"You know what your problem is? You're TOO PROFESSIONAL!" People here aren't used to that!"
I can vouch for that - professionalism here simply isn't tolerated.
But it wasn't me who was being dressed down, it was the boyfriend. Cornered by his boss, in front of his co-workers, he was being ripped a new asshole for the unpardonable sin of being professional. I give him a lot of credit, he didn't quit. I would have. That being said, it's only midweek, and if I was a betting man I'd wager by the end of the week we will both be unemployed in Bakersfield. That's right... both.
Don't get me wrong - I still have work. It's just that it all comes from LA now, which makes our situation here all the more ridiculous. Day in and day out I sit here, melting in Bako, pretending to be toiling away at our former home in the LA, tap dancing around the fact that I can't just "drop by" or "come for lunch" because I'm 3 hours away in Hooterville.
I was getting quite a bit of work here initially, but it all came from two sources. The first was an ad agency that was in a long, slow death spiral long before I came on the scene. It probably could've survived these trying economic times with competent leadership, but that's a quality in short supply here. When the bobble-headed owner abruptly drove it into a ditch last month, no one was really surprised. I just received notice of her bankruptcy and was warned, as a creditor, that there were no longer any assets to file a claim against.
"You're one of the lucky ones - you were paid in full".
This was true, but only because I held computer files hostage. But how the fuck did this woman know it? I was meeting on Monday with the owner of another agency, a complete stranger, and she apparently knew what my billings were and that I was paid. And that's the thing about Bako... it's just like Petticoat Junction. Everybody knows everyone else's business. It's small town Gossip Girl, writ large. According to this woman, whom I'm just met, the owner of the defunct agency owes half the town over a quarter million dollars. There's dark talk of criminal charges... or so she says.
"I don't know how she can show her face around town. If it was me, I would've packed up and moved. She will be S H U N N E D!"
And she wasn't kidding. It's a good thing they've outlawed witch burning. At least I think they have. You never know here. They still talk of burning books, and witches wouldn't be that far a stretch. Especially for a quarter million dollars.
The second source of income was from a large real estate firm, staffed by morons and with a stable of petty, preening, pompous agents. They were all under the delusion that they were selling palatial estates in Beverly Hills, not the claptrap, foreclosed McMansions that litter this city. The work was tedious, but steady, until they hired an effeminate doofus as "Marketing Director" a couple of months ago. As we used to say, the minute he opened his mouth, the pearls dropped out. "Married, father of four" my ass. Just another down-low livin' Bako closet case.
For the first few weeks, his only concern was decorating his office. That, and his business cards. He selected the most ornate, floral script for his cards, and by the time they went to the printer they looked like they belonged on bath salts or scented candles. Soon after, the steady stream of work started to slow to a trickle and I figured the jig was up. He informed me this week that my services were no longer needed; the work I did will now be handled by an unpaid intern from Cal State Bakersfield ("Home of the Cockroaches!"). And with the money he saves he can finally get that fainting couch for the office he had his eye on.
So the bottom line is, we may be moving a lot sooner than we expected. It all really hinges on just how much bullshit the boyfriend can take from the hicks he's surround by.
With that in mind, I think I'll head out and pick up some boxes. Looks like I need to start packing.
