Even though I have two college degrees, most of my steady employment has been in the service industry. To be honest I do feel like a failure. But in the end I think most of life is determined by chance and timing. They say you are what you do, but I think that’s wrong. You are who you are and what you do is just a byproduct of circumstance and necessity.
I’ve jumped around from gig to gig in recent years, and that’s mostly because I get antsy staying too long at any one place. When I’m at a job too long it starts to feel permanent and that’s something I really don’t want. Right now I sell slices at a pizza shop in Portland, Oregon. Before that I drove delivery for a sushi wholesaler, did security at a grocery store and worked the door at a dive bar. I was a gallery guard at the Portland Art Museum until COVID. I’m also an adjunct teacher at Portland State University.
Service, like teaching, means controlling the room. I talk to hundreds of people every day and I have to know when to take space and when to give it. Even if I’m having a bad day I have to listen to what people are saying and try to respond pragmatically. That’s communication and that’s what people want, not some kind of pandering “customer is always right” treatment. It’s not about being right. It’s transactional, and once that’s established things are simple.
At least I’m not sitting in front of a computer. That’s a silver lining to most of the jobs I do, though it hasn’t saved me from the cholesterol. But working at a pizza parlor will do that. Turns out shredded cheese is a lot worse for you than block because of all the anti-clumping chemicals. A decade ago, when I was 33 and parking cars at a San Francisco strip club, sprinting back and forth to the garage all night, our mantra was “getting paid for cardio.” That sentiment doesn’t hold the same levity now that I actually need the cardio, but it’s the kind of grim wit that can make these gigs tolerable.
We’re always busy. The cheapest lunch in town is a slice of pizza. And I’m basically just going through the motions. The oven, the register, dish pit, walk-in, stock cheese, make backups. The line is out the door so I don’t always get to have the conversations I might want, but people come back.
Security is something I won’t go back to. That job made me feel terrible about myself—confronting people all day for shoplifting, drug use and mental health. I used to get panic attacks on the bus ride to work. One day I asked a man to stop smoking meth in the restroom and he lunged at me, so I had to defend myself. When the store manager called me into her office to let me go, I couldn’t help the big grin that spread across my face. But that’s kind of the way things are headed. There are so many security jobs out there for pretty much anyone to take. It might be the least skilled occupation. You’re basically a bag of meat for $20 an hour.
I’m a photographer, and I almost always take pictures while I’m on the job. That’s my last defense against the capitalistic thrust. To me, the photos are something bigger than my circumstances. They keep me grounded and help me process the yearning. Everything conspires to keep us caught up in this churn of money, desire, time and status. Go to work, look at your phone, pay your subscriptions, fill the tank. The camera lets me reclaim my autonomy and my time. It’s my way through the froth.
This story was co-published and supported by the journalism non-profit the Economic Hardship Reporting Project.
Contributor
Rian Dundon is a photographer and editor. His books include Changsha and Fan. His work has appeared in the New York Times, Mother Jones, the Washington Post and Newsweek. He is a contributing editor at the Economic Hardship Reporting Project.
