Part-time

Not to be confused with Jamiroquai, the floppy hat wearing, floor sliding ‘90s singer, Jobriath, the first openly gay artist to sign a 2 record, $500,000 recording contract with a major label – the most lucrative contract of its time -- was positioned to be the next big thing. Full-page ads were taken out in Rolling Stone, Vogue and Penthouse; posters were affixed to 250 NYC buses and a huge banner hung from Times Square, announcing Jobriath to the world.  He was going to be the next glam, theater rock Bowie.

A tour of European opera houses was planned, elaborate sets built and lavish costumes designed. However, poor record sales and mixed reviews of his two records halted stardom. He was dropped from his label. So much for advertising.

Jobriath quit music and moved to the notorious Chelsea Hotel in NYC in 1975, working as a lounge singer, bit-part actor, and augmenting his income with prostitution. I don’t think I’ve ever read that someone was a part-time prostitute. In the written word, it normalizes prostitution, offering no judgement. This is good. However, more times than not, prostitution would be the main job, and eventually everything else would go away. You come for the money, and stay for the drugs that helps you deal with the profession. Either way, Jobriath was way ahead of the world with his side hustle.

Unfortunately, Jobriath was one of the first musicians in the world to die from AIDS in 1983. 

                                                               ***

In-between batters of a baseball game between the Giants and Mets, Jon Miller, broadcaster for baseball’s San Francisco Giants, told a story about Cal Ripkin breaking Lou Gehrig’s 2,130 consecutive games played record.  Parked, I sat in my car and listened to the story, the tinny hiss of AM radio and crowd noise forming a soothing backdrop to his familiar voice.  

The game was temporarily stopped after the 5th inning, to recognize the historic accomplishment. Players, coaches and umpires took to the field, and fans stood, cheering. Cal acknowledged the crowd, tipping his hat and putting his hand on his heart. He returned to the dugout. 21 minutes later, fans were still standing and cheering, with no intention of stopping. They wanted more. His teammates pushed him out of the dugout and he took a lap around the park. Play was resumed.

My blue paisley face mask sat neatly folded in the middle of the passenger seat. It was late in the pandemic and the face covering had been with me from the start. It was barely holding on, though, the cords having lost most of its elasticity. A stranger told me that the mask brought out my blues eyes, so I was taking good care of the mask, elasticity or not. In the backseat on the floor, old soda cups were nestled together, pushed under the driver’s seat, and food packaging and wrappers were wrangled into a fast food bag, to be thrown out. It was tidy trash. 

Miller finished his story. I vacantly looked out the windshield. It was Sunday morning and an indestructible, brown plastic garbage can on the sidewalk was overflowing with the spoils of the night before -- fast food and alcohol bottles. Its pointy lid pulled back, to accommodate more trash. It’s always like this on the weekends.

Through the passenger side window, I looked at a large Stella Artois advertisement straddling the east side of a convenience store. It sits on a small, triangular dirt patch. The patch is used as an unofficial dumping ground of elaborate advertisement displays from the store. In the past, a large Icee cup display tempted me. I took it and gave it to my son. It hangs on his wall. 

The Stella Artois display was large, very large. A 24” square lightbox, 4” deep, positioned on a long, flimsy carboard tube, and supported by an even flimsier Christmas tree-like stand. The front and back face of the light box showed 3 people in block colors cresting an ocean swell in a vintage wooded boat – something you’d see JFK navigating around the Cape. A Caucasian couple sits in the front seats and an African-American woman sits sideways on a bench seat behind the man. Hmmm. The seat next to the AA woman in the back is vacant…for you, the person who enjoys the Stella Artois lifestyle. I liked the boat but my fair complexion deems such an excursion as torture.

Standing almost 7 feet high, its shape resembled the world’s largest protest sign. If you replaced the boat scene with BLM, it would slam down nicely on a Proud Boy’s head. That was one use for it. I was thinking more of a project, an art project. Yes, project, a dirty word to some. I thought of planting it in our front yard, replacing the boat scene with the words “We’re All Doomed.” It was late in pandemic, and homemade signs of hope (We’re All in This Together, We’ll Get Through This, etc.) were frequenting highway overpasses. I was more “We’re All Doomed.”

