The Last Swig That Nobody Wants
I’ve been trying to find a job but with little or no success. Nobody wants to hire me. Nobody. My friends have suggested that I try to find a job where I can write for a living. They enjoy the goofy stories that I publish on the web but I don’t think they would be willing to pay for them, and I don’t think anyone else would either. Anyone who can string together a coherent sentence often makes the mistake that they to can become a writer. I am not willing to delude myself with that idea. I’ve had suggestions that I try acting. I can act, but there again, I don’t think I could find someone willing to pay me to do it, and Canton Ohio is not the hotbed of the entertainment industry, contrary to popular belief. I read somewhere that for every actor that supports himself with his trade, there are 99 who can’t make ends meet. You would have more success at the racetrack. And like my Dad used to say, I have a bad habit, I like to eat.
No one wants a 35-year-old white male with no job experience in the last five years. Most of my work history involves construction, or a long and varied list of temp jobs. No one wants what I have to offer. The newspaper does not have any listings for amateur historian, or a goofy beer story columnist, or a guy who tells a pretty good joke now and then. There just doesn’t seem to be a place for me in the work-a-day world.
Chris Rock once said that being white was like always having a $5 in your pocket and being black was like always being 50 cents short. I have never been black and don’t know that I could even project myself into that role, but I have to say that, as a white guy, I’ve never felt that I had that $5 he seems to think I have. I can’t remember a situation where someone cut me a break because I’m white, or a guy. If any of you happen to know Chris Rock, please ask him where I might find these magical blue jeans with the eternal wellspring of Lincolns. I would be grateful. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like the picture of Mr. Monopoly on the “Pay Poor Tax, $15” card, pockets turned out and empty, arms spread wide, with a pleading look on his face that sez maybe he is the one in need.
Of the three-dozen applications I have turned in, I haven’t gotten one phone call. Not one. I take that back. I did get one call from a friend of mine and she told me that at the company where she worked, and where I applied for a mailroom job, that the HR lady had asked her to tell me that they had hired someone with “mailroom” experience. So, apparently I cannot even convince someone that I can alphabetize, even after three years of college. Well that was money well spent.
I don’t want to sound like some sad-sack but dog-gone it! I need the money! It is just that I feel like the last swig of a good beer. Nobody remembers what a great beer I was when the cap was just cracked. They seem to only view me as the last swig, warm and full of backwash.