All over Baltimore kids are looking for summer work. The jobs, if you can get them, are typically hellish: babysitting bratty kids, hanging over a fryer in a fast food kitchen, digging graves in the hot sun, assisting a verbally abusive power tripper, to name a foul few. It’s a character building rite of passage, sure, and most of us get through it, with stories that seems funny in retrospect, but it seems pretty insufferable at the time.
Do you remember one summer job that was particularly brutal? Tell us your story! Winner receives a $50 gift certificate to a local restaurant, where the lucky scribe may spy a beleaguered Baltimore teen busing loaded tables for peanuts.
To get your creative juices flowing, we share with you a classic missive from a Baltimorean who worked as an assistant in the entertainment industry one summer. Makes grave digging sound cushy, no?
“Worst day of work ever. I had to be at Lydia’s house at 8 this morning with coffee, which meant I had to get up at 6:30 and leave by seven. I get there, and she’s still asleep so I have to wake her up, give her her coffee and then change her cat’s kitty litter and clean her room while she gets her hair blown out. After all this is done, she starts freaking out because she can’t find her coat and she has to be on the lot at 10:30. We finally get in the car and she calls (her first assistant) Rachel about how I have no idea what I’m doing and how I hadn’t been prepped properly. She insists to me that she’s not mad at me, but lets me know that I need to be briefed better on the things that need to go in her purse and make sure that there are coffee and cigarettes waiting in the car for her. If not, it puts her in “a really crappy mood.” She repeats that this can never happen again. At this point its 9:55 and we have to be on set at 10:30, which is 45 minutes away. I speed all the way and get her there on time, but when we get to the stage, she tells me to call Sue, one of the women she is meeting. I don’t have Sue’s number, but what’s worse is my phone is broken and spazzes out sometimes, and of course, it picks then to spazz. It won’t turn on and it’s freezing. “This is really shitty, this can never happen again,” she repeats over and over as if I were deaf and mentally challenged. I apologize profusely, and, because on some level she likes me, she tries to be positive but it is clear that she is pissed. She gets out of the car and slams the door. So, naturally, I drive away. I get back to the office, after crying the whole way, and apparently she’s angry because I drove away and the rest of the crew was running late so she was there alone when we “could have gone to get cigarettes and coffee.” I want to scream at her, “You’re 60 years old, can’t you make sure you have cigarettes?!! Can’t you make sure everything is in your purse that’s supposed to be there?!! Are you a moron?” But of course, I can’t. So I have to run out and get her coffee for before she gets here. Now she won’t look at me and I’m pretty much positive that she’s not going to want me to work here anymore, which sucks because I sacrificed my whole summer for this…opportunity.”