Tao of Scott

Ok, so I’m looking for a job.

This is going to really disappoint many of my past co-workers who looked upon me as the guy who successfully went over the wall. The only escapee whose body wasn’t brought back after a couple of days of freedom, being dragged through the gate by four black horses with nostrils flaring, beaten beyond recognition, and paraded around the “yard” in a blood misted cloud of dust for all to see.

“SEE,THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU QUIT YOUR JOB IN THE MIDDLE OF A HIGH UNEMPLOYMENT CYCLE!!” the skinny, hunched over, gray skinned, moldy green toothed, hooked fingered, warden (department manager) would bellow out over the quivering mass of inmates (employees).

“You can run but you can never escape.” he would hiss, his dead black pupils filling is red rimmed eye sockets.

What!? That was an odd bend to go around. I must harbor some minor sense of trauma regarding my past employment experience. And you, dear daughter, question my medication regimen.

Anyway, I find myself again at the crossroads. Will it be the road of poverty and public rebuke, my past compatriots finally turning their backs on me, whispering, “ Can you believe that asshole? He quits his job in the middle of a high unemployment cycle! What a fuckin idiot!” Or will I formulate a resume, purchase the software necessary for the performance of my duties, and attempt to convince the holders of the purse strings that I am still viable and yes, even vital, in today’s ever morphing mortgage lending industry?

Given my rather nasty case Post Traumatic Stress Disorder this is a daunting decision which lies before me.

I was, for a short time, pondering a decompression job, like check out guy at Circle K or something along those lines. That is until it occurred to me that in today’s economy I would, in all probability, be considered under qualified for the position.

See, in the old days I couldn’t get low paying jobs, those with minimal mental requirements and therefore minimal responsibilities, due to the erroneous assumption on the part of the prospective employers that I was overqualified and would become bored, listless, finally stupid and would ultimately leave the job.

What these Quick Mart type managers failed to grasp was that if they did hire me and if in fact I was overqualified, I would, as they feared, become bored, listless, and finally stupid rendering me perfectly qualified for the job. All they had to do was give me a chance. And besides, I aspire to being bored, listless, and stupid.
It’s safer all around don’t you think?

Now, in today’s economy, when you apply for this sort of position you are in direct competition with P.H.D.s, out of work lawyers, and ex C.E.O.s of major mortgage lending firms. The ex mortgage lending bosses are only a threat to my competitiveness in this market segment to the degree that they can successfully explain away their recent prison records. At any rate I am now generally considered under qualified for an entry level job at the Flying J gas station/mini mart.

My friend Don recently had spinal surgery so he can’t drive right now. The other day I happily chauffeured him around Phoenix to his various appointments and errand destinations. I, of course, could provide this service because I am currently unemployed.

Don and I are, for the most part, diametrically opposed to one another politically, socially and religiously so you can imagine how the seven hours in a fully enclosed pickup truck cab went.

“Shit, I‘m gonna miss Beck on Fox news.” Don observed.

“That guys a fucking moron. How can you allow that jack off on your t.v. Don, Jesus.” I chuckled in an, I’m so much more sophisticated than you, tone.

“Beck, Hannity, O’Riely! Now those guys KNOW what’s going on man. I can’t believe that you can’t see that. If you want the truth watch these guys. They’re the three kings of news.” Don said as if he were quoting the bible.

“The three stooges of news more like.” I corrected looking through the rear view mirror preparing for a lane change.

“Fox news, fair and balanced. No spin.” Don finalized.

“Those motherfuckers spin like a top, are you kidding me?”

We both laughed.

And so it continued throughout the day.

The first words out of Dons mouth in the morning are “I am a capitalist!”

I walked into his hospital room the day after his surgery. “Hey Don, how’s it going brother?”

“I am a capitalist.” he responded.

Don is the sole proprietor of a high end garage floor coating business. He works his ass off and beats the pants off his competition in service, reliability, and quality of workmanship. Don is wildly charismatic and to watch him interface with potential customers reaches the status of high art. Don keeps two young men employed full time, at a wage far in excess of the local standard, in a rural market with an unemployment rate of at least 10%. These two kids would be on the streets if it weren’t for Don. All of their friends are sitting around with their collective thumb in their collective ass contributing nothing to the community nor to themselves.

“See, the small business man, this is how it’s supposed to work in America.” Don says with well deserved pride.

“I totally agree with you Don, but a government bought and sold by gargantuan corporate entities does nothing to advance that cause. In fact the effort is mostly thwarted by the unfair competition brought to bare by these voracious, soul eating, slobbering behemoths. Those pirates in wall street are the ones who looted the national treasure. If you want to know where all the available funding for the small business man went look no further than the captains of industry and their government which self administered a Mickey and passed out at the regulatory switch.” I indignantly educated.

“Ya, whatever. Hey you want a cigar? I brought some good ones.” Don offered

“Sure! How ‘bout that Monte Cristo, that looks sweet?”

“Well it would be my pleasure my friend, and thanks for driving me all over this God forsaken city. I really appreciate it man.”

“Hey, glad to do it bro and thanks for the cigar. Now that I’m unemployed I can’t afford these primo stogies anymore.”

Love, Dad