How to Make Money Quick
After dodging a renegade cop, I made it to my orientation at Spin Labs. After helping myself to two sprinkle-covered donuts and a coffee, I took my place next to the dozens of other unskilled actors, pretend musicians, and assorted bums.
“Hey guys my name is Rob and I’ll be guiding you through this orientation. What if I told you, you could make $1500 a week? Sounds great, right? Well you’ve come to the right spot. We are going to show you how to make very easy money. All you need to do is follow our system and you could be making more money than you know what to do with.”
For a minute I wondered if I was in some sort of infomercial. It sounded a little too good to be true. Yet Rob looked so convincing with his megawatt smile and sparkling white teeth. I couldn’t imagine someone with biceps like his would lie to me. I hoped this wasn’t a secret ploy to get us into a prostitution ring. Were they going to make the guys pimps and the girls hoes? I have seen my fair share of Datelines and 20/20 and I knew weird shit happened all the time. Frankly, I would never survive. I couldn’t even fake liking the Pillsbury Doughman-type guy my friend set me up with, much less fake enjoying coitus with some grotesque perv.[1] Not only did he actually look like the Pillsbury Doughman (pale white with creepy blue eyes and very pudgy) based on the tight pants that he wore he also appeared to have no genitals.
Turns out what they wanted to do was even more idiotic.
“We are hiring traveling door-to-door salespeople to go to college towns and sell these discount cards. We find college kids are more receptive to this type of product. You get 50% of whatever you sell. If you knock the price down to $40 a card, you’ll receive $20 instead of $30.”
Going to college campuses made perfect sense as the majority of college kids are mainly focused on smoking weed and eating ramen. I couldn’t imagine what would be worse except vacationing in Afghanistan or going on another date with Doughboy. But I didn’t want to be rude and I potentially wanted another donut, so I stayed and listened.
“We strike deals with local gas stations in various cities. They provide us with a ten-coupon punch card valued at over $500 that we sell for $60. Once the customer uses all ten services on the card they get their $60 back. It’s basically a promo for the gas station. The customer gets a great deal and the gas station gets a new customer.”
The only catch was the flight, hotel and car rental were paid for by the company. You had to sell enough to pay the company back. If you didn’t you owed them money. It was the most cockamamie thing I had heard since the invention of the tandem bicycle. Then again I really didn’t want to be a waitress.
“Sign me up!” I shouted as I leapt out of my seat. Just kidding, I didn’t do that. I signed up like a normal human and was assigned to Eugene, Oregon with three other girls. There was Brittany who was a born-again Christian who was living in sin with her boyfriend, Trisha who believed she was a psychic, and Ashley who just wanted to get wasted.
T o make us appear more authentic we wore these hideous gas station shirts that were about three sizes too big. I was deeply alarmed. I didn’t work out five days a week and avoid carbs to hide underneath a giant shirt. If I wanted to do that, I would just stick to sitting on the couch and eating sour cream and onion potato chips like my dad does. I decided I would make mine more like a shirt dress and just wear a pair of tights underneath.
We drove around scouting out neighborhoods before deciding on one that looked chock full of college kids. We would split up with each of taking a section of the apartment building.
Nervously, I knocked on my first door. I really hoped I wasn’t knocking on the door of a young Ted Bundy. As well-educated young immigrants who came to America for increased opportunities, I wondered if this is what my parents dreamt for me.
Nothing could prepare me for what I saw next. A young girl with the panache of young Bea Arthur answered the door. She was dressed in a pink nightgown that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned since the early 1970s and fuzzy worn-out slippers. On her left shoulder was one of the foulest things I have ever seen. A RAT. A giant, furry, twitchy rat was hanging out on Bea’s shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world. She may not have been a serial killer, but she was definitely related to one.
“Hi!” she said cheerily. “Can I help you?”
“Um, I uh,” I stammered. I froze. I wanted to scream while running away as fast as humanly possible. Yet at the same time, I was terrified the rat would lunge at me and suck my blood. You can do this, I told myself.
“I think I have the wrong door,” I said as I slowly backed away before making a run for it. I ran all the way down the stairs and around the corner of the building. I leaned against the brick and bent over trying to catch my breath. The only other thing that could make me run that fast is the promise of a new YSL handbag waiting for me.
Now officially traumatized, I had to continue my day as though I didn’t almost contract rabies from an oversized rat. I was beginning to wonder if this job was such a good idea. I was cold, there were too many hippies, and I was wearing a hideous shirt. Not to mention the fact that I was a door-to-door-salesperson. If I rang my doorbell, I would slam the door in my face.
People were pretty chill outwardly, but I could sense their underlying resentment. After all, I was literally worse than a telemarketer. At least you can hang up on a telemarketer without feeling bad since you never have to look them in the eye. It’s much harder to tell someone at your door to go fuck themselves for interrupting your afternoon masturbation session. The last time people were this repulsed by me I was twelve-years-old, prior to my boobs arriving and getting contacts. I wasn’t used to this sort of treatment anymore.
