And so the gig working for the rock star didn't pan out. I mean, it did for a while. But I quickly learned that the rock star was surrounded by three types of people (1) famous auteurs/superstars/models (2) depressive Townies, and (3) the on-the-verge-of-a-psychotic-break Townies (my immediate supervisor fell into this camp). And so the pay was decent, the work interesting and unique, but the actual experience of working an eight hour day almost destroyed my psyche. I don't need this, I said, then slumped jobless down Grady Ave.
A few days went by, with rent looming - and the Athens, Ga. job market was as bad then as it is now - before I called up Old Sinister. Old Sinister was an Aryan ex-high school football star who managed a landscaping crew. I had worked for him in the past and swore to never have anything to do with him again. But whatever. Rent was due, so I went back and - unlike Kahlil Gibran's overprudent dog - got what I needed: a paycheck. He paid as well as the rock star and "valued" (exploited) my bilingual skills. "Yeah, man, I got work for you," he laughed. And so, the next Monday I drove out to his suburban home, where he was already getting high on genetically engineered yayo in his garage.
On the side steps of his house was an Aztec-lookin' hombre. We rapped. He said his name was "Victor." I gestured to Old Sinister, deep in his cloud, and said "este tipo es un mamon...no, un pendejon." We became fast friends, me and Victor...a friendship rooted in my horrendous Spanish, his bad English, and a fair amount of Spanglicized pidgin.
And so that was eight years ago, almost to the day. Victor is now married with two kids & now they're all in the shadows of ancient Chichenitza, meditating on what comes next...[The above photo was taken shortly before I left Athens for Colorado (about six months after signing back up with Old Sinister). We were at The Globe, where we used to drink Guinness, write poetry, and smoke hand-rolled smokes into the nochebuena.]
No comments:
Post a Comment