Though my true talents lie in writing about perfume, last year’s economy found me dragging myself, grim-faced, from cafe to bookstore to grocery chain to office building, followed everywhere by the echoey intonation “sorry, it’s the off season.” I finally landed as a “Fragrance Technician” at the oldest niche perfume house in Portland, Oregon. Unlike past nightmarish gigs, this new job is predicated upon trust and mutual respect—I feel like a human being even when in a customer-heavy, hours-long grind. Best of all, I get to be a small part of the community, a friendly face that is always available at the appointed dates and times to address olfactory woes (though sometimes the woes veer into existential—perfume is a surprisingly ready potentiator of gossip, angst, and eros). Every day, I balance the desperation of living a life as a person with very little money and very much debt (and the dread and drudgery that creates in any work environment) with the fact that I like my job and feel lucky to have it. Here’s a diary of a week in my life.
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