I want nothing to do with the Scrub Society, but they’re as relentless as Scientology. They keep sending invites to my house.
A scrub (all rights reserved TLC) is a guy who thinks he’s fly and is also known as a buster. He’s always talking ‘bout what he wants and just sits on his broke ass…
I was one of those “but what if…” kids in school. Kids, no running in the hallways. But what if there’s a bear? Alright, you can run if there’s a bear, but no other times. But what if there’s a fire? Alright, you can run if there’s a bear or fire, but that’s it. But what if there’s a shooter? Boz, go sit in the hallway until you’re ready to stop disrupting class.
A scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fly (So, self-deprecating guys are exempt?) and is also known as a buster (Never been called that, for the record). He’s always talking about what he wants (But this guy has a portfolio of completed work, just saying.) and just sits on his broke ass (Low-income ass, for the record, and I do have savings).
Boz, go sit in the hallway until you’re ready to stop disrupting hit songs.
Women in LA are on the constant lookout for scrubs, and I can’t blame them. I’ve heard a lot of horror stories. One guy got arrested mid-date for using a stolen credit card. One guy convinced a woman to go back with him, only for her to find that he lived in a tent. One guy showed up with all his stuff after one date, expecting to move in. Scrubs are everywhere, especially in a city full of dreamers, especially on dating apps.
“I only seem to attract broke men,” a female friend complained.
“Excuse me, aren’t all millennials broke?” another female friend asked.
I wonder what a millennial version of No Scrubs would sound like. Here’s one take:
A scrub is a guy who thinks too much and is also known as a postgrad. Always talking ‘bout social theory, he won’t do a coding boot camp…
And here are the top reasons I worry about being a scrub:
1. I don’t have a car.
2. I don’t have a job.
3. Before the health stuff forced me to quit my jobs, I was underemployed.
4. I am one of those idealistic artist types with outlandish dreams and a liberal arts degree.
I made a rule when I came to Los Angeles: I could not ask anyone for money. If it got to the point that my savings were about to run out, I had to leave. No buts. I’ve maintained a savings since I was a kid. In elementary school, I saved my one-dollar allowance until I had over a hundred dollars. My dad couldn’t believe it. I remember him counting it out in front of my sisters, bemused but also impressed. This allowance was awarded weekly, so that meant over two years of not spending. Say what you will about little Boz, he had delayed gratification for days.
I’m perhaps too good at budgeting. My inner accountant is intense. I must justify each purchase. I must make sure I’m getting the best deal. I must not take on debt.
The anti-debt part drives people crazy. The budgeting drives people crazy as well. I get a lot of talking-tos about how I need to ease up and treat myself. But many of these people who give me the talking-tos are bad with money. Many of them are constantly late on rent.
When I moved out of the artist hostel, I moved with three other guys into a two-bedroom. That’s right, we were sharing rooms, another scrub red flag. I was the only one with savings and good credit, so they put me as a primary on the lease. The week we moved in, all three roommates told me that they needed more time to pay the deposit, and all three told me that they would pay me by the next Friday when their paychecks came in. When that Friday came, all three were silent. I did my rounds, and all three needed more time. Two of them paid me by the end of the month, the third stretched it to six. Not one of them said thank you. In fact, they seemed perturbed that I would follow up at all. Two of these roommates lectured me constantly. They were incredibly different people who despised each other, but they shared the common ground of a determination to “train me.” Their words, not mine. I was always eating the wrong things, wearing the wrong things, buying the wrong things, watching the wrong things, etc. It was exhausting. I dreaded coming home. One half of this life-coaching odd couple was the same man who would take six months to pay me back.
And this is why I am determined to live alone from now on. Here’s a domineering roommate version of No Scrubs:
A scrub is a guy who think he’s right, also known as a life coach. He’s always dishing out bad advice, even though he’s broke…
Notice that I keep mentioning savings and credit. These are two key pieces of evidence for my case in the court of TLC. Also, I have a bachelor’s, but plenty of scrubs have bachelor’s these days. This is the most overeducated generation in history. Also, having a bachelor’s highlights the fact that I have been underemployed since graduation, another scrub red flag, especially in LA. Everyone knows that you shouldn’t date actors (see also: screenwriters, dancers, directors, etc.), not until they have some real credits and a steady revenue going, at least.
“Wait, so you’re just not going to use your degree?” a girl asked me on a first date.
This woman was an accountant for a funeral home. By her own admission, she hated it. It was a starter job, in her mind. At that time, I was working seven days a week as manager of a CBD store. I had thought becoming a manager would award me a no-scrub guarantee, especially since I had equity in the store, but it was not impressing women the way that I had hoped it would.
