A class on how to fall down
IN ORDER TO MAKE a living while also pursuing the arts, I feel it’s best to aim low. Being a writer, I myself cobble together a living from multiple, mostly unimpressive sources.
One: I work part time at a community center, where I’m paid a modest wage to unlock the building on Saturdays for toddler ballet, shred papers for the office staff, read the newspaper, and add up attendance numbers. I also pass on comments from patrons to my supervisor, such as: “There’s a bee’s nest under that metal thingy that holds the basketball hoop.” Or: “We don’t like these toddler dance classes to start so early. We like to sleep in on Saturdays.”
Two: I work a few hours a week for a pair of old people, who honestly value my ability to change their light bulbs, pick up the screws or sticky notes or puzzle pieces they’ve dropped on the floor and can’t reach, find their missing coffee cups, fix the wheels on their walkers, and paint over the scuff marks where their walkers bonk into their walls. These bonk marks are especially noticeable on outside corners.
Three: I married a guy who Unconsciously, however, I probably noticed his work ethic.
