Chapter 8: Job Hunting
"Frank, I've already turned over a new leaf," Gary said firmly.
Gary worked in a government employment office—a department that helped people find jobs. Unlike private job agencies, there was no commission involved; he earned a fixed salary that wasn't nearly enough to support a family.
But as the saying goes, "Every cat has its alley, every rat its hole." Even in a modest position like his, there were under-the-table ways to make a little extra.
Gary had a "special list"—a roster of dangerous or high-risk jobs that had a high chance of resulting in injury claims: falls from scaffolding, metal splinters in the eyes, dog bites, burns, and so on. These jobs were reserved for opportunists like "Frank," people who knew how to play the system.
It was through Gary's help in the past that the old Frank managed to claim disability benefits. Of course, Gary didn't do it for free—he always took a cut once the deal was done.
Frank and Gary went way back. Now that Frank needed work, he naturally turned to his old friend.
"I'm not here for one of those sketchy jobs from the top drawer. I'm looking for something legit," Frank said.
Gary raised an eyebrow. This wasn't the Frank he remembered. Still, he pulled up a list of available openings.
"Well, there's plenty: pizza delivery guy, liquor promoter, part-time nanny, truck driver, sperm donor—wait, wrong category," Gary muttered, surprised at Frank's request but still going through the options.
"I have a few… specific requirements," Frank added.
"Now that's the Frank I know. What are they?" Gary asked, nodding knowingly.
"I'm still collecting disability benefits. I can't have them cut off, if you catch my drift," Frank said tactfully.
"You want to keep the checks and work?" Gary frowned. "That's gonna be tricky. You can't formally apply for anything, no record of employment, and definitely can't be seen working in public. If the Disability Office catches you, it's game over."
The agency knew people tried to fake disabilities to scam the system, so they had hired "hunters" to catch them. If anyone caught a faker on camera—photos or video—they could claim a reward.
"I do have a few jobs that fit your... unique needs, but not many," Gary said while typing on his keyboard.
"This one could work," Frank said, leaning over to point at the screen.
"Translation? You think you can handle that?" Gary asked, doubtful.
"I should be fine," Frank nodded.
"Alright, fill out this form," Gary said, handing him a paper.
It asked for basic info—education, translation experience, language pairs, and areas of expertise. After all, there are countless languages in the world; they needed to know which ones Frank could handle.
Naturally, Frank put down Chinese. Both English and Chinese had effectively become his native languages now, so translation was right up his alley—one of his few real advantages.
However, professional translation work had its barriers. Certifications were often required to handle legal or corporate documents—the big money jobs. What Frank was applying for was more like freelance beginner work, with no real requirements.
Still, Frank didn't care. Money was money. At his age—over fifty, with no degree and no formal work history—he couldn't afford to be picky.
"Chinese, huh? That's one of the hardest languages to learn. Jobs in that pair usually pay better than most others."
"Add this email later," Gary said, handing him a slip of paper. "They'll send you jobs depending on what's available."
"Thanks," Frank replied, taking the paper.
Leaving the office, Frank didn't head home. Instead, he wandered the streets with a large garbage bag, digging through trash bins for recyclables—plastic bottles, aluminum cans—anything he could sell.
Probably no other transmigrator had it this rough—forced to collect scrap to survive.
Those stories where protagonists easily make a fortune? Total fiction. In real life, money's hard to earn. As the saying goes: "Making money's tough, eating sh*t is tougher."
Frank didn't feel the least bit embarrassed. His family was dirt poor—he didn't have the luxury of pride. Besides, the old Frank was already used to scavenging through dumpsters.
Even though he now had a translation gig, it might not pay as well as collecting trash. In fact, he hadn't seen any other elderly folks fighting him for bottles or cans.
In the original Frank's memory, there were faster—though shadier—ways to make cash.
For example, he could use Liam to beg. Carry the kid outside a supermarket or stand by traffic lights, wipe some car windows, act pitiful, and rake in a decent sum. On a good day, they could pull in a few hundred bucks—more than the $700 a month in disability payments.
There were other methods too: mixing flour with random powder to fake cocaine and scam buyers; and if he got truly desperate, he could head to gay bars and... sell himself.
Yes, Frank had done that before. He wasn't gay, but he'd done everything a gay man might do—and more. His body had been "explored" in every possible way. Just thinking about it made Frank shudder; those memories were ones he preferred not to revisit.
The old Frank had plenty of dirty tricks up his sleeve, but the new Frank couldn't bring himself to stoop that low. He could only try to earn money his own way.
As he picked through trash, Frank's mind was spinning—thinking about how to mend things with the kids and how to make ends meet.
"Wait... there's a check!" Frank suddenly froze, halfway through crushing a bottle to toss into his bag. He remembered something.
He rushed to a mailbox, rifled through the pile of letters—mostly bills and junk ads—until he found it.
"Not this... not this... ah! Got it!" he exclaimed, pulling out an envelope.
Inside was a check.
Frank's excitement barely lasted a minute before his brow furrowed. He remembered what it was: a welfare subsidy—Ginny's pension.