Thurs., July 15, 1999
"I had
a job myself once. Of course I almost quit the first day but, after
sleeping on it, I decided it wasn't so bad. In fact, if the guy in
the next office hadn't been such a loud snorer, I might still be there."
- Groucho
Marx in "Animal Crackers II: The Wrath Of Harpo"
Sometimes it seems as if every day is Christmas, and all Santa is
giving me is questioning glances.
At least he has learned how pointless it is to expect anything in return.
If only others who keep presenting me with actual questions would accept
my gracious "Thank you" and get back to a reindeer-drawn sleigh as quickly....
It's not that I don't appreciate the thought - it's just that I already
have several closets full of questions of my own. Some I've inherited
from ancestors who seem never to have touched them (judging from their
still being in the original quotation marks). Some have been passed
down to me by my sister after she outgrew them. (Indeed, "Where can
I get the best deal on a training bra?" remains one of my most cherished
inquiries.) Most, however, I've had to make for myself out of the
spare bits of wonderment and curiosity I've discovered while poking around
aimlessly in my head. Although they're not very good questions (they
tend to monotonously start off with the same old "What the fuck's the deal
with..."), they're mine and I love 'em as only a solipsistic moron lost
in his own world can.
The questions others keep tossing my way simply clash with these something
awful....
The second most frequent question I keep getting tossed my way (right after
the far-and-away no-need-to-even-mention-it-anymore all-time leader "Who
in the hell do you think you are?") is "Don't you have a real job?"
This is closely followed in popularity by "Haven't you ever had a real
job?" and "Why don't you get a real job?" I can only conclude that
there must have been quite a sale on these in the mail-order catalogs a
few years ago and that many people jumped at the opportunity to buy in
bulk.
In what will probably be a vain attempt to increase my supply of tossed
inedible fruitcakes and ill-fitting underwear, I'd like to kill these questions
now once and for all with a few quick, well-phrased answers to the interrogatory.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a real job - the job of being
me. It's quite the full-time position. Indeed, I've been at
it 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for over 40 years now without a single
vacation and I still feel as if I've only scratched the surface.
This is silly, I know, since I've actually drawn blood countless times
as I've scratched, but that's the way I feel. Maybe if I had received
better training before my nine-month probationary period had ended, I'd
feel different now. Maybe if I had an assistant to do my nail filing
for me. Maybe if I could get a good night's sleep without having
constantly to be on call for those dreams which need me to fall, suffer
dog attack, or get stuck in molasses as the monster approaches....
I've thought about taking night classes or sleeping with Hollywood casting
directors to try to work my way up to being someone else, but who am I
kidding? It's a wonder I was ever hired by the mangy collection of
cells constantly on my back now as it is. Truth is, I can't even
get a single Third World orphan to go in on a timeshare deal with me.
The best I can hope for is that the various aspects of my personality will
one day stop quarreling long enough to unionize and demand a fifteen minute
break for every decade I spend lugging this sorry carcass of mine back
and forth between a pillow and a refrigerator....
As for "Haven't you ever had a real job?" Well, yes again.
Besides being me, I've also moonlighted as a migrant napper in my early
years, and as a copier repairman after high school.
I was a better napper than a repairman, even though it was as a repairman
that I had the black attaché case. It was stuffed with oily
rags and screwdrivers. I carried it up and down the corridors of
Toledo skyscrapers as I attempted to forget my fear of heights by sniffing
toner. I'd never been trained as a copier repairman, mind you, just
as I've never been trained to be myself, but (as you may have suspected)
lack of training is not a handicap for repairmen. At least
it wasn't in my case, as my real job seems not to have been to repair copiers
but to comfort various high-strung secretaries when the paper jammed and
small fires erupted. The hardest part of the job was calming myself
first.
Well, except for the day I was called to the Lucas County Courthouse.
The Lucas County Courthouse back then had a single copier located in the
middle of a huge old office where dozens of aged bureaucrats worked tirelessly
at screwing up the lives of area residents. The copier sat right
in the middle of these drones. I think it was made of stone and bronze
bracelets looted from the Pyramids. I know it was the only one I
ever saw that still used papyrus.
Anyway, I was having a bit of trouble finding a strong enough spot on its
side to hit with a hammer when the Head Drone came over to supervise.
I suspect he had been the editor of the Chicago Tribune when Ben Hecht
wrote "The Front Page" back in the '20s.
"I think the problem is there," he told me, pointing smugly in the general
direction of the copier.
"Thanks," I said, suppressing the desire to search his sides for a spot
strong enough to hit with a hammer.
To help that suppression along, I busied myself trying to fit the blade
of a screwdriver into the head of an ancient Egyptian screw. When
that didn't work, I tried a pair of pliers.
They pliers slipped repeatedly with a loud "tink."
"ROOKIE!" the Head Drone bellowed, vibrating his bifocals so that they
cascaded over his bow tie and down his suspenders. "Looks like we
got ourselves a ROOKIE here!"
Every drone in the place turned and looked, thereby qualifying my ego for
permanent disability payments.
Not that I ever saw a penny of that. My ego, being no fool, took
the payments in the form of a lump sum settlement and fled to Mexico.
Bastard. He's never even sent me a postcard to add to the collection
I started after my self-confidence fled to Puerto Rico.
As for "Why don't you get a real job?"....
The short answer is, "Because."
The longer answer (which only unemployed people have time to read - haha!)
is, "Because it's a fact: Virtually all occupational deaths and injuries
happen to people with jobs."
According to the Statistical Abstract of the United States, those deaths
amounted to over 4800 deceased individuals in 1996 - most of whom would
still be alive today if they'd only had the sense to remain safely unemployed.
In that same year (the latest for which statistics are available - apparently
the compilers read these facts and immediately quit their jobs), those
injuries totaled some 3.9 million - not counting crippling papercuts
or Christmas party wedgies.
So, like - Who needs that?
Not that staying at home being me all day and night is without its
risks.
The Statistical Abstract of the United States also clearly shows that 185,725
injuries were caused by household containers and packaging in 1995.
Some 20,473 were caused by bags alone!
Another 28,437 were inflicted by waste containers and trash baskets laying
in wait.
That innocent looking toilet? It sent 43,687 people to the hospital
in that same 12 month period!
Even coins - coins! - resulted in 24,787 cases of measurable ouch.
Virtually nothing compared to the 50,937 injuries inflicted by jewelry,
but still - if you can't trust me not to hurt myself with one thin dime,
what can you trust me with?
All of which is making me pretty nervous. I'm not sure to what extent
I'm taking my life into my hands just by typing this, but some 36,959 emergency
room visits a year result from passive cathode ray tube viewing - and that's
not counting hidden brain injuries!
The chair I'm leaning back in happens to be part of a murderous crime family
responsible for a staggering 276,745 emergency runs.
It'd all be enough to send me to bed if that dastardly item hadn't
added 395,623 assaults to its rap sheet in a single year!!
"Quick! Just lay down flat and hug the floor!" you say?!
Is that really what you want me to do with a - a thing known to
have hurt over a million people four years ago?!?!
Who knows what it's capable of now given 48 months of added experience!!
Ok.... Alright.... Time to steady my breathing... attach the
safety line... put on my safety goggles... and go take a pill.
If you never hear from me again, tell the cops to put out an all points
bulletin for the evil medicine cabinet door that's had it in for me ever
since I accidentally slammed its cousin too hard as a kid!
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