Working From Home
Through past work, I met a guy who asked if I would be interested in some extra bar work at his house occasionally. I said that I absolutely was, happy for the extra cash and change of scenery. So, for the next about four years, I would turn up at about eight, along with a few tools of the trade that I favored, and head through the beautifully disguised secret door.
This led down to what amounted to a self-contained underground house with a fully stocked bar, ice machine, etc., where I would make cocktails for the participants of these periodic “special parties.” From about nine, couples, some in little masquerade masks and little else, would arrive and mingle and then vanish and reappear, with a different thirst to quench.
I worked for barely five hours; it was hardly even work. It was an insight into a world I would never know. Afterwards, he came over, fully dressed, thanked me and gave me an envelope with cash. He also mentioned that I may have recognized a few people and that they would appreciate it if that fact remained undisclosed.
I assured him that I hadn’t saw a thing, like I was in some terrible movie. My five hours of work made me more than I make in a week. Next day, I got a call, asking if I could come over, just for a few minutes. I was off, so I headed over. He greeted me at the door, brought me into the hall, and said that the guests wanted me to have that, and hoped they would be seeing me again.
It was another envelope with the same amount as before. Every few months for the next four years this was repeated. Until I couldn’t do it anymore. I can’t describe why, but I would dread the call. I think being part of something that was so throwaway to them while I was living off a bag of change was, at times, just depressing.
Story credit: Reddit / q2005