Electing Out of the Grind

The prospect of living out the rest of my days in Wichita in a standard job feels like a prison

Patience is a finite resource. I’m two months into my exile into Kansas and I can sense my family’s impatience as I get my shit together. After the stupor and fog of shock, grief, and disillusionment over the wild ride of my third divorce and subsequent last kick in the ribs clarity, I now face the tyranny of options in regard to what to do and where to go.

My long-time friend Joe is at a pretty typical crossroads. He’s in his sixties and is working three part-time jobs to pay for a decent but certainly not high-end apartment. He’s single, no children, and life seems to be nothing more than a grind when it comes to that elusive making a living thing. What Joe has that so many don’t have is a focus on creating experiences for himself on his limited budget. Traveling across country, across Europe, finding ways to lighten the load of the grind. He’s a friendly and affable guy and has many friends in his city of choice. He barely makes a living but lives a full life nonetheless.

I admire that more than I can say.

I’m at a more unusual crossroads but his example is worth noting. I’m broke, employed as a substitute teacher in Wichita (which pays little and is a thousand miles from what I want to be doing). I’m here helping with my dad but, after two months living at home, I can hear in my mother’s voice the push to ‘get a real job and stay here in Wichita.’ When I tell her that I see Wichita as temporary, as a place I left and have no desire to settle down in, she feels that I am looking down on the city (which, maybe I am). Wichita feels small. Even smaller than Las Vegas. Job prospects are limited to teaching (been there, done that, wrote a book about it), medical (no skills or experience so that’s out), retail or restaurant (ugh), real estate (no sales, please), and manual labor.

I’m certainly not above manual labor but the pay sucks and I’m getting on in years. My mom gets the impression that I think I’m better than those kinds of jobs but I really don’t. If I were living in a city with a place for me—a thriving arts scene, lots of bookstores, a cool night life element—I’d be completely fine loading boxes for Amazon. The puzzle box I find myself in is this: if I am here to help with my dad, the only full-time gig I can do is at night. Otherwise, it’s part time because if I jump into a nine-to-five there’s no reason for me to be doing it in Wichita.

So, Wichita. I’ve made the commitment that I’m staying until my dad kicks the bucket but the guy is made of pig iron and despite seeming on death’s door some days, I’m getting the sense my commitment may have me here for at least another year.

Freelance writing has become a void of unreturned emails and ignored resumes. I’m not particularly worried about this. Writing is a terrible way to try and make a living. As my LV friend says, “Writing is a mental illness.” He’s not wrong. But I still gotta get some bucks in the account because my ex cleaned me out and I have a couple of maxxed out credit cards that floated me those last few months in Nevada. I need to get some sort of regular paycheck so I can move out of the room above the stairs in my parents’ home and into a studio or loft (which are remarkably cheap here, go figure). I could substitute teach full-time but, Jesus, that work is dull as watching paint dry or stinky pubescent kids sit sullenly, resenting the fact that they could be fucking around or making Tik Tok videos. I could look into restaurant management but, oi, does that work bite.

I remember when I came back to Wichita following graduating college and got a whiff of the same thing from my mom. For some reason, because I don’t embrace this place the way she does, because I choose not to embrace the grind of simply working a job so I can pay bills and not much else, because I’m not a believer in god or the church, she believes that I feel superior to her. She expressed as much back in 1989 and my response was to split for Chicago. I’m older, hopefully wiser, and don’t take it like I did when I was twenty-two. I understand where she’s coming from so I’ll keep my plans to myself. Talking to her about it just frustrates her and then I suddenly feel less like I did with my ex-wife. I feel shitty in the face of her generosity.

I am incredibly grateful for my family. Frankly, I’m on my ass and, instead of living in my Prius until it gets repossessed or enjoying my days in a refrigerator box under an overpass, I have a comfortable room, food, and people who love me surrounding me in this brief period of extremely hard luck. Seriously, no complaints.

Just a crossroads with some limitations to consider.

If I had to make an educated guess with the understanding that most of my choices in the past seven and a half years have not borne out much, I’d hazard that I’ll get something full-time (preferably remote but not necessarily), help with my dad a bit less, get an apartment close by early next year, and wait it out. Hell, after a year in Wichita, I might move to Scotland and try to get a work Visa. For now, it’s one foot in front of the other, down the road just a bit. Eventually the pattern will quicken and maybe I’ll get some of that Joe Janes sauce.

In the meantime, I’ll keep writing. I hear it’s a mental illness.