As far as anachronistic employment opportunities go, I traveled back further than most… to 200 B.C.E. China.

Now it wouldn’t have surprised me to have taken work on a vintage steam locomotive trundling tourists to ghost towns, or leading people to weird mounds of geologic/anthropologic significance in Washington state. But to make hand-painted wallpapers was not something I would expect to be doing in the late 20th century. Machine-printed wallpaper had started in the mid 18th century. Who would even conceive of this as a business model? A quirky lesbian couple, that’s who. For a niche market of luxury hotel lobbies, executive suites, European villas, no less. A stark contrast to the wealthy clients was the sometimes Dickensian conditions of the workplace. Still, one of my favorite jobs.

Most of my employments (deployments?) were paid under-the-table. At least initially. I never set out specifically to stiff the IRS, but admit I relished that no tax dollars from me would pay for war. Among other shit I felt morally obligated not to pay for. Obviously I also wasn’t paying for any of the good stuff gov’t does with tax funds, however little that may be. I suspect the vast majority of tax monies get wasted, as is the American way. Many a hand in the cookie jar sports a Rolex on their wrist.

The process we used to produce the papers I cannot divulge in detail as it may involve patent violations, but it was brilliant in its simplicity. There was a rival company(!). They were the original business partners of my employers, & had a falling out over who invented what. Going their separate ways made them competitors. I can’t tell you how strange I perceived this; not one, but two companies making hand-painted wallpaper in the same city on the precipice of the computer age. & people think I’m weird! Maybe I should start a business making canopic jars for the renewed funerary practices of mummification.

Suffice it to say we weren’t leisurely painting pastoral scenes on rice paper like the ancient Chinese. We produced random patterns, somewhat textural, by various methods, ways of treating the paper, mixtures of pigments, & implements used to apply them. The only reason I mention this is our processes often required us to plunge our hands into almost-freezing fluids at the height of winter, or hang dripping sheets of paper as fast as we could on racks above our heads in sweltering summer in a kind of sweatshop marathon. Like the workhouse orphans in Oliver Twist, it was frequently physically brutal. But the camaraderie made all the difference.

The dynamic between the 2 women I worked for & myself was key. Paula was the business-y one, a serious administrator type who held down the office part. The perfect ‘straight-man’ for the 2 cut-ups. A couple that exemplified ‘opposites attract.’ Kathe was arty, irreverent, & silly. She & I were the ones who painted the orders Paula secured. Paula would pronounce the day’s schedule of orders in a commanding voice; Kathe & I would poke fun & smirk. Our goal was to crack Paula’s veneer, make her laugh. It took some doing, but she eventually enjoyed us being her comic foils. Or maybe we were hers. Depends on who the protagonist is, I guess. Aren’t we supposed to be the protagonists of our own stories? If not, I’ve been doing this life thing wrong.

This all took place during one of my slow-mo falls from grace, like the violent scenes in a Peckinpah film. Maybe most people slide into addict territory sans intent, but mine was not by accident. I knew it was heading somewhere awful; I had ceased to care ever since I sneezed in the face of a full scholarship to UC Berkeley by imploding at (of all things) a breakup… just prior to finals week of my AA degree at SCCC. I couldn’t have set that fuse better as my own worst enemy. Didn’t matter I was with someone new a few months later. Together we were dedicated to that awful destination, as our exes were now gleefully with each other. Oddly, that’s not the only time I let a relationship derail my life. Somewhere deep down I must think that’s their purpose.

There was one day in the (around) 2 years I worked for them that will go own in history as the reduced-to-tears hilarity of all time. We were almost unable to work, laughing so hard we could barely breathe enough to complete our tasks. I have never before nor since had such a comedic work day.

It started with Paula announcing that an inspector was coming to assess the property for a home-improvement loan they’d applied for. The production part of the business was conducted in an unattached garage behind their house, filled with ultra-long benches for painting, drying racks on the ceiling, huge buckets of paint, boxes of powdered pigments, brushes, etc. It was clearly outfitted for mass production of something. Yet, to qualify for a home-improvement loan in a strictly residential-zoned area, it couldn’t look like a business was being run here.

Kathe asked “What’re you going to say to the inspector when she asks to see the garage?” To which Paula said (as though it were reasonable) “This is where we do our hobby.” Then I said “What’re you gonna say about me being here working?” Paula states emphatically “This is our friend Kelley, who helps us with our hobby.” Kathe & I looked at each other with the incredulity that the situation demanded, then burst out laughing. Paula swept out to await the inspector, as if her logic was incontrovertible.

Kathe & I lost it the entire day, quipping on being ‘high on the hobby horse’ & how a person could rope people into helping with one’s hobbies. A billboard saying “Do you like to watch paint dry? Call [number here]” Or a flyer at the local hobby shop: “Like to fly kites? Wouldn’t you rather drape soggy sheets of paper over your head instead?” Or personal ads: “For those hobbyists who enjoy stirring 5-gallon buckets of slimy paint & solid pigments with their bare hands, this one’s a gem! The disturbingly creepy need not apply.” Or “Have you ever wanted to compel your friends to do your hobby with you? Consider choosing a hobby so miserable they’ll participate out of compassion.” Or “Does your hobby overwhelm you? Do you need help to carry out your hobby? Call 1-800-HOBBYHELP for friends to help accomplish your hobby.”

The realities of this ‘hobby’ were not the stuff of fun. Counting down to the inspector’s visit, we couldn’t stop cracking up. We both knew we couldn’t pull this off, & that made us lose it all over again after we’d thought we were done giggling over it. Even when both Kathe & I were diligently painting the current order, we kept losing control & being reduced to fits of mirth. This was not going to fly with a straight face.

It came to pass that the giddiness of the day was just that. The inspector didn’t even give the garage a look. Kathe & I almost peed ourselves all day for nothing. That’s what makes a job worth doing, edging into the absurd.