A League of Your Own

  

Are you crying? Oh, no wait. That's me.

Dear Whole Foods,

Before today, I considered you a good friend. I enjoyed spending time with you. I sought out your companionship over that of other stores. You taught me new things about my eating habits. Mostly, I just thought you were cool.

One day, I woke up and I realized something as sudden and unstoppable as a sneeze. My epiphany? I had fallen in love. When I had to shop elsewhere, I felt the nausea of guilt and betrayal; walking the aisles of these inferior stores was joyless. I knew there was only one store I ever wanted to shop at again.

Realizing my feelings had grown, I took action. I laid it on the line in an attempt to foster something deeper and more meaningful. I applied for a job so I could be with you every day.

Over the past year I made several attempts to woo you, all the while still being a good friend, never letting your indecisiveness affect my feelings. At first you were coquettish, informing me my sporadic advances were "under review." Occasionally you would deal me a harsh blow, as when I was told I was "not selected" for an interview as a part-time cashier (a cashier!). But I never gave up. I felt if you would just let your guard down and be brave in the face of commitment, I could show you how important you are to me.

When you called me last week, it was one of the happiest days in recent memory. It reminded me of a Hollywood movie in which the love interest realizes the person they’d been looking for has been in front of them all along. I‘d waited patiently, stood by while you made mistakes. Through your errors, you’d learned what devotion really was. At long last, you would take a chance on me. I vowed to seize the opportunity. Together at last!

This morning was our interview (our first date!) and I bore my soul. Perhaps I should not have. A gradual admission of my desires may have served me better. Instead, I confessed to my enduring hopes. I admitted my wish for us to be together. I even used the L-word.

The rendezvous was not without awkwardness, but this is to be expected after so much anticipation. Still, I left with a good feeling. I had been frank and forthright. I had made a strong case for myself. Of course, I was disappointed that you did not embrace me right then and there, opting instead to keep me at arms’ length while you considered the situation, but I honestly felt optimistic about our future together.

Only a short time later, the telephone rang. It was you. You sounded good, happy. However you told me, in a remorseless tone, that you had decided not to continue seeing me. You were interested in someone else that “better suited [your] needs at this time,” whatever that means. You were brief, and to the point, and I give you credit for not leaving me waiting. Still, the knife had been quick to cut. Before I even knew what hit me, it was over. I shed actual tears as I sat there, going over the possibilities of what went wrong.

Had I come on too strong? Perhaps my repeated overtures ground down your perception of my self-worth? Maybe you prefer a hunt, and I was too much of a possum? At any rate, I did know this—the innocence was gone, evaporated. What once was a harmless flirtation between friends, (one of whom suggests they might make a good couple, the other laughs, blushing), became something dangerous and volatile. I do not blame you for your feelings, but the rosy days of our past will remain there.

So what of our friendship now? We didn't discuss it. I suppose you think we can just go back to the way things were, as though none of this mattered. Maybe you can, but it will be some time before I can look at you without anger. Each time I see a new employee that you have willingly chosen, I will know them as my rival.

Faulkner wrote, "Between grief and nothing, I choose grief," for at least in grief there is closure. Knowing I am not worthy of you, I am given a much-needed respite from the ceaseless ache that is wishing. That said, something was crushed today, irreversibly damaged. I know I am complicit in these dealings and their aftermath. After all, it was I who asked for them, and I who did not live up to their expectations. But I hope you will share some of the blame too, for it was you who decided, after so much time, to risk my feelings in this way. Did you not feel hesitation, knowing what was at stake? Was it not obvious that your feelings were disproportionate to mine, and could only result in rejection? My question to you is thus: why now? Could you not have spared me the ugly reality of the truth, allowing me to continue in the near-bliss of our friendship? Perhaps, were it between grief and nothing, I would acquiesce to Faulkner's wisdom. Yet it was not nothing, for I had dreams.

Hunter/Gatherer

Why isn't "hero" a job anymore? I would save princesses all damn day.

Unless I get accepted to the University, (and I probably won't), I will be waiting for the next two years to begin my actual nursing school. It's not a sure thing. I might get in. But if I were a betting man I'd say no.

I am attempting to enter what they call the "second degree option," a program specifically suited for art school burnouts who want to start a new career but don't want to take English Composition I again. This means I can transfer my credits from my first trip through college and just jump right in with the juniors (and by jump right in I mean I had to take 16 credits worth of biology courses). This is great because it means I can get a bachelor's degree in the same amount of time it would take to get an associates degree at my current school (and that's not counting the two year waiting list). Unfortunately, it looks pretty bleak.

The problem is with my grades. You see, I wasn't always a straight-A student. I got a fair amount of B's, and there were even a few C's my freshman year while I adjusted to life out on my own, juggling homework and copious amounts of drugs.

C's were never acceptable to my parents. After my first grade card the following conversation took place:

Mom: "You shouldn't be getting a C in Art History."
Me: "What could my grades in Art History matter in the long run?"
Mom: "You never know. You might not always want to be an artist."
Me: "I would rather die than not be an artist!"

