I was a painter. Not a painter who created masterpieces. A housepainter. It was one of my college jobs. The guy I worked for was one of the nicest bosses you could ever have. My schedule was flexible, and let’s be honest, it’s not terribly hard work. The worst part is the cleanup.
It was my second year at the school, and since I was on the baseball team, I had gotten to know some of the people in the athletic department. They had told me that there was a job available in the gymnasium. To me, this sounded a lot better than painting for another year. So, I made up my mind to take the gym job. I just had to tell my boss in the painting department that I was quitting. Or did I. I am non-confrontational to a fault. If everyone on earth was like me, we would have no world wars. We would probably all go out of our way to avoid each other. Also, the only food to exist would be Mexican. Anyway, I decided to just not put myself on the schedule at the paint department. In short, I never told anyone I was quitting.
The first week or so at the gym went pretty well. Then they told me that I was going to be put on a new project. Painting the racquetball courts. Great, more painting. I was sent over to the old racquetball courts, and guess who was there. Yes, my old boss, who didn’t know that he was my old boss. He thought that he was my current boss, and that he was there to meet an athletic department employee who he was going to teach to paint. So ensued one of the more awkward conversations I have ever had. It involved me explaining that I had more or less quit, and then him telling me what to do at my new job.
I spent a lot of time in those courts, listening to the radio, climbing the scaffolding with a bucket of paint and a roller. It was probably cosmic justice that I quit a painting job in the worst possible way, only to move on to another painting job. Me and my old boss ended up being fine. I was lucky. Like I said, he was a really good dude.
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