I sometimes like to imagine my accumulative altitude gain by picturing a bare staircase, with no supportive architecture, rising into a clear sky over the city of cities. And, having been to the observatory deck of the Empire State Building, you cannot even make out the figure of Zemblanity. It is possible to see the general section of the city in which it resides but amongst those groves of great towers, it is all but invisible.
And after six consecutive shifts, everything hurts. The balls of my feet, the arches, my calves, my quadraceps, my hamstrings, every part of my back complains like mistreated baby. I sometimes stand motionless in the hot shower at home, after work, for a long, long time.
Nonetheless, I make no bones about the ease of my crappy job. I do not work in a sweat shop, I am not a prostitute, I do not dig trenches or shovel gravel, I am not a coal miner or even a hale bailer. I have enough in the tank in the evenings to write about the day.
Still, it is telling that this has been my hardest physical job. In fact almost all my jobs have been "non-jobs." I have been attracted to positions that were easy, that in no way interfered with writing or the playing of music, that paid the rent and left enough dough to buy cereal, burritos, and beer. This is, of course, not a very mature outlook upon employment but one that has supported my meager ambitions and made me happy until now.
For the most part, I have worked as a baker's assistant, movie theater box office attendant, projectionist, gallery salesman and picture framer and dishwasher. Nothing. I did however work a very difficult (in one sense) job (but very easy in another). For five years I worked with the developmentally disabled.
This was an easy job in that all I had to do is work two 20 hour shifts a week, cooking and cleaning and passing out meds. This was a difficult job in that I had to help two of my beloved clients die, had to rescue one from a diabetic coma with a gigantic needle, dealt with violent seizures and became so emotionally attached to my clients that they became as wondrous and difficult as family members to me.
Physically, that position was an absolute cakewalk compared to the exertion required as a host at Zemblanity. Having worked with my beloved retarded population, I think, has prepared me for dealing with the ridiculous behaviors of spoiled, Upper-east-siders.
And while my body certainly hurts, it is very little compared to the hardship of Abdul, my favorite busser. All day he clears tables and hefts away the remains of meals. The weight of these dishes is substantial. He works harder and then works harder and then gets yelled at to work harder.
Abdul has been married for six years. He offers me advice on marriage in broken english. He has only seen his wife and two children for a month at a time, two times over the last five years. Every dollar that he earns other than what he needs for rent and food, he sends back home. And while he works his back breaking work, he sings.
Even though I am in New York for a reason and work for a reason, I may never fully contemplate the difficulty of Abdul's work. He likes that he and I are both married. He sometimes holds up the ring on his finger to the ring on mine as we pass and says "Ah! You got a lady! You got a lady, Man!"
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