I did eventually learn to be a good student. At some point I just got sick of being told my art was shitty and I started spending more time on it. As for the history classes, I just stopped taking them.

My cumulative GPA at the time of my application will be just above a 3.6. This isn't terrible, but the fact is it might not be good enough. A lot of it will depend on who else applies. They only accept 8 people per semester to do the second degree option. If I'm not one of them, I'm not exactly going to be surprised. And it's nice to know that so many of the people entering my field are huge nerds. Of course, what this means really is if I don't get in I will have two years to kill, and I have started to plan accordingly.

...

Job hunting is one of my least favorite activities. There is something so humbling and artificial about all of it, from the way I feel I am supposed to dress* to the way I am suddenly forced to answer questions that don't have right answers. At these moments, it is as though I am watching myself on a video and I can see what a jerk I am being made to look like. It all feels like a test to see if I will play along. Usually I do, but I come across as so awkward or milquetoast that I wouldn't hire me either. And there are the times when I decide to inject a little humor, you know, to liven up the interview process. I've heard that you want them to remember you when you walk out the door, but I'm not clear on how to accomplish this. I'm not very tall. I have ordinary clothing. I don't wear cologne. The only thing I really have is a sense of humor, one which I have learned through trial and error is quite strange.

The thing is, even though I know this, I can't always contain it. Sometimes, when I'm put in a situation that calls for seriousness and good manners, I can feel something diabolical swelling inside my chest, like an hysterical laugh in the middle of church, and I say something I don't fully understand. Once I was asked what type of animal I would be. In a low growl, I said I was an animal. Another time I was asked which position I was applying for, at a restaurant mind you.

I answered, "I don't know... Bounty Hunter?" The guy look at me like I was crazy, and I think he was onto something. He repeated the words Bounty Hunter very matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," I said, my initial enthusiasm quickly receding. "Do you have those? No? Okay then, cashier I guess." As I left I thought I could hear the shredding of an application.

There was a time when finding a job was extremely simple. I would go to a place where a girl I liked worked. I would fill out an application, which probably didn't take long because I had no prior experience. I would get an interview, to which I would dress nicer than I ever would again for that job, and suddenly I would be offered a job. At one point I had a perfect track record—I had been hired for every job I'd ever interviewed for, and I don't remember doing anything special to prepare besides laying off the weed for the afternoon. I can't figure out what I've lost in the time between when I was a greasy high-schooler with no goals and now, where I have had a dozen jobs, earned two college degrees, and I don't wear sandals to the interview. Whatever it is, they all pick up on it immediately. I never get offered jobs anymore.

To date, I've applied four times to Whole Foods, the stupid jerks. I go to the store and I can see who they're hiring instead of me. Usually it's more teenagers with filthy hair and no experience. One thing I have noticed is that their employees tend to have odd names, like Maverick, or Yessiree, which is why on my most recent application I wrote John "D'Brickashaw" Photos.

Based on a bit of advice from a former employee, I also tried to pull a fast one.

The application is an annoyingly complex process that has to be done entirely online. In a way this is good because I can not get the job without even leaving the house. But there is also no way to tell if anyone is actually reading my résumé. With this in mind, I put on a tie, drove to the store, and asked to speak to the manager. I calmly explained that when I had pasted my info in the text box it looked all jacked up and silly, and here was a copy of my properly formatted résumé on ivory stock, to which they replied, "Let me get the Team Leader."

Andrea, the Team Leader, was friendly, but I could also see she felt like I was either too stupid to use the online form or too pushy to follow the rules. She asked why I wanted to work at Whole Foods, like it's a lifestyle decision or something. I told her I loved Whole Foods, particularly the bakery to which I was applying, and in fact had made a pie only the night before.

"What kind?" she asked.

For some reason when I said "apple" it sounded so obvious that she probably thought I was lying about baking it in the first place. She thanked me for coming in.

If I don't get hired at a grocery store it won't be so bad. What I'm really hoping for is a job at a hospital. Unfortunately, even the most rudimentary positions require either some kind of certification or prior experience, and this means yet more school. Still, I applied for 7 different jobs at various hospitals—everything from housekeeping to outpatient aide. I even wrote a nice cover letter outlining my plan to become a nurse and my desire to work in the field. I felt I was convincingly assertive yet humble and eager. I made it clear that I would accept any position offered, but still no word.

I've also applied to a local coffee chain, a national coffee chain, and the hippie grocery store where you have to be a "member." Frankly, I don't see how any of these places are going to hire me either. Even as I fill in my work history, I can see that there is nothing I'm putting down that is going to convince the manager I would make a good barista since I haven't already been a barista.

Some of the applications ask more personal questions, such as "are there any accomplishments or awards you would like us to consider?" What on Earth do people write? If they'd truly achieved something worthwhile they probably wouldn't be looking for work at a coffee shop. And even if they have, how would it carry over?

