How We Work

An informal survey of the ways we earn our daily bread

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Published: Jan 23, 2008

So what do you do? Yeah? Wow. Never heard of that before. You actually make a living doing that? Get outta here. For real? I mean, I've heard of some weird jobs, but not like that one. I got a pal who models nude. Swear. To. God. And then there's this lady I know who gets paid to play with blood and dung all day. But it's not all about the pay with some people. You've probably seen that street preacher lady, who stops you as you drive by, talkin' gospel and shit? The things people in this town will do. Anyway, I'm really impressed. Sounds like you've got a good gig. Anyway ... who, me? Ah, you don't want to know what I do. Just makin' ends meet. Looking for something better, tell you the truth. Say ... you don't know anybody who needs a molecular biologist, do ya? —Duane Swierczynski

Sweetest Job

While Amada and Tinto are out grabbing every culinary award the city has to offer, one woman is running the dessert show. Adriane Appleby is behind each churro and torta de oliva served up at Jose Garces' tapas powerhouses. The 22-year-old pastry chef helped open Amada two and a half years ago and doubled up production when Tinto debuted last spring. Along with an assistant, Appleby goes through about 20 pounds of dark chocolate in an average week and whips up more than 120 of Tinto's signature banana y azafráns. "I've had sleepless nights over flan," she admits. "My favorite saying is, 'Stressed is desserts spelled backward.'"

Somewhere between her morning shift in Old City and evening duties in Rittenhouse, Appleby finds time to stay excited and passionate about her work. Only Amada's lavender-scented crema catalana remains from the original menu; the rest has changed due to her constant experimentation. While off the clock, she's on a mission for the perfect crème brülée and appreciates a well-done gelato, but Appleby's no dessert snob. A fondness for the occasional box of brownie mix and her grandmother's mayonnaise cake helps her appreciate Philly's slightly unrefined sweet tooth. "People equate desserts, for whatever reason, with cereal or Tastykakes," she says. "When people say, 'This tastes like Cocoa Puffs' or 'This tastes like Krimpets,' I take it as a compliment." —Monica Weymouth

Most Nationally Treasured Job

Bob Giannini is the man in charge of the Liberty Bell's yearly cleanings. About 20 years ago, when the bell was in the old pavilion, his team noticed that when sunlight hit the bell at a certain angle, a white powdery substance was revealed on its inside. Several tests were done and the powder was determined to be ammonium hydrate sulfate.

To this day, no one knows how it got there, but the bell has since gotten the shine treatment with a special regimen developed by the Philadelphia Museum of Art's Metal Conservation Department. The cleaning and waxing take only about two hours and is done on the spot before or after museum hours. Giannini divides his time between his office and the archaeology lab at the old visitors center at Third and Chestnut, which becamethe Independence Living History Center two years ago (and is open to the public). He speaks with visitors as they peek behind the glass to watch volunteers and NPS employees clean and mend items excavated from construction sites around town. PECO can't dig for power lines without findingsigns of centuries-old life and death, such as a war-time burial ground recently unearthed in Washington Square. Philadelphia's national treasures have certainly gained popularity lately, and Giannini finds fun in setting the record straight. "There are people who come into the park and want to know if it's true. Some guests go away not quite as excited as when they came." —Dawn Morgan

Horniest Job

The more Adam Hershberger's jobs blow, the better his stream of income. The 25-year-old began playing the trumpet at age 10 and went on to study jazz performance at Temple, graduating in 2005. Since then, he's been gigging around town solo and in eight different groups, playing covers and originals, "from hip-hop to experimental jazz, reggae to funk, big band to classical," he writes via e-mail. His versatility and constant networking led him into a few recording sessions with bands in need of a trumpeter.

But gigging alone is not possible for survival and can leave Hershberger's checkbook imbalanced — earning him as little as $400 in an off month or up to $2,000 monthly during the summer wedding season. Thus, the horn-blower resorts to musical instruction for a steady source of income, teaching 25 third- to 12th-graders the joys of trumpet, trombone and French horn. The former student of music doesn't mind taking the role of teacher. "It's fun seeing kids grow and inspiring them. Even if they don't like certain aspects of whatever they're doing, I try to focus in on the things that they do enjoy and go from there." —D.M.

Godliest Job

It is 7 a.m., and traffic on 52nd Street has detoured your way to work. In one hand is a mug of coffee, the other, the steering wheel. You drive up Jefferson Street to get to 54th.

