Career Day

This little ditty I just hammered out in two days.  Its lighter (for me.) and hopefully its funny.  I laugh at it, and I hope you will too.  Have fun and give a brother some feedback.

Career Day

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Someone said that to me once. Then, someone else. Then, someone else.

One of those little pearls of wisdom that spreads like a virus, crossing generations, infecting us with sickening optimism.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I'm alright, think I just came down with a little case of positivity...nothing the antibiotics can't handle.”

Side effects may include but are not limited to: nausea, vomiting, vertigo, profuse sweating, compliments, upward muscular spasms of the cheeks, singing in the rain, victory dancing, and occasionally...hugging.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Like the acne-covered pubescent boy applying for a job flipping burgers in a three-piece, double breasted Armani.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Silly little words. I've never taken them to heart before today. They've never meant what they were meant to mean. The sum of the parts worth no more than the parts themselves.

What makes today so different? Today, I want...excuse me...I need people to see the job that I want. Today, I need people to not only see the job that I want as the job that I want. I need them to think that the job that I want is in fact the job that I have. I need to be so convincing in my dress that they believe. I need to be so spot on with my costume, right down to the footwear.

This is where the leather moccasins come in. These are just part of the uniform for the modern self-employed, work-from-home gentleman of leisure. Fur-lined, leather moccasins, hand threaded – in an American workshop – by today's modern footwear artisans. Above the slippers, fleeced plaid pajama bottoms, tied relatively tight at the waist. Tight enough to maintain station above the pelvis, of course, but not so tight as to interfere with the wearer's comfort.

Above these beauties, a vintage Star Wars T-shirt. Original Poster artwork on a pre-treated, pre-worn charcoal gray base. The tag certifies the garment is nothing more than a Taiwan-made undershirt run through a giant screen-printing machine. Fifty shirts printed every minute. A real high-quality piece of apparel.

And the pièce de résistance, a robe, nay, housecoat slung loosely – haphazardly even – over the shoulders. The built-in belt hangs loosely at the sides, untied. Part of the fashion really, just a little attention to detail meant to show a lack of attention to detail.

The hair is product-free. Uncombed and sloppy. Fresh off the pillow. The armpits and taint are unsullied by soap, deodorant, and baby powder. Fresh with the stink of yesterday's inactivity. Elegantly tacky. Fashionably unfashionable. And most of all, thoroughly convincing.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

The laptop, nothing more than accessory, compliments the uniform perfectly. Tucked under one arm, the gray shell of my prop is covered in stickers of bands, TV shows, movies, and companies that I love. Cheap decorations covering an expensive, extremely useful piece of modern machinery. It says to onlookers: “I care what you think, but really I don't”

The final prop is a coffee cup. A beautiful little standard-size ceramic number, with big block-lettering emblazoned across its side, declaring myself to be the one and only “#1 Dad” in the world. Its a little reminder of why I'm doing this whole thing after all. A nod to the boy.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Sitting down at the table for breakfast, the decision is made that I will make this official. If I'm going to claim I do my business from home, I might as well actually crack the lid of this thing and get right to it. I should put myself into the mind of my character, a nod in the direction of Stanaslavsky's method.

I pour a measured cup of soy milk over my organic bran flakes. I look at the series of boot screens bringing my old friend out of hibernation. Then, that feeling creeps into my gut. You know, the feeling that not only is someone looking at you, but they are doing so disapprovingly. That feeling that hits, and surpasses your basic sixth sense.

Raising my eyes from the computer, I look to the bowl of quietly crackling bran. It's not staring disapprovingly at me. It's minding its own business, as far as I can tell, soaking up my milk quietly. Quietly, I think, but realistically, its being a tad louder than it should be. Nodding gently, I shush the bowl in my mind. Pushing the bowl's rude disturbance to the background, my view shifts up further still, looking across the table in the sincerest of hopes that I will find the source of this increasing ache in my gut.

There it is, or rather, there he is. Randy. His big shining blue saucer eyes fixed on me, darting from the sloppy bedhead, to the housecoat, to the “vintage” Star Wars tee, to the bedhead, housecoat, tee, cup, tee, housecoat, bedhead, cup, tee, and so on.

“Yes?”

He frowns at me. “Did you forget?”

“No.”

His stare is firm, drenched in accusations. This is a tactic he has pulled from the pages his mother's field manual. Its the classic “guilt before the crime” move. A sloppier execution than I'm used to, but who can blame him, he's only 8.

“Well then,” he continues.

“Yes?”

I can outplay this kid. This amateur. I've been studying Mom's field manual for 9 years now, and he thinks I haven't got a defense for this little maneuver? He's got another thing coming, I tell you.

