Gay, Sad, and Bad at Jobs

Chapter Three:

When I was 16, my parents—mainly my dad—wanted me to get a job. I had stopped working for some reason, though I don’t remember why. My first job had been when I was 14, in eighth grade, as a dishwasher at a little mom-and-pop restaurant in town. It was disgusting—soggy food bits floating in the sink water, that warm, damp smell that never leaves your clothes—but I did well in the back of the house. Eventually, they noticed my personality and how I talked with all the staff, so they promoted me to waiter. The first male waiter in town.

I loved it. I was 15, and on some Saturday nights, I’d make $75. The old men who came in would grumble, “This is a woman’s job,” whenever I made a mistake, but I didn’t care. I loved the girlies I worked with. They were older than me—juniors and seniors while I was just a freshman—but we gossiped about school and all the older kids I barely knew. They were both popular and had boyfriends, and I was taking notes. I’d always gravitated toward older kids. “Old soul,” or whatever they say about kids with trauma.

I remember my mom coming in to eat alone after my parents split. It made me so sad to see her there by herself. She looked so good, though. My mom is one of the most beautiful people, inside and out. She lights up a room. People still do double takes when they see her. To this day, everyone asks if she’s my sister—which, of course, she eats up.

Anyway, I was a working little diva. I kept a job until my sophomore year—probably got sick of all the homophobes and quit. That year was rough. My parents were fully divorced, all my older friends at school had graduated, and I was just… gay and sad in this poor fucking town. I hated school. I started drinking a lot more, smoking some weed. Definitely more of a drinker than a smoker back then, though that’s changed as an adult. I was a whiskey-and-Coke kind of teenager, coming to school hungover.

One time, my friend Brittany—like all my friends, a girl—turned to me in Algebra II and said, “You smell like beer.” I was mortified. The teacher had stepped out, and we were talking when she wrinkled her nose and said, “Yeah, it’s your breath. What did you do last night?”

“I went on a road ride.”

A road ride meant piling into someone’s truck, taking back roads, blaring music, and drinking. We’d stop to take pictures by road signs or to pee. Sometimes we’d hang halfway out of the truck and throw empty beer bottles at road signs. Ride in the truck bed on the highway, wind whipping through our hair like we were invincible. I don’t know how none of us died. Just 16, drunk on whiskey, driving around like it was normal. That was the fun. Honestly, I still want to go road riding as an adult.

And this was a school night. Brittany was a little concerned, as she should’ve been. But my parents had stopped being parents. They got divorced and focused on themselves. They’d done the whole family thing—now it was time to “find themselves,” I guess. And I don’t blame them. I never blame them for how they raised us or how they acted after the second divorce. But my brother and I were basically on our own, and I was slipping.

I need structure, direction—even as an adult, so even more so as a depressed teenager. My dad especially was sick of me. He wanted me to get a job again. So I applied at Walmart because, honestly, being a cashier seemed fun. I remember the interview was weird. I think I only got it because my dad knew someone there. The woman interviewing me kept circling around something, like she wanted me to tell her I was gay. Maybe I was their diversity hire? Was that even a thing in 2002?

I remember exactly what I wore: a brown Hollister zip-up jacket that I thought was the hottest thing ever—and probably stole. I had started stealing clothes, too.

Anyway, this basic-ass lady hired me. But before I could start, I had to take a drug test. She handed me some paperwork and sent me off to pee in a cup. At the time, I didn’t think weed stayed in your system that long, so I thought I’d be fine. You guessed it—I was wrong.

It took forever for the results to come back. I kept waiting for the call with my start date, imagining myself scanning groceries at lightning speed, picking up all the town gossip. A light in the depression, you know? Instead, my dad got the call that I failed the test.

He was pissed. Embarrassed that I was “smoking dope.” Tired of me. He told me I should go stay with my mom because he didn’t know what else to do with me.

By then, he was dating his now-wife. He didn’t have time to be a parent—hello?

I tried again, this time at Dairy Queen. I got hired, lasted a few days, then quit. Some of my friends worked there, but I was too depressed to care. I figured I couldn’t mess up scooping ice cream. But turns out, you can mess up anything if you’re sad enough. I remember standing behind the counter, syrup sticking to my arms, the smell of fryer grease in my hair, pretending to smile while the soft serve machine screamed behind me. It was too bright in there. Too fake. I felt like I was floating through it, just trying not to cry in front of my manager.

I dropped a dipped cone on a baby and took it as a sign.

I thought I needed to grow up. Really, I just needed to be seen. It took a while—but I got there. Gay, sad, and finally seen.

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The Hay Bales to Halsted series consists of stories and experiences from the perspective of Nico Sansegraw. These narratives are solely his own and do not reflect the views or opinions of GRAB Magazine. This series is intended as a work of storytelling and in no way seeks to glorify, endorse, or promote any specific subject matter. It is simply a story—nothing more, nothing less.