You pick up speed. Suddenly, you see a little old black woman bouncing into the road, just feet from the traffic lane. You blindly swerve left, and hear gospel music instead of screeching tires. You look over and see the woman from your side window.

"God bless you today," she yells. She is dancing.

The Rev. Margaret Floyd is 71 years old, and is the sole proprietor of Mercy and Love Chapel. Inside is a single room, with 42 folding chairs, a few prayer books, and a tape-deck boom box. Along the far wall is a curtain with a sign: "Toilet is broken. Do not worry. God will fix it."

Floyd is stocky but fragile. "I pray outside," she says. Besides quoting Gospel verse, she says little else.

After about 7:30 on most mornings, Floyd moves to the neighborhood's latest trouble corner: one with a drug-dealing problem or a shooting in recent weeks. She sets up the boom box, stands near the intersection, and tells everyone: Remember, God loves you. She bops arthritically to the music.

"I'd like to see people dealing heroin while the Reverend is here," says her minister, Alfred Chavous, with pride. He has a point. A group of twentysomething men are already mulling around an abandoned bodega walkaway.

"Does this work?" the minister is asked.

As people drive by, they beep in approval. A young mother, walking her daughter to school, nods at the Reverend and hums "MMMM-hmmm" to her daughter.

"Does it matter?" he asks back. —Tom Namako

Most Thankless Job

The first thing Richard Maloney hands me when I get to his Center City office is a quote that appeared in Harper's Magazine. "The one thing unforgivable in Philadelphia is to be new —to be different from what has been," read the words from 1916. Then, he shares a copy of a 1980 Philly Mag article headlined, "Tunnel of Terror." It refers to the city's subway system as "40 miles of dark deadly terror" — the underground is, according to the piece, a "line to hell."

"The biases that people have on subjects they don't have much knowledge about, those perceptions, my prime focus is fighting them," says Maloney, a news-radio reporter turned public-relations exec who's served as oft-maligned SEPTA's public face since 1999.

That's where the quotes come in.

Maloney doesn't deny SEPTA was once a mess, and that it remains "fodder for controversy." Hell, he covered the agency's rock-bottom days for KYW-1060. But SEPTA is different from what it has been, he says.

"Somebody at the Daily News once said that covering SEPTA is like shooting fish in a barrel," he says. "But we've finally gotten the tiger by its tail."

What he means is this: The Els are no longer crime- and urine-infested danger zones, the buses and regional rails run on time much more than critics admit, and the massive operation —created in 1968, it now has 9,000 employees and 2,200 square miles of coverage area — is emerging from its annual budgetary merry-go-round.

"We're well-managed, there's an efficient use of the money we're allocated, and it's a safe, good system. Absolutely, there are times we screw up, but when we do, we admit it," Maloney says. "There's no public-transportation system that's actually loved. That'll take a tidal change, but once people take the 'perceived risk' of riding public transportation, they like it. I get a lot of satisfaction out of finally getting that story told."

Don't buy it? For what it's worth, after I took leave of Maloney, the bus arrived outside 12th and Market — on time. —Brian Hickey

Goriest Job

Every day at 11:30 a.m., Tanya Pham pours a dose of cow's blood into a measuring cup. She then dispenses the ration into several petri dishes, which are placed before a cavern of 21 vampire bats. The feeding frenzy begins.

Pham's duties as a nocturnal animal keeper mean understanding the rather outlandish eating and survival habits of the creatures she oversees. In addition to serving blood-slurping vampire bats, her other tasks include dishing up kale, fruits and veggies to rabbit-size Malagasy giant jumping rats and supplying Scottish Highland cattle dung to the zoo's three resident dung beetles.

"We just put some dung in there ... and [the beetles] roll it into balls themselves and bury them in the sand," she said. "They're very easy keepers."

If you think the fun stops at feeding, don't discount the bliss that is scrubbing leftover blood and dung off the floor, obtaining fresh blood and injecting medicines into large insects, which are then hand-fed to any ailing animals. "I monitor them to ensure that they're healthy," Pham said. "I actually have to climb into the [vampire bat] exhibit every season and catch them all one by one with a net so that the vet can give them their rabies vaccines, weigh them, and check for any injuries."

