Of Rice and Rent

Rent was due two weeks ago. It will be due again in two weeks. In fact, it will be due at the first of the month every month for the rest of your life. If you own your own place you’re still paying the mortgage and if you own your place outright then fuck you, why are you reading this you should be on the Mediterranean sippin’ on boat drinks. What does this all mean? It means we all need a jobby job. Not just any ol’ job mind you, but a job we probably hate.

Everybody knows that work gets in the way of life. Unless of course you’re one of the blessed few whose job coincides with your passion. A professional athlete perhaps, or a rock star. A professional writer? Sadly, not many of us have the talent to turn our passions into something that can pay the rent. And so we toil away at a job we hate, scraping by on beans and rice, and in the scarce comatose hours we have to ourselves we dabble in what we truly want to do. It might be photography, snowboarding, painting, writing, whatever. If you had all the time and money in the world, what would you do with your time? If you took ‘making a living’ out of the equation, what you’re left with are the things you really should be doing as a job.

Every morning I used to wake up to the wail of an alarm clock, cursing through fifteen minutes of snooze wondering what the hell was the point of getting up, and sometimes I didn’t, but most times I did, and then on the Skytrain platform, watching other business casual zombies rushing to and fro, the flotsam and jetsam of severed limbs, white teeth and eyes looking to eat your children, holding onto the poles like torches in the dark canyons of some infested world, I decided then and there to quit my job and explore the glamour of poverty.

But that wasn’t the answer either. Just because my poverty was self-imposed didn’t mean I had escaped the ills of poverty. I had given up a “good” job but now I needed to find work. I had gone broke on December 18th and it was snowing hard that year. I bought an aspidistra and placed it on the windowsill, drank beer with no head and bought clothes that were fashionable the year before if I bought clothes, which I didn’t. I had “reached the age when the future ceases to be a rosy blur and becomes actual and menacing.” No matter. That year and a half I spent without “real” work was the best time of my life. That settled it for me – no more wasting time toiling at a job I hate. A compromise was found. A job that yielded enough money to pay the rent and still enough free time to do the things I want. It was a temporary solution of course, and nowadays I’m finding that there’s more and more money to pay the rent but less and less free time. So we’re back to square one. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not afraid of hard work. When I’m put in harness the dynamo blazes in a 1000-BTU everlasting glory. What I’m talking about is senseless work – work that means nothing to us. Do you really care if that code you wrote results in some program – used by some douchebag in Quesnel – running smoothly? Or if that item of clothing – made by kids in a sweatshop in China – fits that fat lady just right? That those Jager bombs at last call – paid for without a tip – gets that cheapo laid?

Stop feeling sorry for yourself Flanagan! It’s not so bad really. We still have a handful of good years left. Maybe we won’t even go bald until we’re married. Let’s enjoy those ten days of vacation time a year. Let’s be warriors on the weekend and get drunk on Saturdays and spend Sundays hungover. Monday is just around the corner and we can start all over again! Let’s placate ourselves by the notion of love, by the magnanimity of having children. Let’s find strength and solace in the fact that we’re all in the same crummy boat. It’s not even a boat. A life raft maybe. With no life jackets. And it’s sinking. It’s okay. Keep telling yourself that. Let’s put all our hopes and dreams into winning the lottery. Keep buying those 649 tickets people! You can’t win if you don’t play!

But this ain’t Hollywood. We’ll probably work until the day we die. Then again, “Dying is work too,” a famous French writer once said. There is no escape…

– Tom Day