My Summer of Rest & Relaxation
What is a student on summer break to do when the singular place they applied to denies their application? The student scrambles to find alternative employment. And that’s exactly what I did when I booked an interview I found on Craigslist at a place 45 mins away from my house. I interviewed for the role of Summer artist, they reviewed my portfolio, and said they’d send me a formal offer soon. As a desperate, broke 20 year old, this sequence of events did not strike me as odd, even when they asked how I felt about gardening and cooking in my supposed art interview.
The following week on Sunday’s eve, I received an email from the lady who interviewed me, which included a full list of tasks to be completed during the week. How peculiar, I thought, that this was how I found out I got the job (I had heard nothing of her, and there was no formal job offer signed). As for the content of the schedule, it made no mention of art activities I would be engaging in this first week, but assumed this would perhaps arise the second week. On the first day of my employment, I made the trek to the quaint yellow shack that stood in the backroads bush. A kids Summer camp would be running that day, they said, and I would be in charge of the seed planting station.
On the second day the schedule read Sara - “Prep for concrete pad” as my priority task. I looked around. I was seemingly the only Sara to be found. My brain began to explode in a chorus of alarm bells, and I thought to myself, how does this have anything to do with the job I was hired to do. I must interject with context: The Summer prior I had worked at a garden center. Although this job experience has left me with knowledge of some types of annual flowers, I know nothing of gardening and even less of manual labour. I have never so much as used a shovel in my life. Ever.
The prep required pouring a layer of sand and heavy, bulky crusher fines down prior to the concrete. A shovel and wheelbarrow were thrust upon me and I was told to fetch the materials. Much to my chagrin, the two piles were neatly stacked at the bottom of the giant hill the shack rested on, almost mockingly. And so I went up and down the hill, shoveling rock and sand in the grueling July heat, while my underdeveloped bicep muscles inquired as to what we thought we were doing.
The days followed suit. One day I was made to whipper snip and another had to shovel compost with a pitchfork into the garden. I was even listed to “take branches down from off the shed roof”. How? I have no idea. I am also scared of heights and do not have a chainsaw licence (I called in that day). It was then revealed to me by a coworker that I had actually been hired as a gardener and not as an artist. What the fuck. I knew I was screwed when the actual artist in residence was doing the same tasks I was.
Once a week, I was sent to the community garden we ran, which was located on a very public street in a rougher neighbourhood. Although I think it's a wonderful addition to the community, I do not personally enjoy digging in public dirt. The place I worked for joined forces with a volunteer program, which included an army of people from all walks of life. Like one older man in particular who spoke mostly Ukrainian and once got into a very loud, verbal altercation with a Russian man over the war.
I gave a one day resignation notice. On the last day I worked, me and my coworker (who always smelt like candy apples) were dropped off in the backroads bush and were asked to chop down tree sprigs for an art project. Our boss took off in the truck and said they’d be back soon. With no cell service, there was not much to do but complete the task. I made him do most of the chopping, as I am also deathly afraid of ticks. She did come back for us though, after I had spent twenty minutes wondering if I was going to die out there.
I still have no idea how this happened to me, or why I stayed as long as I did. I did get to teach one art class and was received with a very warm welcome by my former employer and coworkers. And hey, at least I know that I never want to touch a trowel ever again.