“Are you planning on getting ready?”

“I am.”

“You are planning on it?”

“I am ready.”

“For what?”

“You know.”

“You did forget.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not times infinity.”

“Did too, times infinity plus one.”

“Career day.”

Boom! I win, sucker! I'm right – you're wrong. And in a few hours, in just a few hours time, little man. In a few hours, I will rise like the phoenix from the ashes to reclaim my rightful position on the throne as your one and only hero.

He sinks into his chair, not breaking eye contact, but definitely breaking that accusatory gaze. He's thinking this through, I can tell. He wants to see where this is going. Visibly intrigued is the best way to describe the look now painted across his smooth face.

“Okay,” he says. “Eat your milk and cardboard and let's go then.” He punctuates this with the crunch from his last bite of toast, pulls his backpack onto one shoulder and hops away from the table. Its all one fluid movement like some choreography from an old Chinese kung-fu flick. Awe-stricken, I blow the virtual dust off a file “Last Modified” more than a month ago and begin shoveling the now-soggy fibrous flakes into my maw.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

The classrooms of Second-graders are leagues beyond those of First-graders. A Second-grader's classroom has class. No more Bush-league finger paintings on the walls. This is the real deal Holyfield. This is where math formulas are born. Where chapter books are the norm. This is where dreams are made...and sometimes broken. Where if you don't keep up, you're just left behind.

This...is where it all. Gets. Real.

We file into the classroom real orderly-like. Myself, Randy, his classmates and all the other parents walking, nearly marching equidistantly from one another, surveying the battlefield. Sizing up the enemy. I put my hand on Randy as he leads me to his desk, but for God's sake I never stop looking at those parents.

The competition is as fierce, if not fiercer, this year than it was the last. There are the familiar faces like Motorcycle Dad, Farmer Dad, and Pantsuit Realtor Mom. Then, of course there are the newcomers like Oilslick Lawyer Dad, Fireman Dad, and Sheriff Mom.

I hate them all. Every success-story little fake with a gold-clip wad to blow on brand-name shirts, and hats, and coats, and footwear. All for their little mirror images, who won't even fit into this year's $400 wardrobe come summertime. Little well-planned pregnancies complaining in the following Fall that the new $350 budget is “unreasonable.” They'll be demanding that this year's Nikes match this year's South Pole, match this year's Zoo York match this years Dickies...

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

I come out of my hate-trance, realizing only now that I've not been paying any attention to Randy's prattling on about the contents, location, size, and shape of his desk. The entire reason for my being here has been shadowed by my self-involved desire to impress a pack of 8-year-olds and moreover, their parents.

To think, all this because I was a little boring last year.

Oilslick Lawyer Dad laughs loudly at something his dumpy little daughter says. The laugh is loud. Painfully loud.

Louder than bran cereal soaking up milk, that's for sure.

I breathe to quell the onset of another hate-trance. The teacher, Mrs. Smith, or some such, takes the floor, calling for silence. Then, Mrs. Some Such explains Career Day in great detail, as if we are all oblivious to the significant role it plays in the future of the known universe. I'm struggling not to wag my head, roll my eyes around, and circle my wrist and pointer in a rolling motion to usher on some. Kind. Of. Point.

If we can't be boring parents on one day out of the year, then she certainly shouldn't be allowed to either. Maybe its an act of mercy, though. A layer of primer to make the colors really pop. Set against the monotone sounds spewing forth from Mrs. Some Such, anyone's life would seem interesting.

I'm lost in these thoughts when she calls Motorcycle Dad to the head of the class, but the subsequent claps of kids impressed by anything with a combustion engine brings me back.

Motorcycle Dad is just as impressive as he was last year. Pointing to his son and making big sweeping gestures, he's rattling off parts like an auctioneer. All I hear is gibberish and numbers followed by oohs and aahs. There is no possible way these kids know what he is talking about, but they know that all that means is that he really knows his stuff.

And he works on motors. And he rides around on a dangerous instrument of potential death and carnage. And he has entire sleeves of tattoos. And long hair. And a long beard. And dark sunglasses. And he's probably all jacked up on Ice.

Damn. I think he might actually be my role model.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

His time ends and its Oilslick's turn. He's just the yuppie scumbag stereotype I picture. A real Bret Easton Ellis archetype. I think I'm going to throw up in my mouth if he quotes A Few Good Men one more time.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Pantsuit Realtor Mom must get cramps in those cheeks. Her smile is frighteningly stretched to capacity, framing her too-big veneers. They look like they're trying to escape her mouth. I stop judging just long enough to tune in to what she's saying and I swear to God she's trying to explain the housing market crash. To second-graders.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

Fireman Dad actually has me doubled over in pain. My stomach cramps up when he recollects the supermarket tracheotomy. The “awws” of the children bring bile up into the back of my throat when he recalls the cat in the tree, returned to the old woman.