During that same year at the CBD store, I met up with a friend who is fond of roasting me. The friend in question was navigating a will they/won’t they kind of situation with a different male friend. She explained to me that her friendships with straight men were rare and based on some degree of attraction, but if I wanted a shot, I had to get a “big boy job” first. I still don’t know if she was joking. I think it was one of those truth wrapped in humor sort of situations that I know all too well from my own comedic bits.
I was offered a similar bargain on the set of my first paid acting gig. My co-star and I also had a will they/won’t they kind of dynamic going, but there were hurdles. The woman in question informed me that I was her dream guy, but I had to get a car before we could date. I asked her how she had gotten her car, and she said her mom had bought it for her. What’s more, her mom also paid half her rent. She didn’t see any contradiction there. I didn’t get a car and we never ended up getting together.
If you don’t have a car and you’re walking, oh yes, son, I’m talking to you…
The lack of a car is the biggest hole in my defense. It is decidedly un-sexy. When asked why I don’t have a car, I don’t have a great answer. The main reason is that I don’t want to take on debt nor sign a lease, I want to buy a car in cash and be done with it. This has been more difficult than I anticipated. My savings have ebbed and flowed throughout my time in LA. I reached my desired amount to feel safe last fall, but then my restaurant cut hours, and then my mystery illness worsened, and then I had to quit. C’est la vie. Could be better, could be worse, could be much worse.
I used to get quite defensive, especially where it concerned dating. How could women be so shallow? Then I heard all the horror stories. Then I remembered all the ways that I am shallow when dating. I especially remember all the great women I met with sparkling personalities and sharp intelligence who I was simply not attracted to because of some physical x factor. I remember all the women with poorly written bios that I swiped right on because I was drawn to a bikini pic. I remember my own mixed feelings when a woman tells me that she still lives at home.
I think I’m a financial catfish. To quote a woman on a date that she arranged, “When I saw you at the party, I thought, he has money.” To quote one of my own essays, I look like a country club that wished to become a real boy. Back when I was on the auditioning circuit, I got called in for rich douchebag types all the time. I clean up nice, as they say. If you put me in a suit and comb my hair to the side, I look like a real dandy. Of course, I grew up thinking Olive Garden was a fancy restaurant. So, don’t judge a book by its modeling photos, and all that proverbial jazz.
I wrote a lot of essays in my head while making the rounds at my last restaurant job. I couldn’t help it. I needed to think about something else. I was so bored and overwhelmed at the same time. My friend Anthony, a fellow actor and member of my tribe, used to work for Instacart. He called his loops around the grocery store “loser laps,” which I always thought was clever. I thought of the term “loser laps” during my loops around the restaurant, more than I cared to.
At the restaurant, I did a bit with my fellow runners every time I fell in love with some random woman at a table. I’d say something like: “Guys, I think I just met my wife.”
“Yeah,” a fellow runner replied one time. “I bet she’s really excited to marry a twenty-nine-year-old busboy.”
“Busboy?!” I gasped. “How dare you. I am a runner, the most prestigious of vocations.”
That runner and I shared the same kind of humor, but when I made a similar joke days later, another runner gave me the opposite reaction. This runner’s name was Sam.
“I’m sick of you talking like that about yourself!” Sam shouted.
I was shocked. Sam never yelled.
“I’m just kidding,” I said.
“No, you’re not!” he rebutted.
See earlier reference to truth wrapped in humor.
“Well, it’s true,” I said. “Women in LA don’t want to date a twenty-nine-year-old food runner.”
“I’m a runner. I’m older than you. Do you think I can’t date?”
Oops.
“Well, you’re different,” I said, trying to recover from my faux pax. “Any woman would be lucky to have you. But I’m a lot. It’s going to take a lot of money to balance all this out.”
Sam did not laugh. Instead, he reiterated that he knew I wasn’t just joking.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “But stop staring into my soul! You don’t have consent.”
That one got a smile from him. I was relieved, but still felt guilty. I had forgotten that by insulting myself, I was insulting my coworkers as well.
I hold onto that memory because it’s one of the few instances where it felt good to be shouted at. I hold it up as a standard. Sam’s tone was different from other people who have yelled encouragement at me. Sam is shamelessly sincere, and when he shouted, it felt directed at the shame demon, not me. Leave this young man’s self-image at once, the power of Christ compels you!
The catch-22 of underemployment is that you don’t want to think you’re too good for anything, you don’t want to be some stuck-up college boy, but if you don’t believe you’re better than the survival job, you’ll never muster the ambition necessary to get out.