What would make anyone enthused to take on this kind of responsibility? "I actually get way too attached to the animals," Pham said of her creatures of the night. "I'm trying to work on that. I joke with my husband that I see the animals at the zoo more than I do my own pets. I definitely think it wouldn't be for everybody." —Nadia Stadnycki

Least Understood Job

I'd imagined a steamfitter to be some sort of underground dweller, forging tunnels and passageways in some sort of dystopian, Tolkien-esque netherworld beneath the city. I was wrong.

"A steamfitter is a pipefitter. It's an old-school term that the Steamfitters Local Union 420 uses," says Brian Geiger, a 25-year-old journeyman steamfitter originally from the Northeast and currently residing in Lansdale. "Basically, the best way I can describe it is that we do all the pipe that plumbers don't do."

Plumbers do drains and pipes that carry potable water. "We do everything else," says Geiger, which includes process piping for pharmaceutical companies, refineries, schools, office buildings, high-rises, chillers, boilers, heating units and more.

Though my illusion was quashed, it's still pretty neat work — dealing with all manner of pipe from copper and PVC to carbon steel and glass — that takes its practitioners to interesting places. "The craziest place I've ever been was the Limerick [nuclear] power plant," says Geiger, recalling how they'll shut down one reactor unit each year to replace the pipes inside the turbine.

Geiger spent his requisite five years as an apprentice, taking classes in math, drafting, mechanical drafting and welding one day every two weeks. He's been a journeyman, a union term, for two. Welding skills are not requisite to be a steamfitter, but many steamfitters, including Geiger, are certified welders (orbital, shielded metal arc and TIG). Is there any sort of rivalry between steamfitters and plumbers? "We're all just union brothers," says Geiger. But, come on, there must be jokes. "We make little comments, but I'd rather not get into that." —Brian Howard

Most Experimental Job

Despite our more enlightened inclinations, the human body does have a cash value. For young activists like Nathaniel Miller, higher callings have been funded via personal anatomy. Miller, who moved to Philadelphia to work with anti-war and Palestinian solidarity movements, has spent the past three years participating in various clinical trials at local medical labs.

"I'm not super interested in the typical linear trajectory," says the 28-year-old University of Delaware graduate. "[Clinical trials] is a convenient way to make money in order to do the kinds of things you don't get paid for."

At up to $5,000 a stint, these trials seem like a pretty sweet deal. Miller estimates that anywhere from one-half to two-thirds of his annual income comes from six visits to research facilities where he watches television or reads while wearing a heart monitor or an IV.

There's just one catch: When medical experiments don't run smoothly, consequences to the human guinea pig can be debilitating, even fatal. According to BBC News, six previously healthy men suffered multiple organ failure (two became critically ill) on March 14, 2006, after receiving an experimental anti-inflammatory drug at the research unit of London's Northwick Park Hospital. While such incidents are rare, there's enough misguided medical research for local law firms like Sherman, Silverstein, Kohl, Rose & Podolsky to post a clinical trial litigation list on their Web site.

To minimize the risks, Miller follows a word-of-mouth policy and his own instincts. If the trial sounds "dodgy," if it's a "first in human" experiment, he doesn't sign up. He always reads the entire waiver, and he relies on friends to lead him to the next "good study."

The Philadelphia area — according to bioethicist Carl Elliott's recent New Yorker article, "Dept. of Medical Ethics: Guinea-Pigging" (which profiles Miller among several Philly guineas) — offers "plenty of opportunities for aspiring research subjects." But Miller maintains that young white activists are still the exception to the clinical trial demographic. Most subjects, he says, are minorities trying to support their families or fund their own entrepreneurial dreams. —Dana Henry

Most Cramped Job

Hemo Abdelaziz doesn't move around a lot. Sure, he left Egypt for Philly 13 years ago. But for the past nine years, the owner and operator of Hemo's lunch truck at 37th and Spruce streets has spent five days a week, from 7:30 a.m. to about 3:30 p.m. ("or until I finish my food," he says), cooking inside a tiny metal cart with barely enough room to stretch his arms. And he rarely takes breaks.

Abdelaziz is something of a legend around Penn's campus. "Grilled chicken, cheesesteak, meatball. I don't have many sandwiches," he smiles, "but I make it good, so everybody loves it." His chicken hoagie, in particular, is renowned for its "Hemo sauce," a secret, tahini-like mixture he drizzles on top.

