Whoring Myself Out for Cash

I got my credit card bill a week ago and realized that I needed a second job. Not only did moving to Utah kill my social life, but I just figured out that I took a 10K pay cut to move to God’s country. I didn’t realize how much I needed that extra 10K. My paycheck arrived, and I shed big tears realizing that not only would I not be able to afford stylish winter boots, but I may not be able to afford to heat my house when the cold weather sets in. I immediately got on craigslist and started looking for a second job.

I applied for a job as a cook and helper for a guy in a wheelchair that lives in my neighborhood. It seemed like the perfect job. I get to cook, it is only in the evenings, and I get paid $12 an hour under the table. The guy, we’ll call him Wheelchair from now on, called me and asked me all sorts of questions about my views on politics, Mormonism, marriage, etc. None of which were really interview-type questions. My favorite dialogue went like this:

Wheelchair: So I have to ask everyone this question, so don’t get offended: How much do you weigh and how tall are you?
Me: I’m about 5’11 and I weigh about 150-155 depending on the season.
Wheelchair: So you’re a thick girl.
Me: (feeling insulted by someone that can’t even brush his own teeth) I workout a lot and I’m really tall. (I don’t know why I’m even trying to justify my weight)
Wheelchair: I just needed to know that you could put my chair back up if I fell down, and it sounds like you’re big enough to get the job done.
Me: (thinking- first I’m thick and now I’m big…maybe I don’t want this job after all)

I let the issue drop, figuring that I’d let my appearance speak for itself when I went in for the fact to face interview. I had that interview on Monday.

On Monday I learned that Wheelchair is not a quadriplegic. He has minimal use of his fingers and toes. He can’t lift his arm or his head, but be can talk longer and louder than should be allowed. He also has what I like to refer to as Wheelchair ADHD. As he asked me questions, he would wheel himself all over the room. I was sitting on the couch trying to talk to him about where I grew up, my goals and dreams while he was doing donuts around the coffee table and then wheeling himself forward and back in a sort of electric-slide sped dance. It was so distracting. He never just sat still in his wheelchair; he, like most men if they were allowed, kept playing with his little joystick.
Speaking of joystick, let me relate to you the best dialogue of the interview.

Wheelchair: I have someone come and bathe me and change me for nighttime. Your only responsibility in that personal area would be to help me go pee, if I need to. Can you do that?
Me: (thinking: what exactly does this entail?) Of course
Wheelchair: You’ll only have to unzip my pants, pull me forward, and hold a plastic container up to my penis.
Me: (WHAT?) Okay
Wheelchair: You won’t have to actually touch my penis. Can you handle that?
Me: (wanting to point out the joke of him asking if I “can handle that” but trying desperately to control my facial expressions and come across as professional) Of course. No problem.

I know that you are shocked, but I got the job. Yea me! As I write this, I’m beginning to think that I should have just gotten a job at JCrew with my roommate Jody. It is less money, but I don’t have to unzip anyone’s pants and hold a piss cup. Plus, I’d probably get a pretty good discount on clothes. Arghhh. At least this will probably produce some awesome blog material.