Why I want a real job

I guess what I was trying to say is that satisfaction rarely comes from the work you do to sustain your life, no matter the time period. The major work of a poet such as John Donne came after years of angling for a small parish minister position, whereupon he could neglect many of his church duties in favor of writing his own poetry.* So we get cubicle jobs and then compose amazing literature in hidden Microsoft Word documents. "The boss is coming -- minimize your magnum opus." But this little tete-a-tete we've been having points to a larger issue (and hopefully away from the dour self-absorption towards some appropriately cynical humor.)

The issue, of course, is how some bright young men like ourselves decided that we needed real jobs and then found it to be absolutely impossible to get one. The situation is ridiculous. I spend my nights now slinging drinks at a restaurant bar or, worse, serving pasta dishes named after my manager. It is heartbreaking to realize that you must recommend a plate of risotto named after the person who has you hauling leaky ice buckets up and down stairs while she sips Pinot Grigio from a coffee cup. Pangloss will undoubtedly curse my good fortune to have any type of employment, but I tell you this: when you want a real job and all you can find is "the thing I'm doing before I find my real thing," you risk lulling into a sideways contentment. At first, I was only going to be home for two weeks. Then I was only going to be home for two months. Then I was going to be out by September, or maybe October. October 13th (my birthday) at the latest. Now, it seems, I could be as long in my parents' basement as May. What the hell happened?

The economy sank so quickly during our last year of college that you would have been smarter to have booked a cruise on the Hunley. Even though I've sent out a dozen applications, I've not made it much farther than a phone interview (apart from my previously detailed dealings from hell). So what are we to do? We have to keep living at home, or start to incur a ton of debt, or live at a level so reliant upon rice and beans that our teeth are sure to rot within six months. Pangloss, it would be nice to live in an era where a man could take some time to work alone, live alone, travel, and when he wanted to shake the dust from his boots, he could. Now, though, if you haven't been sucking internships since you were four, you probably aren't qualified for an entry level position. The lull in your employment history looks like a leprous skin tag.
"Don't touch that guy, Bill."
"Why not, Gene? He's a nice young kid, could probably use a break."
"Do you see that unemployment spot? Right there, above the part where he still lists a college professor as a reference. If you touch it, you'll get it too. Do that and you might as well clear out your desk by lunch time and go home to tell the kids that they should stop growing if they want clothes that fit."
"Wow, I can't believe I missed that. Thanks, Gene -- you saved me and my pubescent kids. Hey kid -- fuck you! Pay your own parking."

But this thought remains with me -- before I graduated, I did not want a real job. I wanted to find work that involved helping people. Making money did not matter, earning potential did not matter, stock options did not matter and even the prestige of the position did not really matter. I don't want to dig ditches, but I don't need a job that carries lots of social cachet. Then again, if I wanted to dig ditches, I'd probably need an M.A. in that, too, and 3-5 years experience shoveling. "No time lifting cow shit from here and putting it over there? Sorry -- I think we have more qualified applicants." But after graduation, moving home, living with my parents and explaining to women I meet that I am in a transitional phase that makes it absolutely impossible for them to come home with me, I can't think of anything I want more than the stability guaranteed by a real job. I want to be independent, as I thought I would be by now, and I will take corporate buzzwords and casual Fridays to get that independence. I must guard against finding myself sideways content with that, too. If I had a good, easy job, I would probably rationalize my way to retirement. I don't want to do that -- an extraordinary life will not be found behind a desk.

There is one other reason I want to get a real job -- vengeance. I'm not resentful of the bad economy; I am absolutely furious with it.


*Correction: John Donne did not neglect his clerical duties. My mistake -- he did, however, work for a long time in a job that paid little money and found his satisfaction through the extracurricular interest of composition. (8/14)