I was having an awful dream when I woke up at around 3:33 PM, a couple hours ago.
In the dream, I was with Leslie Thompson, and we were out on a dirt road in Middleburg, Florida.
He was driving Bobby's white pickup truck, and I was in the passenger seat and I was overcome with nostalgia at the sight of the scrubby pine forests of that street, where I lived 25 years ago.
I remembered the Parrish family that I lived with and how they had dreams, when they had come to Middleburg, Florida, of having a great life, and how I too, had had dreams when I went there to live with them, giving them 50 dollars a week to rent a room in their house, while making almost ten times that amount delivering pizza in Jacksonville.
A car was a necessity in Middleburg, Florida, because the nearest "job" would be 2 miles away, at the Circle K gas station/convenience store, and that was already staffed by the same gossipy ladies that had been ringing up cigarettes, beer and gasoline forever.
They would be the ones who would start the rumors, such as, when I had first arrived in Middleburg and had taken Jennifer, the step daughter of my friend Jesse, the daughter of his wife, Donna, and the half sister of Beth, who was in Massachusetts but who would move down there in a couple years with her boyfriend, Bobby, who would murder a Dominoes Pizza employee in Jacksonville, and the half sister of Mickey, who is doing well now, as a 39 tree surgeon, in Jacksonville.
39, how time flies.
Mickey was 14 then, and would live with us for short periods of time here and there, before going back to live with his and Beth's father.
So, when I pulled up at the Circle K, in my station wagon with the Massachusetts plates on it, and Jennifer and I got out and roamed the store, where I bought, probably beer and cigarettes and gas, and where Jennifer was able to get a slushy or some other kind of treat that her parents probably couldn't always afford when they stopped there with her, the rumor mill went into motion and pretty soon all of Middleburg "knew" that the father of that skinny but pretty little girl whom they had seen regularly with her mom and her stepdad, had come down from Massachusetts to visit ...and it's about time; the girl will be entering 6th grade this fall and, this is the first time we have ever seen him visiting her, and we see everything, in the 3 years since they started getting gas and beer and cigarettes here...I think they moved into that house on Amanda Lane. Doesn't he care any more than that about the poor little thing; look at how skinny she is, just like him. Oh, there's no doubt that he is the father.
Why did Donna leave this guy and marry the redneck who drinks Bush and smokes Newports; -the nigger brand?
He seems to be in pretty good shape, and the little girl seems to be happy to be with him. His car isn't anything fancy, but it apparently made it all the way from Massachusetts. I wonder what could have come between Donna and him; I'm betting it's her nagging, and her selfishness...buying a whole carton of cigarettes and then not having enough left to get the girl a slushy...poor thing...
Then, Jennifer, upon our second or third visit to that store, looked from the face of one cashier to the other, read their minds, and then blurted out: "He's not my father!"
So, in the dream, I was feeling this sense of nostalgia, and then, Leslie and I came around a corner to see that the road was flooded out ahead of us.
Just then, a local came around the bend from the other direction in a brown pickup truck and, plowed right through the water, which was up to its windshield.
They must have found that if they keep their foot on the gas they will make it through the water before their vehicle stalls, I thought in the dream, wondering how a gas engine, which needs air to burn gas, could do so with its entire hood under water.
Then, I was sitting in the bed of the thing, looking through the glass into the cab. Leslie was sitting in the passenger seat and driving from there, and the driver's seat was covered with all the stuff that I now have sitting on the couch cushions in my apartment; the Mel Bay book, the James A. Michener book, my guitar capo, my composition book, etc. was all there, forcing Leslie to drive from the other seat.
It then occurred to me in the dream that, should the truck stall, I would be out in the middle of nowhere with Leslie Thompson and we would have to walk something like 4 miles to get to the nearest...payphone?...liquor store?...I wasn't sure, but I woke up then, relieved that I wasn't way out on a country road, forced to have to walk a long way with Thompson as company.
I woke up feeling like I had had less sleep than I did when I had woken up at my regular time of around 1:30.
The apprehension over having had to walk in the dream was a carryover from having had to walk since my bike was stolen.
Since I don't have a lock for the Trek bike that was given to me, I took the trolley in to the Quarter last night, barely making back the $2.50 in fares, after busking for maybe an hour.
The Job
I got the e-mail from my neighbor, Wayne, and my next step is to send him a "digital" resume.
