Tag Archives: bad job

Cheez-Willikers Technician

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Posted: March 9, 2015 at 5:04 pm

The worst kind of jobs are the jobs where you get paid to do nothing. I don’t mean getting paid not to grow a crop on your land, or paid not to fish for cod because cod are endangered…those jobs would be good because you could do anything you wanted while you were not doing the thing you were paid not to do. The “doing nothing” jobs I’m referring to are those where you have to be somewhere for your shift, and you’re paid to be present just in case something happens (but nothing ever does). Like a security guard. Or a Cheez-Willikers technician.

I sat in a factory every day watching and listening to the monotonous drone of the machine which packaged cheesies, cleverly called Cheez-Willikers. I operated the Cheez-Willikers packing equipment, which meant that I watched the fully-automated process of boxes being filled with tasty snacks from a hose in the ceiling. My only role was to push the big red “STOP” button if the packing machine broke. It rarely broke, but when it did, I performed my sacred duty. I then waited for the mechanic to fix the machine, during which time I sat in the same chair, watching the fully-automated process of……nothing. On the plus side, I never sat in that chair without an open box of Cheez-Willikers at my side. I snacked for the entire eight hours, going through two or three boxes per shift, fingers permanently stained orange. With a 20-year-old’s metabolism, no problem. If I did that today I would weigh 400 pounds.

One particularly boring night, but I don’t know how I could measure the levels of boredom, the packing line broke and the mechanic had been trying to fix it for two hours. I had always wondered where the Cheez-Willikers came from, since all I knew was the mysterious ceiling hose. So I took the stairs up to the floor above my workstation. I was surprised to see a swimming pool-sized metal box, filed with Cheez-Willikers, ten feet deep. A person could dive into this orange pool, totally submerged, and wouldn’t be able to swim or eat his way out. Homer Simpson’s dream. The pool funnelled down to a drain which fed the delivery hose in the floor below. I never discovered how or where the Cheez-Willikers were made or how they were delivered to the pool….maybe there was a larger pool on the floor above. And an even larger pool on the floor above that. And so on, reaching to cheesie heaven.

What weird jobs have you had? Write me a comment below.

Hallucinogenic Painter

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Posted: February 16, 2015 at 9:30 am

 

This short story is number six in my series of “Jobs-Less-Fun-Than-Writing”:

At 18, I spent one summer as a general labourer in the steam room of a large factory. I was assigned to help an engineer operate and service the large equipment which provided power to the factory. It was mostly holding ladders and crawling in tight places and not wincing when my engineer boss introduced me to everyone in the factory by saying, “This is my (n-word), Bill. Have you met Bill my (n-word)?” He thought that was funny because my job was to do whatever he asked me, and because everyone at the factory, including me, was white. I was too young and stupid to tell him what an incredible idiot he was.

One day my engineer asked me to paint the inside of a tank large enough for me to crawl into, but not much bigger. The tank was empty, but usually held liquids, so I had to use water-proof paint. Another summer student shone a light into a tank while I painted, but when I was half done he frantically yelled at me to get out of the tank. He became alarmed when I started babbling about rainbows and unicorns and the undulations of the steel tank’s walls. He realized that the highly toxic paint fumes were frying by brain and causing hallucinations.

I later learned that the factory’s new safety protocol demanded anyone using that paint to wear a respirator with an oxygen tank.

What dangerous job have you had?

Boiling Acid Bath Guinea Pig

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Posted: February 9, 2015 at 9:34 am

 

This short story is number five in my series of “Jobs-Less-Fun-Than-Writing”:

The summer before I went to college I worked in a metal-finishing plant, the most disgusting, dangerous and unhygienic factory in existence. I stood all day beside a boiling vat of acid, ten feet wide and taller than me. Beside the vat it was over 50º C. The acid vat was the first in a series of vats, containing various chemicals and unidentified liquids. I hooked metal frames, car parts, and other steel objects onto a rack attached to chains and an electronic pulley system. When the rack was full, another worker used a handheld device to raise the rack and lower it into the acid. Then raise it and lower it into the next vat of chemicals, and the next, and so on, until it was set aside to dry. This process coated the metal in protective zinc. The air above the vats and throughout the factory was just a big slush pile of noxious fumes.

In other parts of the factory, a similar process was used to cover nuts and bolts with zinc, but the vats were smaller and only waist height. The guys working beside these vats would often unzip and piss into the vats instead of walking to the washroom.

My doctor later told me that some of the chemicals in the factory must have entered my body through mosquito bites on my arm. Seven, to be exact. That summer I grew seven boils the length of my right arm, each larger than a golf ball. They were red and angry and I screamed each time they were lightly touched. Over the course of a week they all exploded, and what sprayed and oozed out of them was not for the weak of stomach.

Fortunately, the boils cleared up before my first day of college. But on that first day, I noticed a small pimple on the inside of my right elbow. During my freshman orientation week, that pimple grew to a prodigious boil, shaming the puny efforts of its seven dead cousins. It was so large it was flat on the top, like a plateau. For seven days I visited the Emergency Room of the college hospital and saw a different doctor each day. The only one to help me was the seventh, who said, “Well, we’ll have to drain that thing. But we can’t give you a needle to stop the pain, because of the infection. Nurse, please get me some of that spray-on freezing stuff.” The doctor probably used a more technical term for the spray-on freezing stuff, but I forget it now.

