Joe 9: The Great 2020 Quest for the Cure for Brokeness

Real fans of this blog remember my first big job was a summer’s worth of breaking walls with sledgehammers, pulling tree-sized weeds, and hanging out with spiders and millipedes in dingy basements for eight hours a day. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was the best way for me to frontload some cash before the beginning of the school year. However, trying to stockpile a stagnant pool of money for 9 months in a world of unforeseen expenses and, you know, the desire to buy stuff, didn’t sit too well with me. So, with a little help from one of my mom’s friends, I secured a spot behind the counter at Naz-O-Nut a few weeks before the end of summer break.

It ended up being a great spot for me to work. The store never stays open past 4 o’clock, which means it rarely conflicts with any after-school commitments. Normally that would also mean difficulty getting work during the week, but an amazingly-convenient all-year Block 4 study hall instead makes me the only person vying for a spot for closing shifts on BDF days. There’s also free donuts for employees, air conditioning, and people besides myself to talk to throughout the day, all of which could not be said for the stifling wreck of a house I spent exuberant amounts of time inside for the preceding quarter year.

It’s now been six months. Besides one earth-shattering moment where I was standing in the middle of New York City and received a “where are you” text from my boss, it’s been a smooth six months. Though I’ve learned you can get sick of even the best donuts after 50 or 60 in a row, I love my job.

However, we do have to talk about the last two weeks.

I’m not entirely sure what changed, but ever since my return from Florida, I’ve essentially set up residence in the little donut shop next to the Subway. If life was measured in Naz-O’s per Nut, I’ve gone from about a 15 to a 95.

A snapshot of me, in my natural working habitat

In the last 10 days, I’ve worked 7 separate shifts. I’ve wrangled donuts, made smoothies, mopped the life outta some floors (ppdate after writing, I ended up snapping the mop in half today), and done it all again. And again. And again. One especially sizeable shift came out to a total of 10 hours and 7 minutes, all in one sitting (or standing, because lord knows I didn’t get the privilege of a chair). It’s astounding to me how much the words “ARE YA READY KIDS?” before a theme song about a sentient sea sponge will wear on you after the eleventh time hearing it. And that’s before you even consider the cowbell that rings every time the door opens, which has dinged and donged right into the depths of my worst nightmares.

In all fairness, every time I’ve put on the uniform and left my house for a day of high-flying high-cholesterol fun, it’s been of my own volunteering. I guess the real issue here is the fact that, when asked if I wanted to work for the entirety of a day I’d allotted for catching up on homework, I defaulted to a yes instantly.

Yet, in the haze of sore feet and thin tolerances for people who are convinced they can negotiate a $1.19 donut down to 90 cents, I feel a sense of great pride. It’s my living I’m working for. I’m earning my place in my own livelihood, taking on more and more autonomy all the time. The cash flow has been extremely rewarding, and this surge of donut intensity will inevitably cool off in the near future. But for now, I’ll keep my nose to the grindstone and be reminded time and time again who lives in a pineapple under the sea.

Time to wrap this up… a customer is coming in.