My first gay boss.

I finished another job. My boss for the day was a guy named Scott, his Craigslist ad sought two movers and moving tools. After remembering that my parents had a dolly and wheeled cart in the garage I gave the guy a call. Pay was listed as “negotiable” so I figured $15/hour sounded fair, he agreed. He guessed that the whole move would take about two hours, it sounded like an easy $30.
Anyways, Scott wanted me at his downtown LA loft at 8:00am, he also told me to bring a friend. So, I picked up this dude Jason at 7:30 and we were on our way. It was a nice drive, small talk and all. We arrived at our destination at 8:05 after driving by it a few times without noticing, always five minutes late. This is where it gets interesting—so I didn’t have any cash on me and none of the parking lots would take my debit card. I found the alley behind the loft, called my boss, and with his clearance I decided to park in the alley, bad idea.
We found Scott and he led us up to his unit, it was on the 10th floor. Upon reaching his studio I found out that Scott had hired a third worker, a fellow Craigslist odd jobber, my Native American brother. Unfortunately, I can’t remember this guy’s name, so let’s just call him Chief. Chief was an older guy, pony tailed, probably in his mid-thirties. He came from Hollywood, though I’m not sure from which tribe.
Chief, Jason, and I were to move the contents of one studio/loft (I’m not sure how they differ) to another studio/loft that was located about a block away, on Spring Street. Boss hadn’t done much prep work so we had to start by boxing up his dishes, silverware, and food. Soon after I started boxing up his refrigerator Boss came over and told me that he had forgotten about his “dope.” He reached into the side panel of his fridge and pulled out a decent sized bag of pot. I asked him why it was in there, and he said that it stays fresher that way, “I’m old-school,” he added.
After we had boxed up all of his shit Boss led us to his new apartment, a 13th floor beauty: a corner unit, clean white walls, nice tile, an amazing view of downtown, and a great balcony. I can’t even guess how much rent for a place like that costs. Accordingly, I figured that this dude must get lots of chicks, but then I slowly realized that he was gay— my first gay boss.
Using the dollies and the wheeled cart the four of us spent the next couple of hours making trips from the 10th floor of the old building, to the 13th floor of the new building. Throughout the many trips up and down the two towers I learned a couple of things:
1. There are way more pampered dogs living in downtown LA than I first thought. It seemed as if every rich fuck that lived in these buildings had a pure bred something. Most also had these crazy little dog shoes, designer of course, always fashionable. Aren’t dogs’ paws made for hundred mile quests across barren landscapes? These city dogs would never survive a day out in the wild, it’s a god-dammed shame.
2. While on the sidewalk don’t ever leave your wheeled cart to help Jason pick up the shit that he dropped. After seeing Jason drop two of Scott’s most prized possessions I quickly rushed over to help him pick up the goods before Boss saw. I really didn’t want to upset the guy, especially after the great advice that he gave me about parking in the alley. Sadly, as I began picking up the stuff I heard a huge crash! I looked over and saw the contents that I had been wheeling spread across Spring Street. Fuck! I quickly scooped everything up, threw it all into the boxes and continued up the 13th floor. What mama don’t know dont’t hurt her.
Skipping the boring stuff, the next few hours passed without much excitement. Jason and I had fun checking out the babes of downtown, Chief kept being Chief, and Boss’s shit continually got banged up, dropped, dirtied, etc. It turns out that Boss severely underestimated how many designer jackets he actually owned, we finished moving the last piece in by noon, two hours overtime. $15/hour for four hours earned Jason, Chief, and I $60 each. Upon walking back to the car I noticed a white envelope on my windshield. Did I mention that another thing that I hate about LA is parking, more specifically, parking tickets? So the new calculation for today’s income increase goes like this: $60 for four hours – $55 parking ticket = $5. I guess next time I’ll bring cash and park in a real parking lot, thanks Boss. Oh well, lesson learned, at least I got Jason to buy me lunch on the way home.