First Job: Crazy Eyes

Ahhhh...my first job. The memory takes me back....far back...to The Mainstreet Diner and Ms. Pickle. My first venture into the job market and child labor laws.

I was sixteen at the beginning of that summer and my father had said 'NO' to a larger allowance. I had no choice but to try and find gainful employment in a small town with too few opportunities and far too many teenagers willing to fill them.

I lucked out and noticed a 'Help Wanted' sign in the window of the small diner on mainstreet before anyone else. I rushed in, determined to take it no matter what the position. As I sat waiting to be interviewed, I looked around the small dining area. This couldn't be too bad, I thought. Its so small how much business could there be?

The owner of the Mainstreet Diner walked out from the back and sat down to interview me. I looked up, smiled and began to turn on what I felt was my considerable apple pie, girl next door charm. I faltered.....Ms. Pickle had a glaring flaw. As I tried to ignore it and proceed, my mind threatened to seize up. She had a wandering eye. One eye bored into mine with fierce intensity while the other took a merry trip around the room.

I tried to focus on the one watching me but I had trouble keeping track of what I was saying as I watched that frisky eye roll and skip from one area to the next. My face flushed with effort and I fought against nervous laughter that threatened to bubble up from that immature well that all teenagers carry within them.

I must have done a decent job of remaining coherent because I was hired on the spot. As a dishwasher. I worked each Saturday and Sunday for 10 hours straight over two steaming hot sinks, washing endless mounds of dishes. Air conditioning was a luxury Ms. Pickle did not believe in and by the end of those weekend days my hands were raw and cracked, my back ached, and I smelled of fried meat and rank sweat.

I lasted three weekends. Then I begged my father to reconsider the allowance and promised to take on any and all chores he thought I should. The desperation in my face must have sold him because he agreed cheerfully.

I didn't resign in person.....I couldn't. I wasn't sure which eye was in charge of taking resignations and I didn't want to find out.

Day Jobs

Day Jobs...or our alter-ego's as I like to think of them. A necessary evil that we must endure. All right, its not that bad most of the time. The interaction is good for the writing at any rate. It would take quite a bit for me to abandon my day job. I wonder how it is for full time writers? The imagination needs stimulation from the world outside so there has to be a break from all that isolation at some point.

My day job is accounting. I know...could I have chosen anything more boring? Only, I really didn't choose. It chose me as I'm sure most of your careers found you. Necessity or fate, being at the right place at the right time, these things come together to put us on the path. In my case, I hate math. I detest numbers. But if you put it in the context of money....it just makes sense to me. I am a problem solver and that is my core skill. So managerial and accounting positions are what I excel at. Hard based reality is my life from 9-5 and then my time is my own.

I've had positions before that demanded more time and thought, even after the close of the day. This is not the situation now and I can't tell you the joy of leaving at 5:00 and really leaving....mind and body. My duties are left on the desk for the following morning. If success in writing finds me, I would consider long and hard before abandoning my day job. If a part of you enjoys it, the security and interaction might be something worth keeping.

If your true love is writing, then no matter what your day job happens to be it is the means to an end...or new beginning.