Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘work’


In Uncategorized on January 17, 2018 at 5:23 pm

Jimmy the crew chief
doesn’t wanna hear I don’t know…
when you’re back late from your route
me and my partner slid in, we missed the hammer of rush hour
even with 3 extra stops thrown in last minute this morning
this is the first day Isaiah didn’t wear shorts, bashing out of the walk-in
laughing to shake my hand
the guys in the office ask me if I like it and I don’t know what to say
daylabor weaves an exhaustion into you
it breaks down your defenses so everyday occurrences
of the natural world take on a phenomenal and mystical weight
dawn and dusk in industrial parks
shouldn’t be so pretty, the brown briar crowning
pitiless bodies of water, maybe as deep as a creek
but gone by the end of the week, and the sun
slanting in so hard you’re dry drunk on the light
we’re all covered in a salt barely visible, the dried sweat
of hard men and women working in the building
the job reminds you what you kid yourself about as a young man
what you need, what you’ve always needed and what you always will–
something steady at home, standing in the kitchen
bringing you sweet tea with a smile–
I’m 42, it’s not as hard as it used to be but just as taxing
I guess the difference is I let the job take it from me,
all of it and what’s left is for her,
it’s easy to get romantic about work
driving into the sun both ways, being worn down and tired
steel-toed boots and leather gloves tied to your waist
but that’s what’s different now, too–it could be romantic
but it’s not.

Shrieks from Paradise

In Being A Writer, Being An Artist, BIRDS, blogging, getting sober, going for the throat, mental health, recovery, sober, sobriety, Writing on August 11, 2015 at 10:42 am

Under conditions of peace the warlike man attacks himself.

Oh boy. Quoting Nietzsche now. Smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee too. This is getting old. I came off the road fresh and ready. I was pounding it to the boards and doing work. But now the grind has caught up with me. Anger, my rediscovered superpower, has run its course and I’m spent like a shell casing. Sitting on the roof. Watching the birds. I tried feeding the fuckers but war broke out. The fucking grackle. At first I was amused. He strode up as if he was in tophat and tails saying “I say good sir I do believe the bread you are holding belongs to me…” But then the others flew in and, get this, they station themselves around the booty, stand there and yell out to the others “This is mine!” and  “Fuck off.”  It got nasty out there.  Survival is war. There is no free lunch at least while others are around and no private joy can last. To further illustrate this point, the crews are up the street, pounding and drilling and erecting towers of greed into the hot sky.  Ah, there it is, thee hated drill.  You know how many times I’ve been woken by the sound of drilling rock?  Put it to you this way, I’ve been working this gig for over 3 years.  Barring my first 4 months here there has been construction of some kind every fucking day.  First it was the turnaround at the corner of 8th&Rio Grande.  Then it was the condo, 7, they’re calling it.  Then a repave of the turnaround.  And now another condo at Nueces.  I sometimes think I had more peace living at Oak Run and working as a bartender at the Whip In.  It was quiet at least and a man could do some reflecting.  My life was allot simpler then but maybe I was dying.  I’m certainly dying now and the windfall of working in a mansion downtown has become a cold hard reality.  Yep. It’s a grind.  I could’ve done allot better with my time, my life and my everything.  But I’m only human.  And I’ve got a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas.  And I can’t take my rest.  I’m bleeding my time for dollars&cents,  I work around the clock and my time off is filled with the nerve scraping sound of rock being drilled and backhoes being backed up and the yelled Spanish of laborers wafting up above the heat and smoke.

Maybe I’m ungrateful.  I just need something to complain about.  Some thrust, the high drama, but at the end of the day I know this is a grind, like any other, with its trials and bullshit and pitfalls to health and sanity.  You know, work.  And humans…humans are like jewels.  I’m lucky to have you.  The others-dumb as rocks.  I guess this post is a retort to the last time we spoke.  Anger leaves you hungover, too.  Sobriety is one answer, and a great one, but there is no cure for life.  No remedy.  You can be alone in a crowded room, but that’s not always a good thing.  It’s not like you can get some work done.  Not while folksingers are asking you where they can find a cheeseplate and dudes are swingin they dicks around.  Here’s the biggest problem with others–they leave you alone just enough to be in need, but never enough for you to practice and earn true solitude.  True solitude is the chalice.  Heh.  Now I sound like a Nietzsche quoting misanthrope, which of course I am.  Viva la hatred.  Got to wrap it, some shit’s going down with the grackle out there. Look like everybody tryna get a piece of bread.

