I’m a little tired of business magazines continually praising Utah’s prolonged economic boom: soaring real estate prices, a surplus of high-paying tech industry jobs, and a responsible and well-educated workforce. What about the artsy goof offs like me who are left out of equation? Bad at math, naïve about all things financial, and ill-equipped to hold down a traditional 9 to 5 corporate job, I’m still living in the “starter” home that we bought back in 1999.
Thanks to academia I’ve found a safe haven for my brand of competent mediocrity, but for much of my early adult life I floundered to find a decent job and lucrative career path in this thriving state. I quietly failed, in fact, at a number of lame jobs: trench digger for a sprinkler company; midnight custodian at greasy chain restaurants; and fry cook at Stevenette’s malt shop in Provo (where I once got chewed out for serving cold french fries to Jimmy Osmond).
Ironically, though, my most spectacular failure was at a job I concocted myself; let’s call it “freelance, desperate artist.” After beginning art school at Utah State University, I made the foolish decision to take on only work that related to my imagined future as a well-respected, self-employed artist. I couldn’t have been more naïve.
Here are a few of the surreal (and often humiliating) experiences I endured: painting a giant mural of Canyonlands for less than fifty cents an hour; drawing caricatures of tipsy tourists at Snowbird’s Oktoberfest; creating a massive cartoon map of every mom and pop store in Orem Utah; and executing portraits of people’s pets at the grand opening of a big box store in Davis County—and then getting fired that same day after completing just two drawings: a parrot that wouldn’t sit still, and a grouping of three Shar Pei puppies (it was just a mass of interconnecting wrinkles—like a disturbing M.C. Escher maze).
My worst gig, however—the one that still haunts me on cold winter nights—was painting personalized messages on men’s boxer shorts for Valentine’s Day at a now defunct department store (that rhymes with “K.P. Denney”) in downtown Salt Lake City. With no experience in painting on cloth (I didn’t even know there was such a thing as fabric paint), I should have just said no to this ill-conceived idea. But the store was willing to pay me $50 an hour, and for a struggling, young father, it seemed like an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Unfortunately, I forgot about this job until the actual day. When I did notice it on the calendar, I flew into a panic, heading out the door with a single tube of red acrylic paint and some random brushes. I was sweaty and agitated when I finally arrived at the store; I became further distressed by the scene that greeted me: a giant sign advertising my services (like I was some kind of underwear-painting professional) and a line of 10 women, already tearing open packages of men’s briefs.
Before I could even sit down, the first customer approached and laid out some blindingly white, cotton boxer shorts. She instructed, “Write ‘Love, Chrystal’ in a flowing script across the front.” With my voice cracking and hands shaking, I agreed, squeezing a blob of red paint onto a scrap of paper. Looking at my brushes, I was horrified to see that I’d grab ones that were stiff and worn out, with permanent cases of bedhead.
Everyone now watching, I experimentally dabbed some paint onto to the rough texture of the briefs. Oh no—it simply bled into the fabric. Next, I tentatively tried to paint in cursive; this did not go well either. With nothing to hold the shorts in place, the brush skipped, dragged, and blobbed. When I finished the first jagged letter, it was barely legible.
In a disbelieving, catatonic state, I forged ahead, gradually constructing the romantic message. Halfway through I could hear audible murmurs from the line and then people started to leave, clearly appalled by what they were witnessing. Eventually it was just me and Chrystal.
When I finished, the boxers looked like the craft project of a sloppy second grader who was just learning to write. I gingerly pushed the mess toward my lone customer; unsurprisingly, she shoved them back. When I tried to apologize, she cut me off: “You misspelled my name—you left out the ‘S’!”
I couldn’t believe it: not only was the message poorly executed, it was misspelled! It said, “LOVE CHRYTAL.” In numb confusion, I stood up and backed away, rolling the shorts into a ball, as if trying to hide evidence of what I’d done. “I’ll fix this, I’ll fix this…” I stammered, and without a clear plan in mind, ran to the men’s restroom.
Once inside, I put the shorts under the blasting faucet—but this merely diluted the concentrated red paint, splattering it everywhere like a crime scene. I held up the shorts in despair. Now they were soaking wet, bright pink—and “Love, Chrytal” still stood out as clearly as ever. A random guy opened the bathroom door at this awkward moment and froze in his tracks. I smiled and waved at him weakly, but he just backed out slowly, holding up his hand as if to say, “It’s ok, buddy—I didn’t see anything…”
Defeated, I shoved the wet boxers in my pocket and went back into the store. With my own money I purchased another package of shorts, repainted the dumb message (spelled accurately this time but still painted poorly), and left the sad results on the table. As I snuck out of the store, I assured the confused security guard that I didn’t want any money.
By the time I got home, I was late for class and didn’t have time to tell my wife about my disastrous day. As I headed out the door, I shoved the wadded up, still-damp shorts into a corner of the front closet. It was my bad luck that she found them while I was gone. Needless to say, she was disturbed and confused. She recalls thinking, “What the freak is this? Is it my Valentine’s gift?! And who the heck is Chrytal?”
She was still inspecting the weird boxers when I walked in the door. My defeated explanation sent her into a weeping laughing fit that lasted for about ten minutes. For weeks after that she eagerly showed the shorts to friends, neighbors—even delivery people. Worried that rumors of these infamous boxers might eventually make it into the evening news (“let’s look at how one misguided Utahn tried to earn some quick money”), I performed a ritual burning of the underwear on our mini charcoal grill. Vowing to get a real job someday, I whispered “Die Chrytal,” (about the shorts, not the person) as smoky shards of pink fabric lofted into the night sky. If only I could destroy as easily the random flashbacks that I still experience to this day…
Comments
Post a Comment