The letter came from 21-year-old Julia.
“Dear Mister Sean,” it began, “I cannot find a job that fits me…
“I keep trying job after job, and I just want to find my true career path… And be happy. What should I do?”
Well, Julia, I’ve had a lot of jobs. My first real job was hanging drywall, after my father died. I was 14 years old. I was chubby for my age. I learned how to sand drywall joints, how to apply drywall mud, and most importantly, I tasted my first beer.
Mister Rick, my boss, was a cheerful man who looked like Otis Campbell. He gave me my first sip. I was covered in Sheetrock dust and sweat, I looked like Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Mister Rick handed me a can and said, “You earned a sip, son.”
I took three sips. He grabbed the can from my hands and said, “Easy, son. I don’t want you getting drunk.”
“What’s it like being drunk?” I asked.
“See those four trees over there? Well, if you were drunk, there’d be
eight trees.”
“But, Mister Rick,” I said. “There are only two trees.”
I was an ice-cream scoop once. That was a pretty good job. I was allowed to eat all the leftovers.
I gained 19 pounds in six weeks.
Once, I worked food service. I was a line cook. I wasn’t very good at it. I lasted one year. On the day I was fired, the head cook took me aside and said, “You’re an employee with incredible motivational skills, did you know that?”
“I am?”
“Yes. Whenever you’re around, everyone has to work twice as hard.”
I worked as a tile layer. I had a job digging drainage ditches. I hung gutter. I helped my mother clean condos and apartments.
And once, I stooped so low as to work as a telemarketer.
“Hello,” I said into the headset, “would…