Workingman’s Blues#1: Pack up, I’m straight, enough

In Uncategorized on February 20, 2014 at 12:48 pm



I was surrendering the corporeal to the tyranny of the mind but I was young so I didn’t care. I didn’t care about much of anything back then except for a pouch of Gauloises and a bottle of Manischewitz back in my room at the hated timeshare.
We were in the Catskills, upstate NY, catering to some of the filthy-richest people in the world for Passover. 8 days and 7 nights serving breakfast, lunch and dinner to folks celebrating the tradition of death passing over their ancestors and sparing them hardship and famine, with Kosher meals and deserts and coffee and wine; brought to them hand and foot by folks like me and the Puerto Ricans from the Bronx and Anthony from Queens. I think the pay was supposed to be like $1,800 for the whole rig and the entire shuffle: 16 hour days, very little sleep, allot of complaining and hemming&hawing in the pre-dawn hours over samovars and baskets of full of flaky pastries. And ALLOT of drug use and partying. I was up there with my girl posse. That’d be Hilferty
(Laura), McCaffrey (Kate), Imani (<3) and Red (Marie).
The check was actually $15 hundred and change. But you couldn't get paid unless you returned your apron and wine key to Big Shit Craig and signed some forms like a W2. At least that was the protocol until most, if not all, of the Puerto Rican crew could not find their apron nor their wine keys. Some got lucky looking beneath the now bare tables in the dining hall. There were a few winekeys to be gleaned but not an apron was to be found and handed back to COURAGEOUS FEAST. It became an issue and Big Shit Craig lost his big shit. Yelling and throwing chairs and spilling over piles of folded napkins. The Puerto Ricans looked on, neither displeased nor reactionary, but perhaps a little amused. They possessed a detachment that only the best poor and working class can.
Their lives are hard. Any relief their hard, working class life can afford is welcomed and enjoyed. Be it: squares or blunts behind the kitchen, a swig of something hidden among the backline, xanis, percs and speed-the cheap kind (ephedrine) or the tantrum of a fat white Jewish man on the verge of stroke with anger.

They all came up in a couple of cars. They fit more Puerto Ricans in 2 Hondas than you've ever seen. Or they took the bus, TRANSPORTATION PROVIDED BY COURAGEOUS FEAST, at $27 a head. They'd just worked a 102 hour week and were past trying to hide
their amusement the short angry man was providing. They called me ‘Cholo’. I was tired, too. And heartbroke (Imani) but that's another story, for another time. What you need to know, good&cherished reader, is that I had neither a winekey nor an apron. And I'm not fearless by any stretch but I am from Philly and if you back me into a corner I will fight you and it doesn't matter who wins or loses but a fight you will have. So Big Shit Craig lost his big shit, Anthony's in the corner hitting on that white girl from West Chester, the Puerto Ricans were looking on and Big Shit Craig was saying something about nobody leaving the “Goddamn mountain!”, let alone with our hard earned money. And so that's when I stepped up. Me. Jimbo.
“Excuse me, sir, but do you think you are somehow above the law?”
“What did you say Fonzie?”
I walked over to Big Shit Craig and looked down on him, glowering.
My tux jacket was wrecked, my eyes were red and my breath stank. His fat jowls quivered a little and that’s how I knew I had put the fear into him. Which didn’t mean that we woudn’t have a fight on our hands but I took my chances. I reached down beside him without breaking eye contact. I grabbed the pen and the clipboard and signed my name and dug through the stack of paychecks.
Now I’ve always lived by what Tex Cobb told me about growing up in North Philly.
“You either know how to fight or act like you do.”
At that point in my life I’d been in more than a few fights with small men/big shit bosses who tried to get funny with the money. And I’ve gone to acting school. Subtext was big in acting school.
After three years training at the Wilma Theatre, I had an uncanny knack for it, and
“It is expressly illegal to withhold the paycheck of any employee in any state of these United States. Sir.”
might have been what I said, but what I intoned, however, the subtext, was
“I shit bigger than you and if you think you can take me bring it on Fat Man but win or lose I’ve got 37 angry Puerto Ricans behind me so you wanna shoot some pool, Cholo? Rack ’em up.”
I ripped my check from the stack. And began opening the envelope and that's when Carlos bounded into the room.
"Meester Craig!"
Handing out aprons like it was Christmas. And Matea wasn't far behind him with the box of winekeys. We would be getting paid. We would be going home.
After everybody had their checks and had picked up and restacked the folded napkins, and hugs and business cards and email adresses and phone numbers were exchaged; me&my girl Posse got in the car. I was in the backseat, next to Imani. I was exhausted and heartbroke and bitter. But I didn't care. I had a case of Manischewitz at my feet and a check for $1,580 tucked into my cumberbund.
I felt Imani’s thigh warm against mine. I caught her smell-some combination of baby powder, perfume and cocoa butter.
“Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs came on the radio. I put my hand on her thigh.
Tears welled up and stung my eyes. I turned away from her and looked out the window. It began to fucking snow. Then we trawled down the mountain, bumper to bumper in the falling fucking snow, and drove the hateful 6 hours back to Hostile City without another word between us spoken.