The Dirty Jobs



Scene Title The Dirty Jobs
Synopsis Sable goes job hunting, in the ongoing quest to make an honest woman of herself.
Date July 3, 2010

Greenwich Village

Various music and record stores.

Up and down the length of Greenwich Village, Sable walks, virtually door to door, to each and every music store she can stand to set foot inside. Music very generally, too. If they sell instruments, she'll go in. If they sell records, she'll go in. If they offer lessons, she'll go in. Dressed as natty as she can manage, in her only button up, only dress pants and solitary tie, she here for impromptu interviews. Impromptu means showing up and saying:

“I'd like t' work here f'r cash.”

And mostly being shown the door.

She varies her approach at times. She doesn't have a resume – even Elaine decided it wasn't worth it to try – but she does try and communicate her experience.

“I've worked in lots 'f places b'fore, all over th' place.”

Which occasionally gets her a second question: 'For how long'.

“'bout a couple months.”

And that's usually when she's asked to leave again.

Other times she instead attempts to express her enthusiasm. This usually takes the form of, out of the blue, stating her influences:

“'m a real follower 'f classic rock, 'n', like, most things influenced by classic rock, 'n' some alternative, 'n' some country if it ain't shitty new country.”

Which is about as convincing as the other thing she does, mentioning she's in a band:

“'m in a band.”

Which she knows is a stupid thing to say, but she's getting fed up. This didn't used to be so hard, did it? She'd go in, and just be… winning! She was an employee who could be paid under the table, tax free, and… and that's good, right?

Selective memory. It was only ever one kind of place she could get work at, small and independent, with either an owner who was remarkably cool, remarkably apathetic, or unremarkably interested in getting in her pants. That last didn't work out so great for anyone, though was by far the most common.

This place is dingy. It sells used CDs and old bootlegged tapes from the great touring band days of the Dead and Phish. And vinyl, of course, for the old guard and the hipsters. The man behind the desk has long hair that is either unwashed or always looks unwashed no matter how often he washes it. Suspicion of larcenous intentions on her part are banished by her forthright approach, the way she looks him dead in the eye.

“Those contacts?” he asks, not being much for charm or tact, especially when dealing with little drips like her.

“All natural,” Sable replies, straight faced, “I need a job, real bad.”

“You dress nice for someone on the dole.” This is his afternoon's entertainment. Like he needs an employee.

“I need a job here 'cause I can't work nowhere that ain't about music.”

“Why's that?”

“'cause I go crazy doin' anythin' else. I need t' work here, real bad I'll work f'r cash, off the record, real fuckin' cheap. You don't have t' report me 'r nothin'. I ran away from foster care 'n' shit.”

“I'm not getting arrested for aiding in the delinquency of a minor, kid. Get lost.”

“I ain't a minor. I'm just off the fuckin' grid. I'll work long hours 'n' I'll work cheap. I gotta fuckin' work here.”

“You gonna talk to customers like that?”

“I'll talk however you want. I need this job.”

“Real bad, you said.”


A pause. He's thinking.

“Previous experience?”

“Worked places like this all the way up from Atlanta f'r the past, uh,” she has to think about this, “Four years, I figure.”

“Criminal record?”

“No record. Don't plan t' start one.”

“So nothing would come up on a background check?”

“Less th'n nothin'. Off the grid, like I said.”

“Then what's your name?”

“I go by Sable.”

“Yeah, but I asked your name.”

She could lie. That would be easy. And she's good at lying in situations like these. But does that fit in with her new way?

“I ain't too fond 'f my name, so if it don't make too much difference…”

“You want a job from me, an illegal job that could get me screwed on an audit, and you won't even tell me your name?” He's being a little cruel, but she's being a little stupid, so he figures they're even.

Aw, hell.

“Diego,” she replies, with the same manner as one mucking their cards.

“Diego who?”

It's an effort not to grit her teeth. This guy? It's this guy who she'll tell?

“Raven Diego.”

It doesn't matter if he's actually smirking. To Sable, that smile is a smirk. Automatically.

“Cute. Is that Native American or, like, a Goth name?”

“Do I get th' job?” This is all that matters. It must be all that matters, her singular will in this moment.

“You can start after the first. Paid weekly, at the end of each week.”

Fuck it.

“Sir, lookit me real close, if y' don't mind.”

He does't look close so much as just skeptical. But he's listening.

“I fuckin' need this job. 'n' I'll fuckin' keep it. I'll get here as early as y' like, 'n' work as late. I'll work f'r less than minimum fuckin' wage. I mean it. If y' look in m' eyes, I think y'll see I'm tellin' the truth. So I'm asking, knowin' I'm askin' too much, f'r my first week in advance.”

The man doesn't answer right away. His hand reaches out and, without his having to look, taps out a brief calculation on the calculator next to the cash register.

“Eight hours a day, six days in the work week… five seventy-five a day.”

Inner wince. That ain't good. But she's not in a position to bargain.

“Two seventy six, in advance, with no guarantee you'll stick around?”

“I'm fuckin' good for it.”

A pause. He's considering her. He's doing as she asked. Looking at her. She looks as she feels – avid, dedicated, full of determination so as to drown out any possible doubt, in her or him.

He taps out a quick series of numbers on the cash register, which springs open with the sound of all petty commerce. He counts out money, and sets it on the counter between them.

“You clean up your language when you're at work. And you get here fifteen minutes early for the first three weeks. You fuck me over, you show up even a minute late, you don't work. Not here, and nowhere where I can warn them about a yellow eyed thief.”

Fair? In her position, that's not really a consideration.

She sets her hand upon the table.


He slides the money across the counter towards her.

“That's two hundred forty. I don't open on the day after the fourth. You start on Tuesday.”

Sable has the good grace to say:

“Thank you,”

before she takes the money.

“Now get the fuck out of here until Tuesday, Raven.”

Oh, she's just knows she's gonna love working here…

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