When I found that job in fine dining, I encountered a new phenomenon: some of the workers did want to be there. That had not been the case at the fast casual restaurants. Many of my coworkers at the fancy restaurant stayed for a love of wine or the culinary arts. And in fine dining, the wages can rival those of salaried positions. Servers at the fancy restaurant I broke into made over 60,000 a year. As a runner, I made about 45,000. That was a quite a jump for me. My previous job as a manager, working seven days a week, mind you, paid around 30,000.
Cooks in the kitchen don’t make good wages, though, and it’s precisely because they want to be there. Many of them start from the bottom after working in other career fields because they simply love cooking. It is their dream to be full-time chefs, so they don’t have to be bribed with tips like the front of house staff. There is intrinsic motivation to put up with subpar conditions just for a chance at the kind of work that will make them feel fulfilled. As an artist who has navigated similar negotiations, I developed so much respect for them. They worked so hard, churning out high-quality dishes in minutes, slaving in front of blazing hot stoves, barely able to get a bathroom break, barely able to get a day off, all while getting screamed at by the chefs, and all for a dollar or two above minimum wage.
And they were kind, these cooks. My first couple of months as a runner I was an absolute mess. I was not used to the military mentality of the place, particularly the part where chefs can yell in your face and everyone acts like it’s normal. I kept dropping things. I kept making dumb mistakes. My nervous system kept screaming at me to run away. But the cooks encouraged me: It’s okay, you’re learning, we’re glad you’re here, don’t give up.
This is the main thing that I am grateful to my survival jobs for. I have met such good people who I would not have worked alongside otherwise. I have worked with so many wonderful, kind, capable, intelligent, talented people who are stuck in grueling, low-paying positions and it’s heartbreaking. This is why I am so obsessed with wealth inequality. There are too many of these good people, with and without college degrees, who are working too much and too hard to struggle the way that they do. Many of them have families. Something must change, and in my opinion, it starts with a living wage.
The fine dining position was the first job in LA that allowed me to save money instead of just breaking even. I told myself it was time to overcome scrub status once and for all. I would save up, get a car, get my own place, and then live the Good Life. Maybe I would even get a pug (they’re my favorite). If I was making decent money while also maintaining the flexibility required for auditions, who cared if I was back at a restaurant?
I did. And so did women.
Someone close to me was describing their recent matches, weighing the pros and cons, when they said this:
“They’re cute, but I don’t want to date someone who works at a restaurant. I have a college degree.”
“You know, I also work at a restaurant,” I reminded this person.
Oops.
“Well, that’s different,” she said, trying to recover in the same way that I had tried with Sam. “You’re going after your dreams.”
TLC is unclear on this aspect of the underemployed dilemma. We know from the first verse that plans are nothing without action, but the trio does not clarify what happens when you make a real go of it and things still do not work out. How long can you aspire before scrub status is official? And not to bring up my credit again, but I’m eight points away from excellent. Doesn’t that count for something?
Boz, go sit in the hallway until you’re ready to stop plugging your credit.
These days, I worry about being a scrub with a doctor’s note. But that’s the ableist attitude of late-stage Capitalism, they tell me. We don’t always have to be productive. It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to heal.
But my savings are not infinite. And I can’t secure a long-term lease without proof of income. And how am I supposed to live the Good Life (all rights reserved Kanye West) if I’m just lying around all day managing symptoms?
Here’s a medical take on No Scrubs: A scrub is a guy who thinks he’s fine, but his symptoms are looking bad. He’s always dizzy and out of breath, so he just sits on his ill ass…
But people can’t call you a scrub if you’re sick. It’s a law, look it up. Also, sick individuals are entitled to pity sex. I don’t make the rules.
My friend Anthony, the same one who coined “loser laps,” broke the cycle. I couldn’t believe it. I had thought it was a just a legend, these flexible remote jobs with generous PTO that allow people to work normal hours at home, but Anthony showed me that they are out there, stealthy like unicorns, but no longer just make-believe.
Here is the updated plan to overcome scrub status once and for all:
1. Find a remote job.
2. Secure long-term lease.
3. Buy some quality furniture for said apartment.
4. Get a car.
5. Get a pug (I plan to name him Biggsley, but I’m open to suggestions).
6. Alert the womenfolk that Boz 2.0, the Certified Refurbished Anti-Scrub Edition, is on the market.
7. Live the Good Life.
That’s the proposal I have submitted in the court of TLC. I have asked Judge Thomas for some leniency in terms of timeframe considering recent medical circumstances. If I make probation, I would like all previous charges of scrubbery stricken from the record. Also, can we send some kind of cease and desist order to the Scrub Society? Every time I get a pamphlet from them it makes me depressed. And as a closing statement, I submit a more hopeful version of No Scrubs:
A scrub is a guy who needs some time, time to figure out his life. Millennials have had it rough, so please cut him some slack…
The defense(iveness) rests.