Two mornings ago Justin met me at the garage. It’s a little one-car thing but he never parks there. He pays his landlord an extra $200/month for a place to keep all the chainsaws, ropes, ladders, tools.
He’d already had about ten cups of coffee he said, and he told me we had an opportunity to make more money up north, where the fires were really bad this year. I heard the word “millions” at one point, which raised a cautious eyebrow. I’m supposed to be the one with my head in the clouds. Justin, he’s all practicality. Redundancy. No debt. Every time I come back to the garage, there’s a new saw or chain, or tool. He’s never watched Shark Tank, but I told him Mark Cuban would salivate over him.
Justin was my neighbor in the months before I moved to Dallas. Over a year ago. I would see him in the garage, plugging away. A worker, about my age. More skilled of course. I didn’t know much about what he was doing but at this point in my life, I know when someone does something well.
When I met Justin, I was working this ridiculous housekeeping job at an international hostel in Ocean Beach. I’ve had so many jobs that I can get a sense of when my time is coming to an end. The “walk-out” being an inevitability. It’s the moment
I run out of bullshit tolerance. The Hostel was some sort of pathetic last gasp. I had nothing left in the tank to deal with hospitality jobs. The hostel was another lateral move. Same crud as waiting tables. The clock was ticking. I don’t have control over the walk-out. My gut takes over and forces me out the door. No notice for the employer as well. They don’t deserve one. They never do.