Wasn't that in a cartoon?

Tear-inducing pains shoot like bolts of electricity through my groin. He's telling that old tale of defibbing a gaggle of elderly at the scene of the worst bus crash he's ever seen. You know, the one he's told dozens of times, never failing to jerk the collective tears out of the eyes of any room.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

I'm in the fetal position on the floor and the clapping is dying down from all the standing students, parents and random faculty who have now just wandered in. They're all wiping their eyes, wrapping up the third standing ovation when I hear Mrs. Some Such introduce me from behind the curtain of students.

And its all eyes on me. Still curled up, I survey the room of transfixed eyes and blank expressions, laughing nervously and throwing up a little wave. I stand, mock brushing whatever may have gotten on me from the floor off my uniform, and retrieve my props from the table beside me.

Dress for the job...Oh boy.

Ohboyohboyohboyohboy.

I'm walking the length of the classroom and it feels like three football fields lined up in front of sixty miles of highway. I'm sweating already.

“Dead man walking.”

Oh boy.

When I turn to face them, I see the recognition in the familiar students faces. The students who have stayed with Randy through their scholastic advancement remember me. Their eyes are already drooping. Bore-induced sleep looms on the horizon like the setting sun.

“Alright!” I shout, my voice cracking. “Let's hear it for...” Damn. I've forgotten his name. “The King County Fire Department!” They clap, confused.

Jesus, I'm leaning on my opener.

“Okay. Well, Like Mrs....Like your teacher mentioned, I am Randy's father.”

A kid clears his throat. I'm drenched in sweat. I'm dying up here.

“And I. Am. A *ahem* writer.”

The silence still lays heavily, like a warm, wet blanket place over a burn victim, rescued by Fireman Dad. I can hear the beads of stinking fluid leaving my pours.

“I get to dress like this – ”

“How many books have you published?”

The voice comes from some girl in the middle of the room, but I didn't see her ask it, so I'm not sure who the culprit really is. Could be Glossy-Eyed Leopard Print, or Big-Eared Unibrow. Might have been Bucktooth Polka-dots.

I look to Mrs. Some Such for a red flag on the whole speaking-out-of-turn thing. I'm quietly hoping she'll give a five-yard penalty for delay of game. Nothing comes, and I'm on my own again.

“Yes, well. Good question. I've actually not published any books per se.”

“Short stories then?” From Obese Runnynose, stage left.

I laugh nervously. “Not really my forte, I'm afraid.

“What is, then? Your forte? Is there somewhere we can read your work?” Blondie Four-eyes.

“My work. Yes, well. I'm not sure anything I've done is really ready to see the light of day. Everything still needs a bit of polish.”

“It's a hobby then.” A British kid? Really?

“No, I'm trying to do this for a living, kid.” The cracks are showing. I can't get mad. Can't lose it. Can't let them see weakness.

Blondie Four-eyes chimes back in, “got your feelers out, then? Submissions in the pipeline?”

Dress for the job. Dress for the job. Dress for the job.

“Yeah, sure. Well, not really. Like I said, still polishing and all that.”

“Just a hobby then.” Damned Brit-boy.

“Not a hobby. I'm trying to do this for a living”

“Doesn't seem like you're trying very hard, then.”

Somewhere between trying to push back the urge to choke an 8-year-old child and formulate some sort of clever response, I black out.

...the job....you have...dress...want...job...have....not...dress

When I come to, my arms are being held tightly by two faculty members I recognize from Fireman Dad's rousing speech. My jaw is aching and I can only see out of one eye.

“God, he stinks,” one of them complains.

“Wha Happeh?” I ask through a swollen lip.

“I have never heard such language in a Elementary School, sir. I'm afraid I don't think you're going to be welcome on our campus again.”

“Aw,” I sigh as they prop me up on the curb. “Wha I say? Is Ranhee Okayuh? Who beah me up?”

The two men in cheap suits are breathing heavily. Baldy McPockmarks blows a gust of air out like a deflating balloon and narrows his eyes at me. “Do you really not remember?” He asks, “Sir, are you telling me... Are you telling us, that you have no idea what just happened less than 5 minutes ago in your son's classroom?”

“Aw, jeez. I dih sohthig bah dih I?”