This creative urge subsided and I came to my senses. It was tempting, and I was sure it could be useful, but my message of doom would be exposing to the whole family, not just me. I decided against it, my wife’s sentiment echoing in my head: “Think of the family.”

Wilmer Flores homered in the top of the 2nd to give the Giants their first run against the Padres. “Adios, pelota,” Jon Miller yelled. It would be their only run of the game. I turned off the car, grabbed my face mask and went into the convenience store.

Two employees were behind the counter: the new owner and a clerk. I knew them both. 

As I dispensed my soda, I watched them though the reflective plastic advertisement that stands above the soda station, a space usually reserved for the big boys -- Coke or Pepsi. Today, however, it boasted a bear riding a wave with the words “Cool Chill” patterned across the graphic. 

I took a sip of soda from my cup and topped it off, the soda bubbling over where the straw is attached. I slurp the dregs from the lid and walk to the checkout. 

The owner stands at the left bay and the clerk the other. I belly-up to the owner’s bay and glance over at the clerk. He standing eerily still, alternating between looking straight ahead and through the front window to the small parking lot. He repeats this behavior, like he’s on a loop. 

I steady my soda on the counter and reached for my wallet.

Dressed in pleated Khakis, a jean color button-up with the company’s logo on the breast and gaudy, gold jewelry on both hands, he looked like the person in charge. "How are youuuuuu,” he says, holding the “oooh” for way too long. “Fine, and you?” I reply, making sure not to hold the “fine” too long and adhering to my policy of niceties only in retail situations. His facial skin was orangish from artificial tanning and his balding palette was dyed an unnatural color of orangish brown. His sing-songy speech and propensity to accent the last syllables of words in a high flourish was annoying, but he’s very friendly and might be on the spectrum so I give him a lot of rope. I try to remember it’s probably not his fault. 

He replies to my nicety: “Fine. Working…hardly working.” He laughs and I force a smile. Jokes like that will eventually change my opinion of him, spectrum or not. 

I place two dollars on the counter and look over at the clerk. He’s still dancing between looking straight ahead and out the front window. His blank expression has turned to annoyance. What is he looking at?

I scoured the parking lot for the answer. He wasn’t hard to find.  Pacing in front of the windows was man in his mid-20s. Like the clerk, he toggled between looking forward and looking in the store. Dressed in oversized jeans, dirty, black sneakers and a black bomber, his clothes were stiff from dirt and wear, a sheen emanating from his pants like they were a special kind of wash. His disheveled, wavy brown hair fell across his forehead. He knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted, and the clerk inside had what he wanted. No one was fooled.

The clerk quickly scurried behind me and announced that he’ll be right back. I put the change in my right pocket and wished the owner well. He replied, “You toooooo.”

I follow the clerk out the door and watch him. He gives the man a quick look and the man stops pacing. His eyes and face a mixture of anticipation and furtiveness. The clerk walks toward my car and disappears around the corner. The man follows.  I breach the corner and the clerk is standing next to the brown garbage can, his right hand digging in his pocket. His hand stiffens, he found what he was looking for. I surreptitiously watch from the car, my dark sunglasses protecting my anonymity.

The clerk takes a step toward the garbage can, pauses, looks into the garbage can, and gently places something below the rim. He closes the plastic lid and walks away, shaking his head. Hovering behind him, the man stands slightly stooped, palms forward and mouth agape. He intently stares at the rectangular opening in the lid. 

Following along with the drama, I’m concerned that closing the lid could’ve dislodged the “something” from its precarious place. I quickly chastised myself, knowing that the stooped man would dive head first into the can if that happened. 

On cue, the man moves quickly to the garbage can, finds what he was looking for and disappears into the late sun. 

I take a long pull of my soda and think about the part-time drug dealing clerk and Jobriath supplementing his income with prostitution. One man in the Bay Area, the other in New York City. Both working but not making enough money to live, so they look for alternative income sources -- something I desperately need but I call it passive income.