So it's no surprise that lines go down the block come lunchtime, or that Abdelaziz cooks straight through the day (and continues grilling during our chat at 9:30 a.m.). It's also no surprise that he's considered going the route of other successful lunch trucks, such as the Greek Lady and Mexicali, who've expanded into restaurants. "I tried," he says, "but I didn't want to raise my prices too much." For now, he's sticking with meals on wheels, which means dealing with an itty-bitty kitchen. "It's cramped," he says, "but nothing's easy. I'm used to it."

Worse, by far, is the weather. "Especially in winter," he says, "I don't have heat in the truck. I cook on a grill, so my top half is good. But my bottom is not." —Tami Fertig

Sexiest Job

Kali Morgan doesn't see anything unusual about her job title. "I'm the same as any proprietor, but with a fetish edge," says the "Proprietrix." "So much of what we do is fantasy." She is probably underestimating the edge.

Since starting Passional Boutique in 1998, the native Philadelphian has significantly expanded her sexy empire. In addition to the original space just off South Street (which now focuses exclusively on corsets, costumes, lingerie and other clothing), Morgan also oversees the new Passional Toys and Aphrodite Gallery, which showcases erotic art. During the week, you can catch her hopping between the three, monitoring renovations at her flagship store, teaching fantasy workshops along with local and national sex educators and editing Passional Magazine, a guide to kinky Philly happenings. Weekends, Morgan is on the road, bringing some brotherly love to fetish fairs across the country.

Of course, Morgan is as much play as she is work. Since 1997, she has organized the Diabolique Ball, a fantasy costume party that benefits charities providing services to Philadelphia (last year it raised more than $14,000 for organizations such as the Children's Crisis Treatment Center). Additionally, she's the feisty force behind the Libertine Ball, a summer masquerade that's been turning Philly on for the past nine years. Not surprisingly, Morgan is already working on some party plans for her upcoming 40th birthday. As of now, they look similar to her 30th celebration: administering a good spanking to whichever naughty Philly cop crosses her path. —M.W.

Most Old-School Job

If you've gleaned most of your George Washington knowledge from YouTube videos ("He'll save children, but not the British children" ring any bells?), Dean Malissa would likely shake his wig-coiffed head at you. "It's disheartening when someone yells out, 'Hey, Abraham Lincoln, how ya doin'?'"

The 55-year-old Philadelphia native traded a quarter-century of "corporate weenie" life for character acting and he's now the premier George Washington interpreter in the country. While he's not alone in that endeavor ("There are many people who slap on wigs and beards," he says), Malissa counts fewer than five men who take the profession so seriously, and even fewer who work full time, as he has for the past three years. Having collaborated with the Smithsonian, the National Archives and the National Portrait Gallery among many others, this presidential performer does his share of traveling, although he works extensively in the greater Philadelphia area during the summer. Malissa recently portrayed Washington at a White House state dinner hosted by the Bush family, and there's talk of him appearing on The Colbert Report in the near future.

But Malissa says he's not in it for the fame. "My mission is to educate people and get them in touch with the events that formed this country." On the other hand, one particular benefit is more about the present than the past. "I'm very lucky because at the end of my work day, people applaud for me, and that never happened in the corporate world," Malissa explains. "Has that ever happened in your world?" Can't say that it has, Mr. President. —Carolyn Huckabay

Most Revealing Job

For the past seven years, art students have been paying thousands of dollars every year to see Jon Stothfang naked. Jon began his work as a figure model back in Cincinnati, Ohio, after responding to the "models coordinator" ad in a local job listing.

Stothfang's artwork is what initially uncovered his interest in posing, and staying disrobed motivated him to keep a steady exercise routine. He says, "What most people don't realize is that anyone can be a figure model. There is no ideal body type for this work. You don't have to lose those last 10 pounds. You don't have to be a supermodel. Some classes, like anatomy, do prefer you to be fit, but most students I've talked to enjoy voluptuous models with mass to spare."

But there are some restrictions. "The more tattoos you have, the more limited work you can do," says Stothfang. "Tattoos take away from the body's contours and hide natural shadows. A friend of mine is a good model, very attractive, but she can only do portrait work because she has full sleeves."

The most important rule of posing is that you have to hold still and keep quiet. "It definitely takes patience, muscle control, and a willingness to chuck the conventions of repressive modesty out the window. If you can get past that, then figure modeling can actually be a really amazing way to fall back in love with your body, regardless of what it looks like." —Erin Delaney

Borderline Obsolete Job

Marty Mascuilli is one of the union leaders who oversees the longshoremen. He has been in charge of fewer and fewer men over the past decade.

