When I was just twenty five, I counted forty jobs that I'd held. Many lasted a week or less, but enough for a paycheck. I've always liked money, just not enough to sell my soul to get it. I don't begrudge those who hold jobs for years, build careers, buy houses, save for retirement. I envy them.
But it doesn't work for me. I once held a job for three years with not a single raise. It was a bartenders job. After two years I asked the boss for a raise. “I've got another kid on the way, I said. How about a little bump in pay.” You know what that bastard told me? “Bartenders steal enough that they don't need a raise.” I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was accusing me of stealing, and giving me permission at the same time. Not a smart move, but he was the rich business man and he seemed to have no problem letting people work for peanuts so I figured it was every man for himself, even though I'd never taken a dime up until then. Even under those circumstances I have to admit stealing money, and with permission no less, was against my nature. I've always preferred things on the up an up. But I had another kid on the way and was having a hard time making ends meet. I was fair about it. I figured I was worth another twenty a day, so that's what I aimed for. If someone came in for a cup of coffee, I put the money in my tip jar instead of the til. Just coffee. It gave me the bump I was looking for and I didn't feel like a crook. If I were smart I would have gone for broke until he fired me which he did anyway about a year later.
The bar jobs were the best paying. I once got promoted to manager at one bar. The hours doubled and the pay was much less. I finally told the guy I need a couple of bar shifts to make ends meet. It's funny how a promotion, with more hours and more responsibility can lead to a smaller paycheck. I gotta say, I've learned that honesty and integrity, while noble, are not profitable. The way I figure it, the more zeros in a guys bank account-the more bodies he's got buried. Few people can make it rich without fucking somebody somewhere.
I finally gave up on working around 1985 and decided to make paintings. I knew nothing about painting, but that's what I wanted to do. I admired the artists I knew. They were the best people I'd ever met. The artists seem to know what's important and what's bullshit. I think that's why the ruling elite always find a way to cut arts programs in schools. It makes the rabble too hard to control if they get to smart. I hoped it would make me smart too. I began making paintings one day. I didn't know what I was doing. I used house paint. I painted on wood. It was strange art, but people liked it. Then myfriend, Alan, gave me some oil paint and a few lessons and I took it from there. I finally went to art school which was a great experience but totally not worth it financially. I'll still paying it off. Luckily I married a beautiful woman who thought people should only do what makes them happy. “I love what I do, she said, and it makes enough money for both of us.” So I started painting. As long as I was making paintings she had no trouble supporting me and my two boys. Now about the unselfish part. Cathie isn't an artist herself, but she is the most unselfish person I've ever met. When I was having trouble painting; no ideas. She never held it against me. I tried writing cartoons for a while, then just writing short stories. Never selling anything, but as long as I was making the effort, she was satisfied. Don't get me wrong, Cathie wasn't making enough money for us to be on easy street. But our relationship was good when I wasn't working. When I had a job, I was gone most of the time and I could never make enough money to lift us up. When I wasn't working, I cooked and cleaned and made her laugh, and she loves having my art hanging around the house. It was a good trade. Twenty seven years later it's still great.