Jobs # 11 (TRCA)

In my late 20s, I struggled significantly while juggling graduate school, a new relationship, and multiple jobs, but I was mostly happy for a while. I lived in South Hyde Park once again for about two years, moving between a house full of dudes owned by my dear friend Chris, and an apartment with my partner at the time.

It was around this time that school became my primary focus. The first of my back-to-back graduate degrees would have me continue my work as a fiction writer, re-subjecting myself to hours upon hours of criticism of my work in a workshop setting. We sat in a circle, and people told me my dialogue was “trite.” I smiled, thanked them, and filled their mouths with paint in my mind.

I needed a flexible job that would supply me with enough money to rent and eat. I now know it was definitely a mistake, but at the time, I was desperate. So I decided to start doing the unimaginable, working for my father.

My dad was 48 when I was born, having raised an entire family of six with his first wife before meeting my Mom. After my sister was born two years later, they divorced, and we would only see him every other weekend and once during the week for dinner. Growing up, we tried to find common ground, but we eventually discovered that we were very different people.

You still find things to love, though. I think it’s a survival tactic. We knew we were stuck with this old guy all weekend, and we had to make the best of it. We bonded over MST3K, The Simpsons, and The Larry Sanders Show.

So, he wasn’t that bad. And he was now offering me a job. Here’s where it got out of hand, though. He wanted me to work for his realty business as a glorified secretary. He owned several houses, which he had bought at auctions for dirt, and barely maintained them. He’d always bought property in the past, but he had only become cheaper as the years went on. I was desperate, though I felt completely morally dejected every day I went to work. I did become a Notary Public, though, which was a somewhat interesting aspect of the job. I had a logbook, which went unused, and a stamp with my name on it.

The other thing is that my father was a complete tyrant. I have never screamed at or been screamed at as much as when I worked for my father. I won’t say he was the worst boss, and I certainly was not a model employee, but he definitely seemed to relish ripping into someone he was paying. Why was the guy who bought me my first drum kit screaming at me about a tenant not paying their rent? It didn't feel enjoyable.

I absolutely knew I had to finish my degree, though. So I put up with his mania as long as I could. Three years passed, and my relationship fell apart; I once again found myself alone, needing to find my next steps. I took up residence in one bleak house, living alone for the first time.

The neighborhood wasn’t the best, but I could afford it, and I felt like I was going to be ok. I was completely mentally unstable, though. I got pulled over for making a bad turn during this time by a police officer who was training another officer. I broke down in tears because I couldn’t stand the sight of them and being in the situation. It took them a while to understand that I wasn’t high; I was just distraught.

I moved into one of my dad’s Troostwood homes and started devising a plan. I knew I was fine on my own at that point, but I couldn’t work for him at that job anymore. My friend asked me once, “Oh, so you’re a slum lord now?” I said no, but I did work for one. One day, I walked in and told my Dad it would be my last day. I’d be done with my degree in about a year and needed to forge ahead to whatever was next on my own. I thanked him for the opportunity, and our relationship has only continued to improve.