A longshoreman, quite simply, is a person who loads and unloads a boat while in port. So when an international ship full of anything from bananas to steel beams to a turbine engine pulls in to the Tioga Marine Terminal near Delaware Avenue and Venango Street, these guys have to figure out how to get it off the ship and onto a truck.

"In the past," Mascuilli said, "we used to have guys who would grab each sack of, say, cocoa beans, and hand it to another guy, who handed it to another guy to load on a truck."

Now, forklifts and cranes do most of the work. A veteran longshoreman won't even see 40 hours a week. "When a ship is in," Mascuilli says, "there's work. When there is no ship, there's no work."

A newly minted longshoreman makes about $17 an hour. But he can't work a job until everyone who has seniority over him has been called first. There are long waits.

And once a newcomer gets on the job, there are hazards. A crane is sometimes swinging a ton of material over the heads of the men on the ground. "When the cargo is lowered," Mascuilli said, "it sometimes slides into place. People have been caught."

Other times, he said, someone doesn't take the "corner locks" off the large metal containers. "They have come raining down before," he said. "They weigh 8 pounds."

It's hard, borderline obsolete work. Mascuilli often repeats the single most important rule to his men: "Always keep your head up." —T.N.

Most Dangerous Job

Nelson Rosado works on the power lines that nobody sees.

"Next time you're in Center City," he says. "Look up. There are no electric poles. That's all underground."

Rosado is 41 and has a solid upper chest. He spends most of his day in subterranean cavities, underneath the manhole covers labeled "PECO."

The underground spaces are sometimes the size of a basketball court. Sometimes they feel like the size of a shoebox. "That's when you notice the rats and roaches," Rosado says. Along the walls are power cables — some are the diameter of a softball.

Rosado climbs down these holes when something goes wrong with a cable and sections of Center City lose electricity. He is constantly on call to cut and refit a bad power line.

The job usually goes smoothly. Usually.

"In 1994," he says, "I was in the hole and there was a miscommunication. I cut a cable that was live, and was knocked back by sparks and fire. I shielded myself with my right arm, and later, the top layer of skin just peeled off.

"See how they tell you not to inhale that black smoke when there's a fire in your house?" he says. "They're right. I made my way to the ladder and could barely climb up. Breathing in that stuff made me not want to struggle, it almost put me at peace. On the ladder, I thought, 'You know, if I just let go, it won't be so bad.' I would have died."

His co-workers reached down and pulled him out.

Trouble doesn't always come in the form of electricity. He also works in some bad neighborhoods.

"In 1996 I was riding a PECO truck, and had to jump out to make a call on a pay phone to check in with my boss," he says. "When I came back around the driver's side, a guy was there, waiting for me. He kicked me in the groin, jumped in the truck, and took off."

He was on Spring Garden Avenue, and he hailed a cab to follow the truck.

When the truck stopped at a red light, Rosado got out, climbed into the driver's side window, and punched and choked the driver. He threw Rosado off and started moving down the block again.

Rosado ran after the truck, and jumped back on at a red light. This time he threw the guy to the street and punched him. The guy whipped out a box cutter, and Rosdao lay on top of him so he couldn't use it. Someone called the cops. He laid there until they came.

"Was that the smart thing to do?" he asks now. "No. But I was young, you know?"

He never faults PECO. "We're always trained and prepared well," he says. "I always knew that we just can't control some things that happen out there."

He laughs. "You know, I was supposed to go to art school!" —Tom Namako

Most High-Paying-But-Miserable Job

In retrospect, Jess didn't know what it meant to be a lawyer. She applied to law school thinking she'd go into for-profit law, sure, but with pictures in her head of civil rights lawyers and righteous crusaders. She ended up doing something quite different.

Partly, it was the money. Jess' loans come in at upward of $150,000. Starting salaries at the corporate firms that recruited her were in that same neighborhood; had she gone to work at, say, Community Legal Services, she would make less than a third of that.

But it was also the funneling. Jess went to Penn, where the great majority of graduates go on to work at corporate firms. The recruiting starts early; much of the coursework is geared toward the corporate sector; and if you want to go in a different direction, you have to strike out on your own — a phenomenon detailed in a recent book called The Trap by Philly journalist Daniel Brook. "It definitely doesn't seem like there are other options," says Jess.

The firm Jess works at today does a lot of work defending companies against large-scale lawsuits, from plaintiffs who claim to have been injured by the companies' products.

