I work in a parking lot that's converted to
a flea market every weekend. Jealous?
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| Lady in the green = my hero. |
I sell replica paintings, framing and
posters. I also plot the demise of nearly everyone I come into contact with.
Since my job brings out almost unparalleled levels of misanthropy in me, I
thought I might make a list of things I love about my job, so that when the
prosecution finds it, they'll at least know that I tried.
Every example I'm using here is true.
Apologies for the crappy cellphone photos.
Kindly enjoy the seven whole reasons why I love my job...
1. I get to practice putting a positive
spin on things.
See, when I'm setting up, my first reaction
to this sight would be “GAH! There's a freakin' TOENAIL over there! Somebody's
plastic-ass toenail fell off and GAAAAH!”
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| WT actual F. |
But because this sort of thing happens so
often, I'm quite adept at taking a deep, calming, non-murdery breath and looking on the bright side:
“Well, at least it's a FAKE toenail.”
2. I get to show off my wealth of cinematic
knowledge.
Let me tell you about the fourth guy,
the bane of my existence.
We sell cheesy framed posters of
vintage stars: James Dean, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, and.... some fourth guy.
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| Relax, he's just an extra. Get out of the shot, Phil! |
Every weekend, some dumbass stands there
and names the dead celebrities until he gets to the fourth guy. Then he waves
me over, makes me put down my coffee, pull off my headphones, walk all the way
across to the other side of the display, and watch him point his biltong-covered finger at the
fourth guy.
Dumbass: Who's dis?
Me: That's Humphrey Bogart.
Dumbass: [stares at me blankly]
Me: Humphrey Bogart. From Casablanca.
Dumbass: O-o-oh! [pretends to click and know who
that is] [walks away without another word.]
This happens a few times a day. I tried to
remedy the situation, but to no avail.
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| This sign was removed by Management. But for the few moments it was up, I was at peace. |
See, the people who ask about the fourth
guy aren't interested in buying the poster. They're not even interested in who the
fourth guy actually is. They're just killing time, and killing my soul while they're at it.
3. I get to practice Zen patience.
On the off-chance I actually get an
opportunity to take a bathroom break, I have to go down a long corridor filled
with happy customers. And let me tell you, when you're standing behind a herd
of people who treat every step as slowly as a tai-chi move, and who're just
obese enough to make slipping between them virtually impossible, it's a
fantastic opportunity to ponder the meaning of existence.
On a related note, I get to improve my
lung capacity by holding my breath in the public bathroom.
4. I get to perfect the art of saying NO.
Customer: Do you sell paintbrushes?
Me: No.
Customer: Can you make me a box frame out
of glass and dreams?
Me: No.
Customer: Do you have this [poster of Cree
Indian Prophecy] but with Jesus?
Me: No ma'am, Jesus doesn't plagiarize.
Customer: I don't have any money, but will
you put this ridiculously popular and expensive painting under the table for
me, because I feel like I might come back and buy it in the next decade or so.
Me: No.
Customer: I know someone's put down a
deposit on this, but I'm an asshole and will pay you above marked price with
cash right now, because I've got money and I assume that gives me the right to rip
off strangers. You can just tell the person who's actually bought it that it
was stolen, okay?
Me: No, asshole.
Enthusiastic Creepy Christian: Can I touch
you?
Me: No, no, A THOUSAND TIMES NO.*
5. I also get to perfect the art of saying
YES.
Customer: [pointing at poster] do you have
this?
Me: [pointing at poster ] … This? … Yes,
yes we do have the object you're pointing at. ...You see it too, right?
6. I get to expand my style horizons.
Right across from my stand is a lovely
Chinese couple (I'm not being sarcastic, they really are lovely) who sell
women's clothes. Most of their stuff is alright, and I've even bought some that
was too cute or cheap to resist. But now and then they stock something like
this...
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| You know what this'd look god with? Army print crocs! |
7. Also, Elvis' sex face.
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| Or maybe that microphone is just delicious. |
But you know why I really love my job?
Because I hate it so much, it makes me grateful for every moment I'm not there,
which is most of the time. For five or six days a week I get to write, read, watch too much TV,
tweet, squee, and not fear molestation by creepy Christians.
And that's pretty awesome.
*I am serious as fuck, this actually
happened.