I could write, "I once beat The Legend of Zelda in one sitting. I also defeated Contra** without losing a single man. And I can jump over the hood of a car." I honestly think these things are impressive, but they aren't going to demonstrate my prowess with giving people correct change, as though people use cash anymore.

Alas, I'm back to surfing Craig's List, but that is truly a dismal place these days. I did find a job post titled "Stable Help" that required "some experience with horses," this way the person they hire won't be frightened by the amount of poop. I never really wanted to muck stalls again, having done that throughout highschool for my pony, Thunder. I taught at one of the most prestigious art schools in the country. I earned a master's degree when I was 23. But I guess you can't escape your past. I'm just a shit-shoveler after all. I'll probably call tomorrow.


* Actually for someone who has never held a job that required ties, I own a pretty solid collection. I just feel stupid walking into Starbucks dressed up and holding my application. It's so obvious to everyone that you are hoping to get hired at Starbucks. It's like asking someone out in public, and they say they have to think about it.

** That means I could beat it without using UUDDLRLRBASelectStart, suckas! Interesting side note: my little brother once went Trick or Treating as a "Contra Man" (his words, which he had to repeat at every door). He wasn't allowed to go shirtless though, which is fine because he probably weighed 60 pounds. Instead he carried a laser gun, wore a red bandana, and a beige top. I went as a football player, which was also met with some confusion when it was pointed out that there was no team called the Michigan Rams.

It’s Not You. It’s Me.

I am often struck by the amount of time I spend in front of the 10-foot bathroom mirror at work, pushing my bangs this way and that, and gently roughing up the crown of my hair so that it doesn’t look so flat and unwashed as it actually is.

I might have felt something like guilt about this habit once upon a time, but at the wise old age of almost thirty I have come to the conclusion that many people spend almost their entire workday doing anything but actual work. Just this morning my coworker yelled to me across the gallery as I sat atop a ladder, “I beat the computer at Connect Four!” (This was great news. Prior to this, we were a combined 0-90 against). It just so happened that I was working at the time. Ordinarily that sort of boast would have ignited a marathon of video games, our favorite of which involves a blank world map where you are asked to identify places like Botswana and Timor Laste (To date I have been the only one to score a 100, and only after a good two hours of playing).

The problem of the work ethic in our case is that we are fairly young and energetic, largely unsupervised, and have not nearly enough to do. The other more serious problem is that much of our socializing and entertainment is done via the computer, with which our job has so graciously provided us at our very own desks. The last, and probably most serious problem, is the fact that having a job is a lot like being in a mediocre relationship; it is just easier to stay together than to have to start dating again. If you're just phoning it in, you might not get a promotion, but you're still going to get to keep your desk. You have to really be a screw up to get fired.

For example, I have detected a pattern in myself--in relationships and jobs alike--that denotes a continual slide downward in performance and sex appeal, and still I have never been fired and only occasionally dumped. It is a sad eventuality and I am never surprised when these forays into the professional and romantic end in something approximating mutual disgust:

The first thing you will notice, if you are conducting a job interview or are on a first date with me, is that I will be dressed up and on my best behavior. I will tell you about myself in a positive light, but will be careful not to boast. I will smile a lot, and pretend to be at ease. I will act as though I am excited about our future, and that I have goals for us. You will see that I am a real charmer.

Over the next few weeks, whether you have hired me or have started sleeping over, I will be very attentive and will work hard to impress you. I will continue to shower every day and wear collared shirts. I will be punctual and upbeat, and even if I have been feeling a bit stressed out I will try not to let it show. You will think that you have made a good choice in hiring/fucking me.

Soon, the probationary period or the courting is over, and we will be in a relationship. I will let my guard down a bit, and stop always trying to get you to like me. I will be less positive, and far less outgoing. I will not shower every day, and may even wear the same outfit twice in a row. I will be surly in the mornings, and I will suddenly seem reluctant to bend over backwards like I used to. I will still get all my work done/help you cook dinner, but my temper will be short. I will wear old jeans a lot. You will notice these changes, but you will not bring it up.

After a while I will secretly loathe you. I will spend the time that I am with you dreaming about other jobs or other women. I will fall asleep at my desk or before you come over. I will act depressed when you are around and blame either work or home, whichever you are not. I will resent you and roll my eyes behind your back at almost anything you say. I will pray to get fired or dumped. I will drink a lot, and speak to you very little. You will not remember what you saw in me.

Eventually, it will be time for a work review or a talk about where our relationship is going. I will not have shaved in weeks. I will have nothing nice to say. I will accept none of the blame. I will make unreasonable demands of you. You will feel betrayed.

Finally, I will get a new job or meet a new girl. I will tell you flatly and mercilessly that I am leaving. I will not show any emotion. I will be clean and wearing slacks. How did you not see this coming?

...

Of course, some would say that I managed to break this trend romantically speaking as my 5-year anniversary approaches. Nonetheless, I continue to struggle professionally in much the same ways that I did when I was fresh from school.

Alas, perhaps I should count my blessings. After all, I've never had much interest in work but I've always been interested in women. And what's more important--having a career or having someone who says, "I love you too."?