch” in anything I write (and if Bitch should read this – Screw-you… It’s not about you! BITCH!)
“When I last saw you rock stars, you were leaving this ‘One horse town’ to become rich and famous and leave all of us losers behind,” Bitch said, her voice echoing slightly in the empty bar.
“I’m sure we never said that,” I said.
“You certainly did say that and you certainly implied it whenever you talked about going to wherever you were,” she said.
I was struck with how different – and lonely - the bars looked in the morning compared to the vibrant look, and sounds and smells of the afternoons and evenings.
“We always knew we would be back…” Geoff started to say, before Bitch interrupted him.
“Yea, but you guys didn’t think you would get jobs here, did you? What am I going to do? Hire you until you’re out of the country chasing some musical pipe dream again?”
“It’s not like that at all,” Geoff said.
“Sure, what ever you say,” Bitch said. “What’s up with you guys anyway? You look like hell!”
I think Bitch was starting to enjoy herself. I was wondering if Geoff had an encounter with Bitch at some point before we left and now Bitch was just getting back at him.
Geoff was always the smoother one; he had no problem with the ladies!
Realizing that work was out of the question, I lit a Marlboro and watched as the smoke rose past the brass lamps over the bar and drifted to the ceiling.
Geoff was still sweet talking Bitch. I was overcome a little bit by panic. Where would I find a job? Why was I looking for one on a morning where I now realized I looked – and came across – as miserable?
“What the hell are you doing?” Bitch yelled towards me. “Who said you could smoke in here? We’re not even open yet.”
I took another drag off my cigarette and watched the exhaled smoke drift off into nowhere, wishing I was floating away with it. I remembered doing the same thing laying on my back in the downtown garden in Edinburgh; watching the cigarette smoke seemingly drift up towards Edinburgh Castle.
I wanted to be anywhere but where I was at that moment. I wanted to be home holding my guitar.
“Hey, put that cigarette out!” Bitch yelled.
“Blow me,” I said.
“What?” Bitch just about screamed – a little stunned.
“Blow me,” I said.
“Leave… now!” Bitch demanded.
I put my cigarette out on the floor and walked out. Geoff followed.
“Nice touch,” Geoff said.
“You know, it’s all about making a memorable impression,” I said.
We both smiled, probably for the first time that day.
“Do we have any money on us?” Geoff asked. “Can we get some breakfast somewhere?”
We went across the street to the Yankee Doodle luncheonette, which is only slightly bigger than your average closet, and got some eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast. An orange juice for Geoff and chocolate milk for me – life was starting to seem OK again.
The job search – which we officially determined to be a bust – was suspended for the day; and it wasn’t even 10:30 a.m. yet.
On the walk back to the apartment, we stopped off at Rudy’s – correctly billed as the ‘Friendliest Place in Town’ – for a short beer and a couple of cigarettes while talking to Leo, the bartender, about our trip.
Back at the apartment, we gathered some wash and went down the street to the Laundromat so we would have clean clothes for our next job search adventure, which would turn out to be the next morning. While waiting for our clothes, we talked about music in general and – more specifically - what we should be doing musically. Geoff had a phenomenal voice. I was a passable bass player. We knew we had a lot of work to do if we were going to do anything meaningful with music.
Until then, though, we were both big talkers.
Back at the apartment, we both got in a serious nap and spent the rest of the day ironing, reading the classified ads of the New Haven Journal-Courier and plotting out our job search for the next day.
I still felt like shit from the night before, and worried that the hard-partying lifestyle was going to catch up with me in a bad way. I took a walk to the New Haven Green to clear my head and watch the majestic Yale buildings swallow the sunset. I was content with just a root beer and, of course, cigarettes.
When I found my way back to the apartment, Geoff was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.
“How you feeling, sport?” I asked.
“Great, just great,” Geoff said, his response dripping with sarcasm. “So, are we going to find jobs tomorrow, hot shot?”
“Definitely,” I said.
“Good, but one thing I would like to do different from today…,” Geoff started.
“Oh, just one thing different than today?” I asked.
“OK, maybe we should do everything different,” Geoff said. “But, especially, I want to start the day without Lou Reed! He’s not hanging with us tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if that is possible,” I said. “But we’ll give it a shot.”