A real job, Geppetto

So this is what it's like to be emerging from the Twilight. I did have a successful interview, Pangloss, and the result is that I have a job -- a real job. I'm moving out of the basement and into an apartment. Never again will I work for tips. Such a rich and wonderful feeling I thought I'd never know.

And your thoughts are well received, Pangloss. The primary anxiety I've faced since receiving the job offer has been a continuation of the same fear I expressed in my last post. One of the post-grad hopes I had strongly embraced had been the fact that for my lack of direction I also had a lack of obligation. This new job, while not an obligation in the same way that, say, a kid, a wife or major debt might be, is nevertheless such a reassuring reentry into the security of stability that I fear I might pick up a kid, a wife or major debt just to ensure that I would never leave it.

But don't worry, Pangloss, because I'm not abandoning our blog just yet. For one thing, I have an entirely different set of anxieties to worry about. Like moving to a new place where I know almost no one, taking a job I have no idea how to do and attempting to do all of the things that adults do without very much experience. I also get the added bonus of going an entire month on my own without any income, as checks come every month. So that's fun.

Late nights and low expectations

Sleeping. Fast food. Television. Girls Gone Wild commercials.
With all of the free time I have, you might think I would find something more productive. But I haven't. I've put off an oil change for my car for a week, neglected to wash more than one load of laundry since graduation and still have not unboxed any books.

The lack of motivation, Pangloss, is one of the many negative factors of our condition. When we first graduated, this was called decompression. We had earned the time off. We deserved an uninterrupted break. But I can't seem to break the cycle.

Part of it is undeniably my job. If I keep late hours, spend my mornings asleep and eat high-carbohydrate food without exercising, I'm going to be sluggish. But the job can't bear all the burden. If I wanted to do so, I could be asleep most nights by eleven thirty. Instead, I stay awake to play "Asteroids," which wasn't cool in the 1980s and isn't cool now.

I think that another part of it, though, is that I'm able to get away with it. I have such low expectations for myself that I hardly have any interest in motivating myself to exceed them.

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)

Despair Sets In

Welcome all, to the terrible wasteland that is the post-graduate life. Maybe you had some hopes and dreams about what you were going to do right after college. Hey, I've got a bachelor's degree, I can do plenty of stuff, I can succeed.

But, no, you soon find that the world has no space for intelligent, capable people who have no qualifications to do anything. Internships? Nope. Work-study? Nope. Have you ever rolled burritos for pay? Nope. Well, you're just not what we're looking for at the moment.

If you are or have been in the same situation, having followed your passions, worked hard, and still got sharted on by Life, I welcome you to read this blog. For laughter is the best medicine and we will attempt to soften the despair of failure with some good-natured humor.

Why the picture at the top? Because for us, the post-grad world is like Vietnam. You're like a Green Beret stuck in a backwater camp, hoping that you can keep the indigs (i.e. your sanity) together while the Vietcong attack the wire every night. You hope and pray that the VC (i.e. the economy) will hold off long enough for the 5th Air Cav (i.e. some employer) to break through the bad weather (i.e. all the other peons applying for jobs) and bail your ass out. Otherwise, Charlie is going to break through the southern redoubt and barbeque the hootches with napalm. But things don't look good, so you never rule out the possibility of calling in "Broken Arrow" over the radio. Yes, that it might be: your hope of a career can end just like an A-4 Skyraider dumping high explosive on top of your overrun position, taking you along with the enemy.

So here we go, boldly venturing into the dark humor which sustains us in this time of trial. Let's just hope Dr. Pangloss wasn't right.