Mid-Life Crisis
An Amazing Author Ezine Column by Jack Riepe
The Career Path Lesser Taken
By Jack Riepe
© Copyright Jack Riepe 1998
I am amazed at the number of people who faithfully trudge off to work every day, to spend eight hours slaving away at a mindless task they absolutely abhor. Not me. I'm a writer and I love my job. I get to work out of my home, take three-hour lunches, and brush my teeth with gin when a pending story interview makes it necessary to rinse the pungent aroma of cigar smoke from my mouth. The most frustrating aspects of my career entail finding a wheelbarrow big enough to carry the day's checks down to the bank (as publishers are generous to the point of madness) and choosing the sexiest thongs for my copyeditor to model while I type.
I became a writer through the process of elimination as I was systematically eliminated from every other job I ever held. This employment rejection process was greatly accelerated by my mouth, which operates on autopilot and instantly informs bosses, foremen and supervisors of their hidden character flaws. From time to time, it also offers spiritual direction, such as recommending a warm destination for their souls in the afterlife. I recently read that the average American will have taken five distinct career paths by the age of retirement. I'm far above average, having explored 23 career paths by age 44! I can remember one week where I changed jobs more often than my socks.
The secret to confidently exploring various career paths is to go into each new situation with an open mind and the understanding that “quitting time” is a matter of reflex and instinct. It also helps to observe a few simple rules in presenting your open mind to potential supervisory personnel early on in the job application process. For example, the best way to reduce the likelihood of fitting in with the corporate team is to simply second guess the coach. But a statement can take many forms. Posture, emphasis and a vacant stare are easily misinterpreted as “understanding” what you are supposed to do in today's corporate culture. Confident employee candidates anxious to keep their afternoons free should anchor their hands in their pockets, stare at the floor, and ask (without removing the Marlboro), “You don't really want to hire me, do you?”
Decline the position at once if the answer is “yes,” as it probably involves experiments on living human tissue samples.
There are a lot of swell jobs out there. I recently met a man at a cigar smokers' dinner who is a design consultant for a brassiere company. His job involves looking at you-know-what's all day long in an effort to make more fuel-efficient, user-friendly, bullet-proof hooter covers. This would have been a perfect job for me. I have been unconsciously training for it since 1954. (My hands have been naturally cupped owing to the testosterone tsunami of puberty!) But jobs of this unique nature are seldom advertised. For one thing, the ads would start a stampede.
Another really cool job belongs to the person who sits behind the information desk at your typical Division of Motor Vehicles office. The responsibilities of this position include not speaking any known dialect of English, the ability to read three newspapers a day while sitting in the bathroom, and the fortitude to send 3,000 people an hour to the wrong line. Perfect applicants for this job should have blank eyes, like comic strip characters in Little Orphan Annie.
It's important to find a job that not only matches your ambition and personal strong points, but one that builds upon your weaknesses as well. I went to school with a guy who couldn't tell the truth. Rare was the day when little Billy Furtnert wasn't chased home to the ridicule of “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” And some days his pants were actually smoking. It's not that he was given to spinning malicious lies. He just preferred sharing a more colorful variation of the facts. As he got older, his lies made people feel smart and satisfied about making some really stupid decisions involving cash transactions. He made his first million selling used cars. He made many successive millions selling used government through his office as a congressman.
By the same token, there are tons of jobs that sound promising but fall short of expectation. I once answered an ad that offered exciting inside work for a self-starter with swift business reflexes. A snappy uniform was part of the deal. Applicants were advised to apply in person at the municipal zoo. It seems the star attraction, Packaderma The Elephant, had been constipated for years. The zoo was looking for a sensitive individual to insert a suppository three times daily. The snappy uniform consisted of a plastic rain poncho, rubber gloves, and a helmet. I couldn't help but notice that the helmet was decorated with several major dents.
My interview went smoothly. The personnel manager asked me if I could be on time every day. I asked him if that was a trick question. He then asked me my favorite color. I replied, “Yes.” He told me the job was mine. I told him he was mistaken. But I hung around long enough to see the next applicant get hired. A rather diminutive individual not quite five feet tall, this guy donned the uniform, climbed a ladder, and boldly thrust the suppository upward.
The elephant gave a mighty bellow. Then looking behind her, Packaderma seized the man with her trunk, shoved him in behind the suppository, and with a mighty grunt, fired him out like a cork exiting a champagne bottle. He hit the wall about 15 feet above the floor and crashed down, placing not one, but two, new dents in the helmet.
“Next applicant,” shouted the personnel manager.
I was interviewed for my first writing job later that week. I had no previous experience in dealing with publishers, but had heard that they could be very temperamental. I was anxious to get my latest career going and thought it might be wise to put my best foot forward by feigning some interest in the proceedings. I arrived ten minutes early and tried to pump the secretary for useful information.
“This is your first interview with a publisher, isn't it?” she asked, loudly snapping her gum. “You don't have to tell me. I know by the way that you're dressed.”
“Huh?” I asked. “I think I'll do just fine if I can get his attention long enough to present my resumé.”
“Honey, there's only one way to present anything to a publisher and you're not dressed for it.” She opened a closet and took out a pile of things. “Here, put these on.”
She'd handed me a plastic rain poncho, rubber gloves, and a dented helmet.
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