“Something very bad, yes. After a string of expletives aimed at no one in particular,” Baldy recounts, “you punched one of the student's fathers in his mouth as he tried to calm you down. As you fought – or attempted to fight – the resulting melee of parents trying to subdue you, you began swinging wildly like a drunken asylum patient.”

“Oh Boy”

“Yes sir.”

“I so Suhry”

“That's all well and fine. Lets just have you sit right here and wait for the police. We are going back inside to talk to some of the other parents. Let's hope for your sake none of them want to press charges.”

“Telluh theh ah I Suhry!” I holler after them, wondering if they even heard, let alone understood.

After they've gone, I spend a long stretch of time considering the potential results of my running. On the lam seems far better than this. Anything seems better than this. This is going to make the papers. Real writers are going to tell this story, for sure. I'm in a serious bit of trouble.

Just as I have started on the outline my possible Kerouacian life on the road across the country, pavement clicking footfalls are approaching from my right. Heavy boots, jingling metal with each step. My right eye still won't open, so I have to turn my head awkwardly far, a searing whiplash style pain resulting from the move. Motorcycle Dad is coming for me. Probably to kill me.

I'm dreaming of the ways he'll do it when he takes a seat on the curb next to me. “A shiv?” I accidentally ask him out loud.

“What?”

I don't know what to tell him, so I don't say anything. I wince when he reaches his hand into is denim vest. Pulling a pack of Marlboro Reds from within, I settle back onto my elbows, allowing the painful tension to wash free from my body. I'm breathing deeply when he pushes the pack in my direction.

As I take a stick from the box he's holding open for me, a flash of my outburst shoots across the back of my ever-swelling, closed eyelid. It's like a projector being turned on for no more than a second. Long enough, still, to reveal an image of my fist loosely flopping across Motorcycle Dad's cheek. It's an embarrassing punch.

“I nevuh beh ih a figh beefuh,” I choose to tell him, not really sure why. He lights my cigarette, then his.

He takes a long drag while I wait for him to berate me. “I know,” is all he says.

Then after shooting a long stream of smoke out, “me neither. I just wasn't ready to be made.”

He starts pulling hes tattoos off. Long tubes of fabric stretched over his arms. The elaborately drawn dragons and Chinese symbols bend and fold revealing blank, hairy, pasty arms beneath. Then the long hair comes off. Then the beard.

“You really want to be a writer?” Another drag from his stick. Mine is burning, but I've pulled nothing more than the original puff necessary for the lighting. Looking at it contemplatively, I take in the first actual drag since my mid-twenties.

And cough it right back out, violently. I'm nodding my response between hacks. Yes. Yes, I really want to be a writer.

“Yeah, I really want to own a shop too. Tired of selling shoes, to be perfectly honest”

He laughs, takes another drag, then blows it out. I laugh my now signature nervous laugh.

“Dress for the job you want,” he says.

“Nah fuh the jah you hah,” I finish.

He pats me firmly on the back.

“If you wanted them to believe you, you should have done this last year. Year one is the time to start the lie. And for God's sake, if you're going to lie about being a writer, why wouldn't you just claim that you're published?”

“Whah if theyuh folluh up?”

“They're kids.”

“They askuh if I hah 'submishuh in thuh pipelieh”

“Yeah, they're business-minded, this generation. Easy fix, though. You just say your stuff is in Playboy. Little bastards can't look into it.”

I laugh at what a simple response this would have been. It hurts to laugh, so I smoke some more. Then cough some more. This hurts even more than laughing.

“They're all just pretending in there anyway. You think a freshly-pressed pantsuit, false teeth and a Sub-Prime mortgage explanation lifted from Wikipedia a Realtor makes?”

I shrug.

“Firedad. His stories were pulled right out of straight-to-video Christian love movies and old Warner Brothers cartoons.”

I nod.

“Lawyer? That dude was more Patrick Bateman than Christian Bale. His law terms and movie quotes wouldn't stop crashing into each other. None of that holds up. If you asked Slick Rick if he passed the Bar, he'd probably tell you he passed a few on his drive here.”

I chuckle.

“But not one of those kids challenged it. Know why? Because we got them when they were young. We hooked them, and they will never challenge our claims. Because we got them. When. They. Were. Young.”

I nod again. He pulls and pushes smoke from his stick again. Mine is a solid line of ash nearly down to the butt.

“It doesn't matter now, anyway.”

He takes one last drag then flicks the butt into some nearby gravel.

“Whyuh?”

“Nobody's going to be able to follow that,” Motorcycle Dad proclaims, blowing out a billowing puff and pointing in the direction of Randy's classroom, “ever.”