Finding Fraser(59)
- ES
Comments: 6
HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:
Emma-san! I too work in a factory. Chin up——twelve hour days do not sound that bad. I work fourteen each day, plus English class and violin practice, yet I still find time to read your blog. Is your new employer handsome?
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Flogging Fiction…
1:00 am, April 15
Glasgow, Scotland
So——ah——the fish-processing job didn’t work out, in the end. My supervisor was … well. It just didn’t work out, is all.
Anyway, I’ve got another job, selling speculative fiction magazines door to door. Starts tomorrow. There’s a really small quota——I think it’s going to be perfect. More time to blog, anyway, and if I’m going door to door, I’ll get to explore the city as I work, and maybe meet a few people!
- ES
Comments: 6
SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:
Emma, I can lend you the money you need. You can pay me back when you get a decent job here. Chopping off fish heads? Direct sales? And I thought nothing could be worse than your coffee-shop drudgery. Come home!
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Financial Flagging…
11:00 pm, April 30
Glasgow, Scotland
Glasgow is an amazing city. But, you know? I’m re-thinking my role in direct sales. I suspect I lack what my sister would call the correct skill-set. Or financial acumen. Or the ability to sell anything except maybe a decent latte.
- ES
Comments: 0
I logged off long before my money had run out and gently rested my head on the edge of the desk. Now that I had the time to blog again, I couldn’t find any words to say. My enthusiasm for writing had dried up, along with my quest. Glasgow was amazing—I wasn’t lying. But it was a city—a fairly big city—with all the attendant city issues. Like expensive housing. High jobless rate. Creepy employers.
The truth was, the entire month of April had been a blur, with one terrible job morphing into another. I’d had two—no, three—jobs, all of which I’d had to run away or be fired from.
The fishmonger job had looked perfect at first, apart from the whole fish angle, until I went to wash up at the big sink in the back after a shift and found my shift supervisor doing the same.
Except he was not wearing his uniform—or anything at all, really.
It became immediately clear that our expectations on my job description differed.
Luckily, since one of us was naked, it only took me ten minutes or so to lose him on Crown Street. The fact that he didn’t seem worried about chasing after me through his neighborhood, crying and calling my name—while stark naked—led me to believe it may have happened before. The public thoroughfare didn’t slow him down any, either, but once I made it onto the Albert Bridge, I could no longer hear the telltale sound of his junk whacking against his legs as he ran. Who knows? Maybe his feet got cold …
I’ve said it before. Fish make people crazy.
Running through the streets of Glasgow in my bloody apron had left me sweaty and freaked out, so I spent the rest of the night in an all-night diner, going through the classifieds of a discarded Daily Record. I thought about going to the police, but decided that my own illegal employee status might not make me the most credible witness.
The lone waitress in the place came up with her coffee pot and filled my cup. “Ye want anything to eat?” she asked, giving my apron the side-eye.
“No, thanks.” My stomach was still in knots from the unexpected, lurid street-race.
She shrugged and went back to filling saltshakers. By the time she made it around to my table again, I’d crossed off just about every listing. My only area of expertise was working at a coffee shop, and there wasn’t a single job listed.
“Is there another paper?” I asked, as she refilled my coffee cup.
“Yeah. But no’ much in the way o’ work, aye?”
I sighed. “I tried being a fish monger, but it didn’t really work out.”
“Ah. That explains the smell then.”
“Oh—yeah. Sorry about that.”
In the end, the waitress had taken pity on me and sent me off to a “fella” she knew who was running a deal to sell science fiction magazines door to door.
A week later, though, he’d given me the boot, since I hadn’t sold a single subscription. The Scots were canny about value, and everyone I’d approached indicated puzzlement as to why anyone would buy a magazine when the facsimile was available online.
I’d had no good answer.
So.
I’d run away from paycheck number one. Struck out on paycheck number two—“Commission only, luv”. My last attempt was a job I had managed to land only that morning. It involved holding a cardboard sign mounted on an unfinished wood stick, entreating passersby to eat ‘New York-Style’ pizza. I also had leaflets to hand out.