Book Review: Job Junky by Rudy Ridolfo

Reviewed by Eric Mayrhofer

Rowdy, frenetic, and a little bit filthy, Job Junky hurtles along with shocks and fun.

If there was a machine for taking a pair of books, mashing them together, and making a new, insane third thing, this is what would play out: Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas would go in first, Tom Perotta’s Bad Haircut would follow it, and Rudy Ridolfo’s Job Junky would blast out the other side—most likely riddled with bullet holes and tangled in some anonymous person’s discarded underwear. 

And to be clear: that’s a pretty good thing.

In a blisteringly fast 90 pages, Ridolfo relates “a rundown of my life while striving for a dream.” As he works his way toward making it as an actor, those reading his memoir witness the odd jobs he takes to assert his independence as a young man in the 70s, 80s, and beyond. 

Unlike a greatest hits radio station, however, his resume has no standard gigs. Many have worked as an overnight donut shop employee, but I’d wager few worked at a donut shop where their boss invited them upstairs, seduced them in an occult-themed apartment, and almost sacrificed them. I also feel pretty confident guessing that not many busboys find themselves working with a celebrity chef who whips out a 0.44, runs from the LAPD, and turns out to be a vigilante (possibly…maybe…probably).  

Job Junky has story after story like these, larger-than-life exploits that usually involve sex and often find Ridolfo harrowingly close to violence. Readers diving into his anecdotes might be worried for the author as they race through each short episode, but his danger is their blessing. Reading this book is wild.

That is thanks in large part to Ridolfo’s guiding principle. “Basically,”he says, “I’m a workforce nomad type o’ guy.” His journeyman nature, combined with his well-documented willingness to stick around just because a job is interesting, results in stories so sensational they could make a stuntman’s life feel boring. 

And it’s also because of the author’s style. His voice is raw and unfiltered. His writing feels authentic, his imagery vivid. A particularly great passage is when he describes having dinner with his beanpole of a friend, as well as his friend’s wife as she consumes an entire rump roast by herself “like an alpha wolf on a carcass always eyeing the others over her snarling nose.” 

The reading experience is so evocative that when we turn the page and read about the job where he walked in on multiple, separate sexual encounters between colleagues—and liked it (for a minute anyway)—we’re too entertained to mind the sometimes-jarring tonal shifts. They’re moving too quickly between spectacles to notice a lack of specificity that holds the narrator and some of his deeper truths at arm’s length. This distance may keep readers from achieving the true emotional connection that would make Job Junky an undisputed homerun. 

As is, Ridolfo’s book is a rush. It’s textured with all the grit and grime of the 70s’ and 80s’ most outrageous films. It’s fun and shocking. And it’s a book any reader should find a chance to make quick work of.

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