Me and Lilly and Dolly and Jane
a SUIT column by Chris Jungle

Baby-sitting, stocking books, roofing houses, frying chicken, making tortillas, loading semi-trailers full of packages, writing previews of musical shows, peeling green chili, giving out medication, feeding dogs, delivering sacks of feed, selling spices, spawning columns (both sports-related and random), putting kids in five point restraints, breaking down stages, selling parts of my stash, cleaning up after the homeless, placing in fiction contests, and picking up change lying on the ground. All of these things have one thing in common. They are all tasks I have done in an attempt to have some sort of income.

I know there are people guffawing at the fact that these fine columns I write on a weekly basis do not pay the bills. Let's face it. No newspaper with a conscience would hire me because I never try to pawn off a fictional story as reality. If I make something up, I'll let you know. My written babbling is more self-therapy than anything else, but self-therapy doesn't help with rent and utilities. That's where jobs come in.

I have now embarked on a new frontier in my eclectic career as an employee--a screen job. Now, I've worked in places that had computers, and I even got to work on them occasionally. My new gig requires me to stare at a big Macintosh screen for at least six hours of the day. Sit and stare, point and click, cut and paste, delete and replace, undo and repeat, select and clear, and edit, edit, edit.

In many respects, it is the easiest job I've ever had. There is next to no manual labor, no verbal arguments, no crunch times, no big wave of customers, no hazardous equipment, and hours upon hours without having to say much to anyone. In other respects, it's the hardest job I've had. It requires more computer skills than I really have, the screen already has a painful hypnosis on me, the work is endless, and I spend hours upon hours without having to say much to anyone.

Of course, most people decide how good their job is by how much money they make. In that respect, it's the best job I've ever had. I knew if I slaved hard and long enough, I could earn more than ten bucks an hour. I'm at $10.50, so I've even got enough for a game of pinball afterwards (even pinball costs 50 cents now!). Is staring at a screen for eight hours more important and therefore better paying than caring for dogs? Calming down dysfunctional children? Frying up six cookers of fried chicken at once? Stringing a thought along for at least 700 words? Of course not, but jobs have a lot more to do with what people are willing to pay you than what your time is actually worth. I figure every year I work is worth one bizarre yet compelling novel that gets critical acclaim, one week on the bestseller list, and royalty checks. Is there anyone willing to pay me that?

Another weird aspect to my screen job is that it is a 9 to 5 gig. I'm serious. I actually go in at 9, and I leave around 5. Me and Lilly and Dolly and Jane (I can't believe I actually used that as a reference!). I've never had a 9 to 5 job. That was a suit and tie job, a wall street job, an insurance job, a bank job. Apparently, it's a screen job too.

My official title is a temporary part-time consultant. In truth, I can stare at their screen as much as I want until the end of September when that phase of project is done. If they like me enough after that, I get to stay and do other projects. Either way, I get paid well for more than a month.

It's the end of my third day of work. The Meat Puppets sing crazy songs from my speakers, the last of the green generic Kool-Aid is in my belly, and I will watch one of the two videos I rented. A violent Chow Yun Fat-Hong Kong flick called The Peace Hotel and big-titty yet socially-relevant Russ Meyer creation called Lorna. I can't really go wrong no matter which I choose. It's my free time.

I'm adjusting to this screen job work thing. I'm not excited that I work at this job, but I'm not upset either. It's a job. I do it for the money. I would never do the tasks I do if I wasn't compensated to an acceptable degree (or desperate enough to take what ever anyone gives me). It's far from my first job and probably a ways away from my last. But the rent will get paid, the gas and electric company will continue to service me, food will be in the fridge, and I'll even have enough left over to check out those $8 stage plays that exist in my town. That's what a job is worth, and that's about all it is worth.

Chris Jungle once contemplated selling his sperm for $75 bucks a pop but figured he was already a big enough detriment to the human race.

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