I Wanna Be...
 
Currently I’m the Facilities Assistant for Organizational Development at a healthcare company in Milwaukee, WI. That’s my JOB. Basically, I move tables and pick shit up and do people’s recycling, answer the phones, schedule conference rooms, get bored to the point of delirium—shit like that. Yeah, sure, I’m a “writer,” but assisting facilities is how I make my meager “living.” It’s how I pay the bills.
 
Now, my memory, like most of my mental capabilities, is completely for shit and worthless, but I don’t recall ever wanting to be a “Facilities Assistant for Organizational Development” when I grew up. Or the grocery store bagger I was in high school. Or a bank teller. Or even the telemarketer I was for the Milwaukee Water Works! So as not to misrepresent anything, let me call my mom to make sure…
 
MOM: Hello?

ME: Hi, Mom, it’s D.J.
MOM: Oh…

ME: I’m writing this thing for The Crevasse—

MOM: “Tastes “Like the Crevasse”?

ME: No, that’s tastes like chicken. The Crevasse is my new column for the footnote.

MOM: Does that one pay?

ME: Look, we’re taking up precious word count here. I just have a quick question.

(long pause)

ME: Mom?

MOM: Huh? Oh. Sorry, D.J.  … I’m listening.

ME: Uh, right. Anyway, see, this new Crevasse is—

MOM: How are you and Beth doing?

ME: Terrific. She’s the bomb. Look, Mom! I was just wondering—

MOM: She’s a sweet girl. Don’t mess this one up.

ME: Mom! Please! I have an important question.

MOM: ::sigh:: Okay.

ME: When I was a kid, what did I want to be when I grew up?

MOM: Well, first off, using the past tense with you being a kid is stretching it, but when you were little you wanted to work in the Halloween department at K-Mart.

ME: Not really a full time career.

MOM: No. You also wanted to be a reporter, mostly because of Clark Kent, an actor, a filmmaker, a comic book artist, and now a “writer”… that’s all I can think of.

ME: So I never dreamt of being the Facilities Assistant for Organizational Development for a Wisconsin based healthcare company?

MOM: Uh, no.

ME: Okay. I just wanted to make sure I had my facts straight. Thanks, Mom.

MOM: You’re welcome. So, about you and Beth—

ME: Sorry, I’d love to chat, but I have to finish my column because it’s due tonight.

MOM: Well, tell her I said “hi”.

ME: Will do.

MOM: And don’t fuck it up with your obsessive, incessant thinking—

ME: Gotta go!

click*
 
Wow. Okay. So, yeah. I never wanted to do what I’m currently doing for a living. Ever. Nothing even remotely close.
 
If I was the only person in the world with this problem it’d be a shitty personal dilemma but nothing worth writing or reading about. As it stands, I’m far from the only person with this particular ailment. It’s a g-damn worldwide epidemic!
 
There’s not a kid on earth right now clamoring to be a cubical dwelling office drone punching meaningless numbers and figures onto a keyboard and reading inane memos and getting older, wealthier people coffee! But how many of them will grow up to do that shit? I mean, sure, there are kids with rough lives. Maybe a homeless child who’s starving, or some young boy running from jaguars in the jungle, who’d find any job, from car washer to office clerk, a much better alternative to their current situations. But, all things considered, I’d bet you dollars to donuts that kid would rather be an astronaut.
 
And that’s kind of the problem, I suppose. How many astronauts do we need? Actors? Even firemen? Lawyers? K-Mart Halloween Department Supervisors? Cowboys? If every kid grew up to do what he / she dreamt of, we’d have millions of brain surgeons or ninjas but virtually no janitors or cafeteria lunch ladies.
 
Basically, that’s the problem. I doubt many kids really, really WANT to dispose of other people’s garbage for a living, but someone has to do it, right? I mean, I don’t get especially psyched to go to work everyday and set up conference rooms for classes on healthcare, but someone has to do it, dig? Should it be me; the guy who wants to be a writer? Or someone who wants to be a jet pilot? Does it matter? Odds are my employer won’t ever find someone with a passion for carrying tables and cleaning up food scraps and soda cans left by doctors and nurses, but it’s gotta be done.
 
So, sorry Mr. Dishwasher. Lo siento, Ms. Zoo Cage Poop scooper. We have more artists and pirates than we know what to do with, but them plates need a cleanin’.
 

 

*(NOTE: D.J. totally fabricated that whole conversation. He’s a liar. A fucking liar!)
 
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D.J. is a regular contributor to the footnote, as well as writing for several other major and minor publications, both fictional and non... no, not the genres -- the actual PUBLICATIONS.