I had recently put one together when I applied at the Uxi Duxi, so I can just modify that one. It had been easy to make. I Googled something like: "templates for producing resumes," and had gotten them in all kinds of styles
It's hard to believe that, at this time next week, I could be sitting at home on a new Macintosh computer, using my own wi-fi signal, and on the clock making 13 bucks an hour (I think Wayne said).
The rent amount on my lease is $767.00 per month, and so that seems to be the cap of what I would have to pay, if I were to lose my "voucher" because I am working and making 13 bucks an hour, and could no longer argue that I am "disabled."
Some Calculations
If they start making me pay the whole month's rent because I am making 13 bucks an hour, then, after taxes, I would netting about $5.80 per hour from the job, and taking home around $232.00 per week.
I could make that in a typical 13 hours of busking, which would leave me 27 more hours of spare time compared to the Wayne job.
So it would be 13 hours of busking vs. 40 hours of "Apple customer service, how can I help you?" to make the same money.
Subtract from that the 80 bucks a month for the wi-fi and I could match, with 11 hours and 45 minutes of busking, the income from that 40 hour per week job.
Getting to enjoy the laptop and the wi-fi when I'm not on the clock would be a benefit of the Wayne job.
Getting 11 hours and 45 minutes a week of practice on the guitar and harmonica would be a benefit of busking.
Nobody is going to walk up to me drunk in my apartment and try to smash the laptop when I'm working the Wayne job, though.
So, it will really revolve around how much my rent amount would be affected by taking the job. The feasibility point would be around the $275 per month, no more, I think...
He was driving Bobby's white pickup truck, and I was in the passenger seat and I was overcome with nostalgia at the sight of the scrubby pine forests of that street, where I lived 25 years ago.
I remembered the Parrish family that I lived with and how they had dreams, when they had come to Middleburg, Florida, of having a great life, and how I too, had had dreams when I went there to live with them, giving them 50 dollars a week to rent a room in their house, while making almost ten times that amount delivering pizza in Jacksonville.
A car was a necessity in Middleburg, Florida, because the nearest "job" would be 2 miles away, at the Circle K gas station/convenience store, and that was already staffed by the same gossipy ladies that had been ringing up cigarettes, beer and gasoline forever.
They would be the ones who would start the rumors, such as, when I had first arrived in Middleburg and had taken Jennifer, the step daughter of my friend Jesse, the daughter of his wife, Donna, and the half sister of Beth, who was in Massachusetts but who would move down there in a couple years with her boyfriend, Bobby, who would murder a Dominoes Pizza employee in Jacksonville, and the half sister of Mickey, who is doing well now, as a 39 tree surgeon, in Jacksonville.
39, how time flies.
Mickey was 14 then, and would live with us for short periods of time here and there, before going back to live with his and Beth's father.
So, when I pulled up at the Circle K, in my station wagon with the Massachusetts plates on it, and Jennifer and I got out and roamed the store, where I bought, probably beer and cigarettes and gas, and where Jennifer was able to get a slushy or some other kind of treat that her parents probably couldn't always afford when they stopped there with her, the rumor mill went into motion and pretty soon all of Middleburg "knew" that the father of that skinny but pretty little girl whom they had seen regularly with her mom and her stepdad, had come down from Massachusetts to visit ...and it's about time; the girl will be entering 6th grade this fall and, this is the first time we have ever seen him visiting her, and we see everything, in the 3 years since they started getting gas and beer and cigarettes here...I think they moved into that house on Amanda Lane. Doesn't he care any more than that about the poor little thing; look at how skinny she is, just like him. Oh, there's no doubt that he is the father.
Why did Donna leave this guy and marry the redneck who drinks Bush and smokes Newports; -the nigger brand?
He seems to be in pretty good shape, and the little girl seems to be happy to be with him. His car isn't anything fancy, but it apparently made it all the way from Massachusetts. I wonder what could have come between Donna and him; I'm betting it's her nagging, and her selfishness...buying a whole carton of cigarettes and then not having enough left to get the girl a slushy...poor thing...
Then, Jennifer, upon our second or third visit to that store, looked from the face of one cashier to the other, read their minds, and then blurted out: "He's not my father!"
So, in the dream, I was feeling this sense of nostalgia, and then, Leslie and I came around a corner to see that the road was flooded out ahead of us.
Just then, a local came around the bend from the other direction in a brown pickup truck and, plowed right through the water, which was up to its windshield.
They must have found that if they keep their foot on the gas they will make it through the water before their vehicle stalls, I thought in the dream, wondering how a gas engine, which needs air to burn gas, could do so with its entire hood under water.