"If you had to imagine a firm that was completely the opposite of what I think is good in the legal profession, that's the firm I work at," she says.

She does get to do a good deal of pro bono work, but in spending her time that way, she forfeits opportunities for advancement at her firm, where, naturally, big earners are rewarded. She figures that's OK — she plans eventually to leave, and work for the city, or a nonprofit. She just hopes she can afford that day sooner rather than later. —Doron Taussig

*Jess' name has been changed.

Most Childish Job

Stacey spends her days with toys. She studies and shops for the hot ones, keeps the old ones clean, and plays, er, arranges them into exhibits at the Please Touch Museum. The extensive collection goes back to 1945 and contains more than 14,000 pieces. In February, Swigart will spend a week in NYC at the Toy Industry Association's annual Toy Fair to check out the latest trends (Barbie was introduced there in 1959). Recent acquisitions to the museum include the T.M.X. Elmo and Bratz dolls — which are outselling Barbie for the first time. She says that while toys have kept up with modern technology and the changing times, some of the best toys are the simple ones that allow children to use their imagination. "Not everything needs a microchip or a bell or a whistle," she says. A large part of being a curator is integrating the pieces into the décor of interactive exhibits, such as displaying cereal box toys and vintage lunch boxes at the Supermarket (the toys, by the way, can't be touched). The professional playster's educational background is in art and design and historic preservation, so her job isn't entirely playtime. She is currently researching the history of Memorial Hall, where PTM will relocate later this year. Swigart's previous job at Valley Forge, where she took care of George Washington's pants, led her to the children's museum. She says the same care is required of the toys as with 18th-century objects. "It's been fun," she says. Yeah, fun and games — some people have all the luck. —Dawn Morgan

Most Traffic-Dodging Job

Avoiding cars and buses is tricky enough on a bike. But having to deliver a bunch of packages in a matter of minutes on a bike?

Jeff O'Neill, a bike courier at TimeCycle, works about 45 hours a week and completes roughly 35 to 40 jobs a day. Which means lots of time on the street. "You have to get everything there on time," he says, "so we're running red lights, riding with traffic, weaving in and out of cars and trucks and pedestrians."

Like most couriers, he doesn't wear a helmet, but that doesn't mean he doesn't exercise caution. He steers clear of busy streets like Market ("a hell hole with people pulling U-turns all over the place") and remains alert at all times. "You gotta keep your eye out; keep your eyes on the front wheels [of a car] to see where it's going," he says. Or, in the case of paratransit, just stay away entirely. "They, like most SEPTA vehicles, seem to think the law doesn't apply to them," he says. "They blow through red lights, never use signals and will run you off the road without a care. I hear more horror stories from my fellow couriers about them than cabbies."

His track record, knock on wood, remains close to perfection: He's had only one accident, which happened about five years ago, when he first started couriering. Someone was jaywalking, wasn't paying attention and collided with him. Surprisingly, it seems walkers — not drivers — pose the biggest threat on the road. "Cars, you know where they're going," he says. "Pedestrians just walk wherever they feel like it." —Tami Fertig

Greasiest Job

It's 2:15 a.m. As Philly's pubs, dives and watering holes are kicking their patrons out into the night, Jian Fumai at David's Mai Lai Wah in the heart of Chinatown is waging a war on grease. His task: Keep the kitchen clean for the late-night crowd of General Tso-seeking, spring roll-snacking night owls. With so much fried food, keeping the fryer oil clean — and the grease off everything in the kitchen — is daunting, and requires a group effort. If left unchecked, the greasy steam condenses on whatever it touches, staff included. On nights when the oil needs to be changed, the job of manning the two deep fryers becomes an even stickier situation. "You do it, you get used to it," says owner David Chan. As if standing over a bubbling vat of hot steaming oil until 4 a.m. wouldn't get you greasy enough, the oil must be drained and then put into a huge drum behind the building. From there, it's sucked up and removed by a private sanitation company.

I met Chan at his restaurant, and he gave me a behind-the-scenes look at his kitchen — and its grease removal tactics. As I entered the kitchen, a man stood above the grill, relentlessly scrubbing grease from the interior of the ventilation hood. Without a team of people cleaning, the small kitchen would easily be overtaken by the greasy fryer steam. The battle is never over, and as long as people love Chinese food, Jian Fumai will always have a job. —Ptah Gabrie

Floweriest Gig

Bailey Hale is a singer. And yes, he does weddings and bar mitzvahs.