An hour later I actually made two sales. $60 already! Then I remembered I would have to pay Spin Labs the money back. It must have been beginner’s luck because the rest of the day was not as fruitful. We plodded through, going door by door, and by the end I had a few more sales but I was definitely NOT making $1500 by the end of the five days. The other girls had sold way more than me, which was beginning to chip away at my self-esteem. Was there something wrong with me? Why could I not sell as well as they could? I wondered if people sensed my internal disgust at being a door-to-door salesperson. I realized if I was going to be an actress I had to learn to be better at pretending.
Unfortunately, the sad reality that I had four more days of this shit hit me like a silent but deadly fart. I wondered if I should just start drinking when I wake up. This whole situation felt like a form of torture. The military should forget waterboarding and just make terrorists go door-to-door selling oil changes.
We were driving around looking for a place to eat when Brittany announced, “I got a job cocktailing so I’ll need a ride back to the bar at 7 pm tonight.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “When did you get a job?” How on earth did Brittany get a job for five days? And why on earth would she get on when we are here to sell these damn oil changes?
“When you guys were selling, I walked over to bar I saw that had a sign outside. I got a job bartending. I didn’t tell them I was leaving in 5 days.”
“Um, the car is for us to share for this job. We’re were planning on getting dinner later and then selling again,” Trisha snapped. “How am I supposed to stop what we’re doing to take you to a job?”
“I’m paying for this car too! And if I want to go bartend I will!”
This bitch was straight up fucking nuts. And full of herself if you ask me.
They bickered back and forth as Ashley and I sat silently in back. I was so over this job I didn’t care if we dropped Brittany off or not. On the other hand, I partially admired Brittany’s hustle.
Trisha finally got worn down by Brittany’s tirade and acquiesced. We would come back from selling 15 min early to drop her whiny demanding ass off at the bar.
Trisha and Brittany barely spoke for the rest of the trip, leaving Ashley and I to try to add some pep to the conversation to little avail. On the 3rd day after we finished selling and Brittany had finished bartending, it seemed like Trisha and Brittany might finally make amends.
Seeing as Trisha was psychic, I begged her for a reading. I’ve seen those ads for psychics on TV and they are not cheap. Trisha would at least be free.
“I don’t know,” Trisha responded. “They really drain my energy. I really have to be focused.”
“Come on! It will be fun. If you fuck up I won’t get mad at you,” I responded.
“Alright fine,” she said pulling my palm out. She closed her eyes and concentrated like she was trying to figure out the square root of 4. “I feel like you will be very successful in your acting career.”
“OOOH!” I responded. I wondered which designer would dress me for my big red carpet debut. I hoped it was Versace.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Brittany listening while pretending not to listen.
As she was telling Ashley she would meet the man of her dreams soon, Brittany begrudgingly turned around. “Can you read me too?”
“Sure,” Trisha said carefully. I could sense she was trying to navigate these waters carefully like she came across a band of muggers on a walk and was carefully trying to give them her wallet so they didn’t murder her. “Let me see your palm.”
Brittany handed over her palm with a look on her face that made it clear she was still thoroughly disgusted by Trisha.
“OK, I want you to take a deep breath,” Trisha told Brittany. Trisha looked deeply concerned. My childhood dog Sparky once had a similar look on his face when he got caught red-handed stealing a muffin from the countertop.
Brittany inhaled deeply. “What is it?”
“I think your boyfriend Adam is going to die before he turns 40.”
Brittany sat there stunned for a moment as though someone just told her that her boobs aren’t as perky as she thinks they are. Then she started screaming.
“You’re the devil! I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you. Jesus does not like fortune telling! Devil!”
Brittany looked so angry I thought her head was going to start spinning like Linda Blair.
I decided this wouldn’t be a good time to point out that Brittany was living in sin and Jesus probably didn’t like that either. I look over at Ashley who just shrugged, put her earphones in, and started listening to music. I watched the two of them duke it out for a while then I finally shouted.
“I am just telling you what I see! I have to be honest!” Trisha lamely tried to defend herself. I have been to a lot of psychics in my day and they never tell you anyone is going to die. I began to wonder if her prediction for me was any good.
I watched as the two of them duke it out, with Brittany cursing Trisha out (not very Christian!) and Trisha trying to defend herself and her psychic integrity with all the strength of a house against a hurricane. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Would you two shut the fuck up?!” I shouted. “I’m tired of your melodrama. Brittany you’re annoying as fuck and our selling oil changes shouldn’t revolve around your dumb bar schedule and Trisha you’re not a real psychic!”
The two of them gasped. “I’m going to the hotel bar!” I stormed downstairs eager to get away from those two idiots.
If this was it took to make $1500 a week (except not even because I was making more like $800), then I would rather collect unemployment. Or join the aforementioned prostitution ring.
Upon arriving back to L.A. I briefly contemplated getting a job as a singing telegram but sadly the market for tone-deaf singing telegrams is nil. So, I finally succumbed. I got a job waiting tables.
[1] I don’t know how Melania does it. I know, I know she’s not technically a prostitute. But you know she used to fake those O’s before when she had to work for that ring.
Like what you read? Clap for it. And follow us for more ridiculous stories.
