Tag: Diary

And now my watch has ended

Since mid February I have had the most hilarious job ever. Every day from 8am until 5 or 6pm, I sit on a chair at the entrance to a building site and open a gate whenever a vehicle needs to enter or leave. That is literally all I do.

When I first started I was worried about boredom, so I sheepishly asked my boss, “Is it OK if I read my book?” He replied, “Mate, I don’t care if you sit there wanking, just open the gate when it needs to be opened.”

So every day I read my book, and maybe once an hour I have to get up and open the gate.

The gate is a steel gate on wheels. It’s really light. I’m actually laughing writing this. Because they pay me $26 an hour, or roughly $1,000 a week, just to read my book and push the gate open once in a while. And after a month on the job they asked me if I would be able to do overtime. So once the clock goes past 4pm I go from earning $26 an hour to $39. Ridiculous.

I must read 2-3 books a week. That’s no exaggeration. I like to read anyway, but being given 10 hours a day to read and be paid for it was a dream come true. Particularly when I started because it was summer so I just sat there in my shorts, soaking up the rays, chilling with my book. A lot of the workers on the building site ask me “How the fuck do you do this?” And honestly, I don’t get how they wouldn’t want to do this. A lot of them – especially newcomers to the site or delivery drivers – tell me “You definitely have the easiest job in the city.” I go on my phone, watch YouTube videos, read twitter, look at funny shit on the internet, read my book, go back on Twitter, and on and on until the last trade vehicle has left the construction site. Then I lock the gate and go home.

I understand that the job isn’t stimulating at all. And I don’t really talk to anyone. But honestly I fucking love it. Because it’s a means to an end. My rent is about $220 a week and I can earn that in a single day of reading my book.

But lately the novelty has worn off. Because it’s almost winter in Melbourne and cold as fuck. Like so cold. I have to wear two jumpers and a big heavy rain coat, and even at that I’m still cold. And it rains a lot too. And it’s windy. Imagine standing on the sidelines of a football pitch on a miserable wet and windy day; It’s like that. I can sit under the roofs of half-built houses on the site for protection, but still, it’s cold.

I never wanted this job but I got it because my friends work as recruiters for a construction firm and they absolutely sorted me out. I probably could have got a job in a restaurant without any problem. I have about ten years experience working in restaurants as a waiter. But I never want to serve another table again. It’s soul destroying, in my experience anyway. I’ve worked for great people in great restaurants, but the customers make it hard. There are so many cunts in the world. And a restaurant is a place where cunts thrive. Because it’s one of the few places of commerce where the customer can absolutely never be wrong, no matter how ridiculous their complaint is. For example: “Can I have the ribeye (the cut with the most fat) and can I have it medium rare but with no blood? (impossible)” And then when it arrives, “Excuse me, I thought I asked for no blood and also, this is very fatty. I’m not happy.” I’m surprised more murders aren’t committed by waiters. Also, FYI, when you’re in a restaurant, every waiter is talking about you and about how much of a cunt you are. But only when you act like one of course. Be under no illusion though. Most waiters hate your fucking guts. Unless you’re sound.

I digress. Back to the gate.

I never wanted to work in a restaurant again. And I didn’t want to work in a shop, because fuck that buzz. So my options were limited, because it’s very difficult to find work as a writer. In fact it’s almost impossible. Particularly now that nobody pays for the writing they read; I’m a culprit too. I read The Guardian every day, but I’m not a subscriber. The internet is killing publications. Because everything is free. So, with my options limited and with every creative job I applied for responding “No,” I tried finding work as a receptionist or something similar – generic office work – but my working holiday visa is the job application equivalent of leprosy. Nobody wanted to touch me. So I settled for labour work on construction sites because it pays well.

But after two days I hated it. Because I was spending my tram journeys to work googling how to use certain power tools. I fucking hated it. And I was scared going to work because one day I was handed a nail gun and nearly impaled my hand. Also, I was being sent to a different site every day and being spoken down to and treated like an idiot. And the work was so hard and monotonous, like carrying really heavy shit to a skip all day. It was so shite. I knew I couldn’t keep it up. It’s no way to live: waking up dreading the day ahead.

Then I was given the gate shift. The site I’m on is a retirement village. Some of the houses are already built and occupied. The oldies that live in them love me. Some of them give me chocolate and bring their dogs to say hello. Now that it’s really cold, they give me hot food like chicken and leek pies or quiche loraine, and one of them gave me hand warmers for my pockets.

