Seventh Layer of Hell on the Golf Links? I think so.

June 10, 2005
Did you ever see that episode of Simpsons where Homer joins the StoneCutters, and he parks so far from his office that, after a long commute, he is parked right beside his house? Well, this is no exaggeration, as I found out today.

I went today to apply to a job cleaning the locker rooms, etc, at the local golf course down the street from us. I knew that the golf course wraps around us, but I thought it would be more professional to take the address given on the wanted ad, and go all the way up the long drive to the clubhouse. As this drive is hidden from view from the street by trees and a bend, I had no idea how long it was. However, despite some issues with a sun allergy that I’ve had since childhood, I was game. For 9 bucks an hour, I’d swim to Liverpool. So, CV in hand, off I went up the long drive.

And up the long drive. And up the long drive.

Finally, images and theme music from Lawrence of Arabia flooding through my head, the 37-degree-plus weather and humidex started to play on my brain. The soupy Hamilton smog made me feel like a succubus had started feeding on my mouth and lungs, and I started to falter. I came into a large expanse of row houses- those chocolate box monstrosities favoured by the deadly dull in Ontario. Had I missed the pro shop? Was I really supposed to cut across the green? Was that really my hand, or had a bloated flounder attached itself to my wrist?

My mouth was dry and sticky, and my cheeks were hot and red. (Remember that scene in which Leia strangles Jabba? Not VG). Sweat, a thing that I have spent my life trying to avoid, ran down me like pan drippings. This was no longer a quest for a job, but for life itself.

Finally, I spotted some tacky golf-inspired signs and buildings rise out of the horizon. Suddenly the road was covered in import sedans filled with silly young men in polo shirts (why don’t YOU have jobs? I thought snidely). I began to realize that I had found the place I was seeking. That ugly thing, which looked for all the world like a converted trailer (but actually was probably quite expensive by Hamilton standards), was, at that moment, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I pressed on, realizing that I probably looked like shit, and certainly looked exactly like what I was- a sarcastic literati who spends 8 months of the year making fun of golfers, but who now is coming to beg a job. With my all-black attire and pitch-black hair, I did not really fit in with the Colgate smiles and pastel summer wear from Moore’s, but I was still spurred by that $9. I had never been readier to step over my own mother’s corpse to get a job. And that wide lawn looked an awful lot like my dead mum. Bravely, I continued.

Long story short, I entered the pro shop, with the A/C (which is a subject you don’t want to get me on, but ask me later) smacking me in the face. It would have been welcome in most circumstances like this, as my head appeared to be on fire, but I literally felt a faint come on. I collected myself, and, feeling gawky and grungy- sort of like if Pip stepped out of Great Expectations and entered a Yuppie paradise- I cooled myself off and pretended interest in the shoes for a moment. Eventually, a very friendly salesman asked if he could direct me anywhere (perhaps a soup kitchen? she added spitefully). I was politely directed to the director’s office when I managed to unglue my heat-swollen tongue and mumbled something about “job”. In the end, the job had been given to the first person who applied in person, the day before.

SHIT!!! (You should never say anything you wouldn’t hold in your hand or put in your mouth, but typing it is OK).

I tried wowing the guy with my decade of experience and my ability to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on a violin, but he still refused to fire the man he’d hired the day before. Bastard! So, tail between my legs, I left. Deciding that home is the best place to have a break down, I attempted to seek out a more direct route to my little attic apartment. Dodging golf balls, I found a little sign: “This Way to D—Street.” Low and behold, in two minutes, cutting across the trail behind the clubhouse, I was home. Oh well, live and learn.

So, still unemployed, I stand before you.

And I am not leaving the house for the rest of the day. The sun is going down, so Sabbath is arriving, and, right now, I can’t afford to piss anyone off who has influence. I’ll post when I can, but it looks as if I have plenty of time in the future, as I WILL NEVER GET A SUMMER JOB!!!!!!

Rats. (Yet another thing that I wouldn’t hold in my hand or put in my mouth, I guess).