TALK SHOW 10: Worst Job

Brock Clarke is the author of four books of fiction, most recently the novel An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England. He teaches at the University of Cincinnati.

In addition to working in a dentist's office, Elizabeth Gaffney has bussed tables, made funnel cakes, sold t-shirts, served all-you-can-eat crabs and beer to tourists, edited at the literary magazines The Paris Review and A Public Space, translated three books from German and written a novel called Metropolis. She now lives in Brooklyn with her husband, a neurologist, and her two-year-old daughter, an aspiring zookeeper.

Felicia C. Sullivan is the author of the memoir The Sky Isn’t Visible From Here. A frequent contributor to The Huffington Post, she is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best American Essays notable. Her work has appeared in Swink, Post Road, Mississippi Review, and Pindeldyboz and in the anthologies Homewrecker: An Atlas of Illicit Loves and Money Changes Everything, among others. Sullivan was the recipient of the 2005 Tin House memoir fellowship, and in 2001, she founded the critically acclaimed literary journal Small Spiral Notebook. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

After earning her degree in creative writing from Oberlin College, Jen Trynin embarked on a career in Rock and/or Roll, releasing two records on Warner Bros ("Cockamamie" and "Gun Shy Trigger Happy") which culminated in a near collision with full-on Rock Super Stardom. After the aforementioned near collision, Jen returned to writing prose and played in the rock band, Loveless. Jen’s first book, Everything I'm Cracked Up to Be, is a memoir based on her experiences in the music business.

––What was the worst job you ever had?

Clarke: The worst job I ever had was working at a fiberglass plant, where I sanded fiberglass shells and then loaded them onto trucks and then itched and itched and itched and then did it all over again.

Gaffney: I worked cleaning instruments at a dentist's office in Munich, right around the time that the Wall came down in Germany. I had to wear a little white coat, so I looked like a hygienist or something, but I was just a foreign graduate student who couldn't find a better job. My main duties were sterilizing the instruments and cleaning the equipment in the office and a little filing. The instruments were repulsive––coated with little bits of plaque and scum. I had to put them in an antiseptic bath, scrub them, rinse them, and then run them through a giant dental dishwasher. The worst were the sharp blades they called curettes. They were like tiny scythes, and they always had shreds of flesh dangling them. They were so sharp they would slice right through my gloves and my skin in an instant if I wasn't careful. But come to think of it, the grossest thing may have been cleaning out the molds for the dentures. The impressions of the patients’ original teeth were made in a red rubbery material held in a form that fit the patient's jaw. After the dentures were made, the forms would be dropped into some sort of solvent, so there was this huge tub of viscous red chemicals that seemed like it would be perfect for use on the set of a slasher movie I had to fish around in there to find the molds, and them scrub them out.

Sullivan: Two years ago I worked for six months as an Associate Editor at a children’s publishing house. I was thrilled with the opportunity – who wouldn’t want stuffed Strawberry Shortcakes in their cubicle? Glitter pens and a carpet printed with empowering mantras! However, all of my excitement overshadowed the fact that I was about to work for an anorexic, obsessive-compulsive control freak who managed to alienate her whole department to the point that they moved her to another floor.

She had many phobias––subways, submarines, or any means of underground transportation. She also feared sudden noises, blue ink and food. Since I had a background in finance, I was used to unhinged people; however, her behavior was borderline insane. I feel victim to her passive-aggressive tirades, sudden mood swings, her snide remarks about my lunch, and ultimately the theft of my ideas and work (after she had ridiculed my ideas in front of my coworkers). I still have nightmares about the possibility of running into her.

Trynin: It was the summer of my senior year of high school, 80’s New Jersey. I was the only assistant to this guy, Phil, who, to the best of my retrospective knowledge, did two things: chiefly––and this is what I “assisted” in––Phil was a central conduit between New Jersey-area rock clubs and the myriad of local newspapers concerning the clubs’ weekly gig listings. The second thing he did was less clear, but entailed much phone talking which elicited the kind of loud laughing that resulted in much spittle on the clunky old phone receiver––spittle that I was later responsible for wiping clean. He had a big belly that strained his stained buttondowns, dark New Jersey-coifed hair, and a heavy way of breathing what was surely his sour breath. I had my own office which was simply the maintenance closet in the small hallway that led to Phil’s main office. In the closet was a small square table, a phone, Phil’s Rolodex, and a dull metal rod that spanned the length of the “room“ up by the ceiling. My main responsibilities were keeping his Rolodex organized, answering the phone, and pursuing the delinquent rock clubs to get us their listings ON TIME! Mostly, I sat there, staring at the windowless walls, thinking about pizza, sex, or getting wasted––sometimes concurrently.