But today is my last day. I got a job in a startup as a marketing assistant. And I can’t wait. I’ll get to work in a warm office and actually do something stimulating where I have to come up with ideas. And I’ll get to talk to people. And they have an office dog who I’m never going to stop hugging and chatting to. And it’s 20 minutes from my apartment. I’m currently traveling 1 hour 40 mins to the gate but I don’t care because once I get here I sit on my arse. But not any more. That’s it for me. Today marks the end of the funniest job I’ve ever had (and I’ve had so many different jobs). After nearly four months I’m done. And winter officially starts tomorrow, so I’m getting out at a perfect time. God love whoever has to replace me and stand out in the cold.

I’ll miss the auld ones though. They’re a sound bunch. And they feed me. But thank the baby Jesus I’m finally done.

My watch has ended.

Gatekeeper

My job is to open gates. Every day for eight hours I sit on a chair on a construction site in Melbourne, opening the gates at the site’s entrance whenever a truck or van needs to get in or out. That’s it. That’s all I do.

The gates are made of steel and look more like fences, the kind you see at music festivals. They have wheels at the bottom. When a truck or van pulls up, I push the gates open. Once the vehicle has passed through, I close them again. From 8:00 am to 16:00 pm, that’s my life.

I know it sounds boring. If someone told me that was all they did at work – open a gate – I’d think the same. It’s hardly the most stimulating job. But I like it. Instead of being sat in an office, I’m outside in the sun. And vehicles don’t show up very often, so I spend most of my day reading books, something I love to do. As a legal requirement and safety precaution, I have to wear high-vis clothing and steel-cap boots. However, the only danger I face is losing the page I’m on in my book, or running out of battery on my phone from constantly refreshing Twitter. Some days I have to charge my phone three times.

I understand how some people would go crazy from boredom, but I genuinely don’t. I’m never not reading my phone or a book, and sometimes I write stories, like right now. Nearly two months into this job, I haven’t experienced serious boredom yet. I know I will eventually, but for now I’m OK with being paid nearly $30 an hour – a standard general labourer’s wage – to read and sit down.

The ridiculous nature of my job isn’t lost on my colleagues, if you could even call them that. (I doubt skilled carpenters, plumbers and electricians see me as their equal, and fair enough.) Workers on site walk past me and laugh, or screw up their faces in a way that says, “How the fuck is that guy still doing this job?”

I just laugh and smile back. Sometimes they joke and say things like, “I reckon you have the cushiest number in Melbourne mate,” or “All you need is a fucking beer, aye?”

The construction site we’re on is a retirement village. Most of the houses are finished and now occupied. It’s beside a golf course and a river, away from the noise of the city. Unless someone on site is using a drill or an angle grinder, all I hear is chirping birds and the occasional crack of a well struck golf ball in the distance.

The elderly people who live here seem to like me. They often come down for a chat. I enjoy it because a lot of them have dogs I can pet. Sometimes they also bring chocolate. A lot of them have Irish relatives or ancestors, so they like talking to me about “home.”

I keep applying for better jobs, and by better I mean jobs that aren’t such a piss take, because I can’t do this forever. I want a writing job, or something in publishing, but jobs like that are difficult to come by. Also, the “working holiday visa” I’m on is designed to make it more difficult to find good work. For example, you can’t work for the same company for longer than six months unless the company “sponsors” you, which means they have to pay a few thousand dollars for you to get a different visa.

A sponsored visa means you also get to stay in this country for another four years. Those of us on the working holiday visa only get one year. If we want to extend our visa for another year, the Australian government makes us work on a farm somewhere picking fruit for nearly five months. Fuck that.

If someone gets sponsored it’s considered a big thing. A lot of my friends here are sponsored, but it’s because they have a highly skilled profession or because they worked hard at convincing their employers to help them out. I have a BA in English and a Masters degree in Creative Writing. They’re hardly the sort of qualifications that get employers foaming at the mouth. I’m optimistic something will come my way though.

Before landing the gatekeeping gig, I worked odd shifts as a general labourer on other construction sites. I was carrying heavy steel, clearing debris, or pushing wheelbarrows piled high with bricks. The work was hard and I would come home tired.

So for now, I’m happy being interrupted from my book to push a gate open.