Then, I was sitting in the bed of the thing, looking through the glass into the cab. Leslie was sitting in the passenger seat and driving from there, and the driver's seat was covered with all the stuff that I now have sitting on the couch cushions in my apartment; the Mel Bay book, the James A. Michener book, my guitar capo, my composition book, etc. was all there, forcing Leslie to drive from the other seat.
It then occurred to me in the dream that, should the truck stall, I would be out in the middle of nowhere with Leslie Thompson and we would have to walk something like 4 miles to get to the nearest...payphone?...liquor store?...I wasn't sure, but I woke up then, relieved that I wasn't way out on a country road, forced to have to walk a long way with Thompson as company.
I woke up feeling like I had had less sleep than I did when I had woken up at my regular time of around 1:30.
The apprehension over having had to walk in the dream was a carryover from having had to walk since my bike was stolen.
Since I don't have a lock for the Trek bike that was given to me, I took the trolley in to the Quarter last night, barely making back the $2.50 in fares, after busking for maybe an hour.
The Job
I got the e-mail from my neighbor, Wayne, and my next step is to send him a "digital" resume.
I had recently put one together when I applied at the Uxi Duxi, so I can just modify that one. It had been easy to make. I Googled something like: "templates for producing resumes," and had gotten them in all kinds of styles
It's hard to believe that, at this time next week, I could be sitting at home on a new Macintosh computer, using my own wi-fi signal, and on the clock making 13 bucks an hour (I think Wayne said).
The rent amount on my lease is $767.00 per month, and so that seems to be the cap of what I would have to pay, if I were to lose my "voucher" because I am working and making 13 bucks an hour, and could no longer argue that I am "disabled."
Some Calculations
If they start making me pay the whole month's rent because I am making 13 bucks an hour, then, after taxes, I would netting about $5.80 per hour from the job, and taking home around $232.00 per week.
I could make that in a typical 13 hours of busking, which would leave me 27 more hours of spare time compared to the Wayne job.
So it would be 13 hours of busking vs. 40 hours of "Apple customer service, how can I help you?" to make the same money.
Subtract from that the 80 bucks a month for the wi-fi and I could match, with 11 hours and 45 minutes of busking, the income from that 40 hour per week job.
Getting to enjoy the laptop and the wi-fi when I'm not on the clock would be a benefit of the Wayne job.
Getting 11 hours and 45 minutes a week of practice on the guitar and harmonica would be a benefit of busking.
Nobody is going to walk up to me drunk in my apartment and try to smash the laptop when I'm working the Wayne job, though.
So, it will really revolve around how much my rent amount would be affected by taking the job. The feasibility point would be around the $275 per month, no more, I think...
Hm! Right now, busking, you're getting let's call it $800 worth of apartment for free.
ReplyDeleteWorking for/with Wayne, you'll have to take the first $800 a month, post-tax, so figure 20% comes off, meaning you have to make $1000 a month to pay your rent.
If the Wayne job gives you 40 hours a week at $13 an hour, that's $2250 a month. But, as mentioned, half of that will go for your rent. Which was free as a busking "artist" and "cultural resource".
So ... you'll be working $40 hours a week for what will amount to $5 or $6 an hour. And you'll find that when you're not working, the last thing you might feel like doing is what feels like more work, I.E., busking. So you'll have to force yourself to practice, and I doubt you'll get in the 13 hours or so a week you cite.
Plus, there's a thing called "lifestyle inflation". There's a good chance you'll start buying American Spirits instead of picking snipes, and there's no way you'll quit or even cut back working help desk; there's a reason it's called "hell desk".
To be continued...
Now, the other way to go would be to amp up the busking; have CDs or posters or something too, put in more hours, try daytime busking, etc. And of course give The Powers That Be some cockamamie story about how little you make on the street but it's OK, you're a starving/suffering artist etc.
ReplyDeleteYou think Clean-Cut Guy, Trumpet Guy, Loud Guy, etc tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth to the tax man or whoever's subsidizing their dwelling? It's kind of a "let it slide" situation because you're a "cultural resource" even though you hate chicory coffee, beignets probably make you break out or something, and you seem devoted to the Grateful Dead (a California band) and that Declan Crumpet guy (who's English and hasn't don anything good since "Pump It Up").
Plus it being Apple, however many steps removed, you'll have to stay in constant training on the Apple operating system and programs that are popular with it.
Trust me I wrestle with the same sort of questions myself.