But not like that.

Hale, who graduated from the University of Kentucky in 2000 with degrees in horticulture and opera, has made a name for himself in Philly as a florist, servicing tony eateries and even tonier Rittenhouse nuptials.

Born in Kentucky and raised in New Hampshire, Hale took an internship at Longwood Gardens. After school, he moved to Cincinnati, but "hated it"; he soon found himself back here, where he got his feet waiting tables. Steady gigs working under various florists helped spread word about his abilities, eventually allowing him to go into business for himself. Though his wheelhouse is creating décor for weddings and private parties (he typically charges clients between $5,000 to $10,000), he also has weekly accounts with restaurants (Snackbar, Vintage Wine Bar & Bistro) and salons (Ozzie Perez).

What separates Hale, 31, from many florists — and especially from national companies like FTD — is that he imports directly from Holland, "the center of the cut flower world." (Most cut flowers sold in America are grown in South America.) This connection helps Hale acquire rare varieties, from ladyslipper and cymbidium orchids to parrot tulips. Each week, Hale receives an e-mail detailing availability. He bids on products auction-style; prices fluctuate between $2 and $10 per stem. Once his order is completed, it's express-shipped to his home in South Philly.

Arrangement is truly Hale's artistic platform — many clients give him complete creative control. "Too much of American floral design is based on trying to hide the fact that they're using cheap flowers," says Hale.

Hale still sings — he'll soon appear in the Opera Company of Philadelphia's Cyrano. And in February, he'll move his business to the corner of 13th and Pine. There, he'll open Moda Botanica (215-833-2504), a shop he's running with colleagues Judith Campbell and Armas Koehler. It'll serve as a showroom and display space for the team's work, for both brides-to-be and business owners interested in signing up for accounts.

"Nowadays, you can order your entire wedding package through CostCo," laughs Hale when asked if bigboxification affects his industry. "But there's the individual attention that I can give a bride that CostCo probably can't." —Drew Lazor

Most Anachronistic Job

David Sautner doesn't want to fix typewriters. He, like most of the world, has moved on. Though he operated a typewriter repair shop in Center City — Center City Business Systems "right around the corner from McGillin's" — for some 13 years, Sautner, a lifelong tinker, is gainfully and happily employed fixing copy machines and other office equipment. But typewriters, they find him.

He worked on 12 earlier this morning — he's got a regular weekend gig with Bundy Computer Co. And then there's his basement workbench, piled with machines in various states of repair that have been sent to him from near and far. "I don't want to do them," says the 57-year-old, seeming to signal an abrupt end to our discussion.

But deep down, he's compelled. Some of his work comes from banks and law offices — both institutions have a lingering necessity for the increasingly archaic printing machines. But beyond those with a need are the die-hards, people who still use, love and can't function without their typewriters. "They can't find anyone to fix them," says Sautner with Sisyphusian twinge. Writers and college students have reached out to him. "You can think better with a typewriter," says Sautner, the slightest hint of whimsy forming on his face as he begins pecking away at sleek circa-1935 Royal he's brought up from the basement. "A lot of writers I talk to say the same thing." He points to a 1990s-era Brother model sitting in a compact blue case. "I got that for $5 at a yard sale. Detectives use them. They keep them in their lockers at work so they can type up their reports." The Royal isn't his; it belongs to an attorney from Illinois who, years ago, sent it to him for an overhaul and never claimed it. "I won't sell it," says Sautner, noticing that it still needs rubber feet, then figuring that he'll need to make those himself.

Sautner knows he could probably triple his rates — people who can do what he can are rare — but he refuses. "I won't kill anybody. That's probably why I'm not rich." He's not hurting for work. I found him through an Internet listing he says somebody else put up as a public service. He adds that while he doesn't mind if his contact information (215-732-0566, ccbsphilly@aol.com) is printed, he asks that his Fairmount address be left out of the article. He doesn't want people showing up unannounced, machines in tow. He's afraid of being bombarded. Sautner started repairing typewriters at age 14 as part of the co-op program at Rosemont's Harriton High School. "No idea," he says, asked if he thought he'd still be fixing the little boxes that go clicka-clicka-clicka-ding. How long will he do it? "Until I die." —B.H.

Running Numbers: Special Employment Edition
Follow Your Bliss
Multiple Choice
Stick Around Awhile