Monday — July 31st
I’ve never been much for journals, but I’m sitting in solitary confinement with nothing else to do, so here it goes. I’ll start at the beginning. That seems like a good place to start.
There’s no such thing as a “bad” job.
Vacuuming floors and cleaning bathrooms after hours at a law firm wasn’t sexy but was better than the alternative: Not eating. In fact, until last week I was working several jobs to put myself through college– Pastor at Pennsylvania’s Church of the Holy Mackerel, Financial Disbursement Officer at a rehabilitation clinic called Fresh Start Florida, cashier at a taco shop called Picante in Arizona, and Community Outreach Liaison for Dignity First, a homeless advocacy group in London. One of those jobs paid me enough to scrape by in a shared apartment; the others existed only on the internet.
I got the job at Picante after my friend quit. They needed someone willing to work nights and weekends, which nobody else at the University of Arizona wanted to do. I got my others through a series of mistakes, errors, blunders and gaffes. While I still have the fake jobs I invented, Picante fired me after the Department of Homeland Security kicked my door in. Picante’s publicity strategy was more centered on advertising at basketball games than on having employees dragged out of their house by swat teams on CNN. I don’t blame them.
My arrest warrant said Jason Powers, me legal name, but the SWAT team laughed and call me Mike Scott. The gig was up.