The nurse returned in a moment. “Sorry doctor, but we have run out of the spray.”

“OK,” he said. “We’ll just do without it. Bill, this may hurt a bit.”

The doctor secured my arm to the bed frame with leather straps. “Look away, Bill,” he said. I looked anyway. He took a scalpel and sliced a cross in the centre of my boil’s plateau, that same boil which was excruciatingly painful to gently touch. Then he forced a rubber tube into the hole, like a magician stuffing a large handkerchief into his closed fist. As the doctor squeezed my arm, puss drained from the hose and filled a beaker, about the size of a pint of beer. Simply stated, this entire procedure really, really hurt. I still have that scar on the inside of my elbow, after nearly 40 years.

A couple of years later, my mother mailed me a clipping from my hometown newspaper. The picture featured four people wearing white Haz-Mat suits, the kind with hoods and little rectangles of glass to look through. They were cleaning up the metal-finishing plant, recently closed for over 200 health violations. The plant also caused an environmental disaster by leaking chemicals into the water table. The article stated that the clean up crew was only allowed to work for three hours per day because of the extreme toxicity of the site. And they were wearing Haz-Mat suits! They were probably making more than the $6.50 per hour I made that summer. I often wonder what chemicals are still swirling inside my body, and every time I get a little pimple I start to worry……

What dangerous job have you had? Tell me.

Door-to-Door Vacuum Salesman

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Posted: February 2, 2015 at 8:45 am

 

The cosmic shift in my life was to leave 25 years of lawyering for an uncertain future as a writer. It’s easy to forget that I had many other jobs which were much less fun than writing. Here’s number four of a series:

One high school summer I didn’t get the job I coveted, lawn maintenance at a golf course. I wanted to spend the summer on a sit-down lawnmower, working on my tan. I was shocked that the position was already filled on July 1st when I applied. It never occurred to me that the smart guys applied for that job the previous winter, and the dumb guys waited until school ended in June.

My job search consisted of reading the classifieds every day. Since I wasn’t qualified to be the Senior Project Designer for an Award-Winning International Engineering Firm, Salary Commensurate With Experience, I lowered my expectations to become a Filter Queen Vacuum Salesman, 100% Commission.

I trained at Vacuum College with two other teenagers, and a woman who’d lived in Canada for three days, in a low-ceilinged, windowless room in a dingy strip mall. I couldn’t say the training sucked, because the primary rule of selling vacuums is to never say the word “suck.” It’s always, “the vacuum draws in the dirt….” I learned the Filter Queen sales script by heart, and could manipulate the vacuum’s various hoses and attachments like I was speed-assembling my rifle in an army training exercise. Filter Queen was the most expensive vacuum on the market, and I was to receive a healthy commission for each one sold. At summer’s end, I had sold ONE. To my mom.

What stupid job have you had?

Hamburger Helper Stuffer

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Posted: January 15, 2015 at 9:17 am

 

The cosmic shift in my life was to leave 25 years of lawyering for an uncertain future as a writer. It’s easy to forget that I had many other jobs which were much less fun than writing. Here’s number two of a series:

When I was a teenager, the lazy moms, not my mom, appreciated the ease of serving “Sloppy Joe” or “Double Cheeseburger Macaroni”-flavored Hamburger Helper to their hungry families.

Every box of Hamburger Helper had two ingredients: dry pasta and a foil pouch containing powdered sauce and seasonings. Those delightful ingredients didn’t just jump into the boxes by themselves. I spent most of one summer packaging Hamburger Helper in a stifling Toronto factory.  A spider-like machine of whirring and twisting metal arms constructed and glued empty boxes of Hamburger Helper and then pushed them along a conveyor belt. An overhead nozzle half-filled each box with dry fusilli or macaroni or rotini noodles, and then the boxes bobbed along the conveyor to where I stood. Each box demanded a foil pouch, stuffed by my hand. Inexplicably, the pouches were too long to fit in the boxes of pasta without being jammed and squished in. If the pouches were wider, or if the boxes were bigger, the pouches could have been easily dropped into each box, probably by machine. But this obvious design flaw necessitated the previously-mentioned pouch-jamming. I did this every five seconds, all day, all summer. I had to be fast, because I couldn’t catch up by eating the product, like Lucille Ball working at the chocolate factory.

The problem with all this jamming was that each time a pouch was forced into a box, a tiny hole would open at one corner of the pouch, and a tiny puff of powdered seasoning would escape. Sometimes one seam of the pouch would split, and the resulting explosion would send a large cloud of seasoning over my head. After a couple of hours, my hair was thick with it (that was a rare sentence containing both “my hair” and “thick”). Every inch of skin on my body, exposed or clothed, was covered with a thin layer of powdered Hamburger Helper sauce. Remember when I said it was hot in the factory? I was sweating like a pig, and the Hamburger Helper powder dissolved well into my perspiration. The brown liquid simmered lazily on my skin as it slid down my face, cooking up the tasty sauce loved by lazy moms everywhere.

What stupid job have you had?