I was discussing bad jobs with some people last week and one job is the worst. I was a grocery bagger and had to spend every Sunday picking up cigarette butts in the parking lot (I refused to pick up a dead opossum out back). I had to manually log over 10,000 blueprints from 1920-1933 into a database at a steel mill. I had to breathe in gas from sulfuric acid waste while running a shutoff for waste acid in college. The worst job though? The JUICE.
I had took a job shortly after graduating college. The online description said, “Gen-X Sports Marketing!” I like sports. Marketing is OK, I guess. I had an interview/ride along and realized, despite the title and pictures of sports teams, the job was basically riding around trying to get people to switch their credit card readers from 3rd party to direct. I was told we got reimbursed for mileage and got commission on every sale! I was in need, so I took the job.
First day, I drove an hour to get to the office for our meeting. Suddenly, a middle aged black man burst in the door and had everyone get in a line. He started talking about having the “JUICE” which stood for Join Us In Creating Excitement. I realized everything was related to juice. Instead of saying, “I hear you” or “I agree” it was “JUICE by that!” Something wasn’t cool, it was “JUICY!” He played the Bulls intro music and began slapping hands and yelling, “WHO’S GOT THE JUICE!” The team, minus me, yelled, “WE’VE GOT THE JUICE!” Dread overcame me like a Scottish fog. Anyone that knows me knows I’m as upbeat as Wednesday Adams on downers.
The job was nigh on impossible. The owner, not anyone else, had to sign to switch the reader and we actually didn’t get gas money – you could claim the mileage on your tax return. Just 14 months to get your gas back! The breaking point was working 40 hours in three days, filling my gas tank three times and not getting paid cash as I was promised for getting the first sale. I was supposed to get $100 for selling the first sale of the day, which I did to a bridal shop (my only sale in the three days). It was a downpour and the cult leader/team manager made me sing “I Got Sunshine on a Cloudy Day” to get the money, which he conveniently didn’t have when I got back at day’s end. My direct manager rode around with a screaming baby in the car while she chain smoked and cussed the child for yelling while we drove from Columbus to Cincy – I was next to the baby the whole time.
I went to a bar on day three and drank until 2 am, then got up at seven o’clock, called Mommy Dearest and quit over the phone. Six months later, I got a check for I think $150, handwritten, for the job. So now, when I have a bad day, I remember that some poor bastard is being exposed to the JUICE and suddenly I don’t care as much. JUICE by that!