Today is my second to last day of work, and I’m already getting hit with the barrage of doubtful and confidence-shriveling questions I deal with every time I’m between projects.

(The Inquisition has no vision!)

First off, no, I will not become a bartender. I don’t know why this is always brought up. Sure, I know my way around a bar and a bottle, but I also know a little something about televi, pardon me, salt mining. I have a degree in it, I’ve done it since I was 12, and it has been my “official” career for almost a decade. Do Lawyers have to field these kind of questions every time a case ends? Do their mothers tell them after the verdict is read that Starbucks offers health insurance?

Second, Salt digs and production slates end. That is their nature. When you begin a new gig you know eventually it will end, so it’s not a shock when that day arrives. However, it is not a passing fancy and merely an interesting way to spend the winter. Just because the gig ended, doesn’t mean that they’re ALL over and finished. There will be more. Comments to the effect of, “hey, you had a good ride. But it’s over now. You should look into being a wine salesman,” are not appreciated. Hey Tucker Blogs, do you have another metaphor to apply about a much higher paying job? Sure, Internet. Here it is: Baseball players don’t panic in the off season and decide its time to get their real estate license. They know another season is coming, and I know another gig will arrive.

(“…but what I really want to do is dance.”)

Want to change gears? Let’s change gears slightly. Los Angeles is a town of transients, of dreamers and hopefuls that spin the wheel and try to hit the jackpot. 99% of them hit Bankrupt. Not just once, but over and over and over again. The whole wheel is basically utter demise, with 2 or 3 possibly/maybe success spots to aim for. We have to spin the wheel everyday, and often you get smacked with Bankrupt, feeling like everything you’ve built up just disappeared in an instant. So you spin again. If we were in another town, there wouldn’t be as much yearning and palpable frustration everywhere you look, because most other industries tend to advance you better and promote from within. It’s not likely you’ll lose a job as Head of Surgery to a Bus Driver, but in LA you can lose a career making turn to some new-to-town schmuck who doesn’t even know what TMZ stands for yet. (TMZ stands for the Thirty Mile Zone surrounding the center of Los Angeles that Labor and Talent Unions consider the LA area. Anything beyond is “out of town” and will require some sort of compensation for travel.) Because of this, most actual jobs in LA are done by day-players, people killing time until Atlantic Records calls. Call a plumber in any other city, and there’s a good chance his father was a plumber, his brother is a plumber, and he plans to continue plumbing until retirement. In LA, your plumber is really a drummer. He’s been plumbing for 6 months and can’t identify copper on sight.

(“I left my headshot and resume next to the invoice.”)

Shifting back, I understand that most other people my age are having kids and picket fences. My favorite statement: “You may have to dip into your savings for the next few weeks.” Savings? What savings? Shit’s expensive in this town. After 8 years in LA I’m finally experiencing a relative consistency in annual income, but I still drive a 12 year old car and share a one bedroom apartment (with my wife, thank God). I have to contemplate super-sizing at McDonald’s because that 30 cents may be all I have to put in my gas tank in a week. Non-Industry folk, or civilians as I call them, love us. We’re chasing our dreams. “Good for you!” they’ll say as they reminisce about the dreams they once had but never pursued, and then the conversation will degrade into what cast members of Desperate Housewives I’ve seen drunk in bars.

But I can do better than that. I’m playing the long odds. I’ll skip having security in my early 30’s in exchange for a lucrative pay off in my late 30’s. It’s an easy plan to picture, but one that has no real basis. Just more hope. The Redhead and I know about hope, and we know about dashed dreams. She’s so swishy in her satin and tat. As an actress she has the added dilemma of having to wait for someone to choose her. I can sit down and write, but she can’t go down to the corner and “act.” Well, she can, but it’s not really advised. In her frock coat and bippity bobbity hat? Not even then. Sorry, it’s a Bowie kind of day.

(“Be honest: does the belt look a little weird?”)

And so onwards and upwards we go. Here on my penultimate day of work, I have the future to consider. Like in The Matrix 2, this world is repeating itself. This is the 18th time since moving to Los Angeles I face unemployment in 24 hours with nothing solid to follow. It doesn’t get better each time, but at least it’s getting easier. Each time has ended with either a new gig digging salt, or a throwaway job just to fill the time. Retail, food service, manual labor, housework… you name it. You have never met a faster clothing folder than me. I’ll promise you what I promise myself, my wife, my parents, and my parole officer: I’m not quitting. Someday, I’ll be the one up on the eleventh floor watching the cruisers down below. Until then, I will still consider myself a success. I’m doing what I choose to do and I refuse to back down.

Although if I’m still unemployed in June, I’ll be refusing to back down while serving whiskey, stale wit, and beer. Jump through the hoops, Internet. And tip your bartender well.

End of line.