Like Apocalypse Now but with job hunting instead of Cambodia.
By RPG
Illustration by Dara Gold
Friends, you may think it a daunting task for an over-educated, charming, and attractive man to earn your sympathies, but that is what I endeavor to do within this humble masterpiece. You see, it is not all orgies and intellectual conversation for the good-looking and intelligent. Many of my ilk experience significant self-doubt, considerable fear, and — in this author’s case — a concentrated state of stagnant worthlessness. I know, Reader, that perhaps you only have the patience for a single heart-wrenching testimonial, and that the mother of three suffering from an inoperable brain tumor that you saw on Oprah sapped your precious supply. Nevertheless, read further, for this story will make your eyes well.
At present I am in a professional lull. Having recently completed an education degree, I am awaiting the processing of certification papers through two administrative bodies. It is without certainty that I wait. Each institution is a clumsy monolith, demanding several fees before an association of my peers legitimizes my degree. My years of study have no force in the competitive teaching market until these bodies review my transcripts and confirm that I am not a pederast. I was and remain a student in good standing, and my proclivity for young children is yet to be proven, so my confirmation remains a foregone conclusion. But still I wait and toil.
Motivated by threats of poverty and insolvency, I sought employment in other fields. At first I was optimistic, convinced that my obvious skills, sense of direction, and perfect teeth would yield considerable offers from doting wives in human resource departments. But, it seems my charms were wasted in the employment community of the Internet. My pleasant voice is without notice, clever witticisms are insufficient in professional cover letters, and a headshot is not common fare in the detached and impersonal world of email résumé submissions. Alas, the bar dropped lower, my expectations relaxed slightly, and my brimming overconfidence reduced itself to a confidence better retained within the glass —you wouldn’t climb stairs with it, but you might risk carrying it from the kitchen to the living room.
I had written more cover letters than I could remember, had detailed the seriousness of my demeanor, had insisted upon my passion for teaching, socializing with clients, tele-marketing, furniture repair, dish washing, and exulted my expertise in general labour. The depths of my desperation got so low that I returned to a former place of employment that I had prayed to every god in the sky that I’d never depend on again: the fast-food counter at McDonald’s.
Holding a finely Xeroxed copy of the world’s most diligently crafted resumé — the product of countless revisions and paid for with the last of my change — I sulkily admitted my defeat, only to earn the greatest rejection of my young life: “No”. The pimpled slop jockey said, no, “you are far too qualified”, no, “you could run this company”, no, “it would be a waste to train a person we could never keep”, no, no, no.
I was destroyed, and tore the last three pages of my resume out, scratched University degrees out and penciled in high school equivalency instead, begging for a second chance. Although I could not convince him of my talentlessness or my inexperience, I did manage to procure passage to his dumpsters — where I found enough pop cans to afford bus fare home.
So yes, here is the final ounce of my self-respect, as expressed in bathroom stalls and now across the written page. In need of a good time, call Ray at 555-543-2345.
