The Job Hunt

I'm undergoing a job hunt at the worst time to be hunting for a job. (Dear Anyone: Please employ me. Love, Kevin.) My lack of success reminds me of a similar search I conducted years ago during my summer vacation from high school.

The want ads in the newspaper were hardly ripe with summer jobs for teenagers, so I was excited when I found a listing that had just my experience level (i.e. "no experience necessary.") The details of the job itself were vague, but I was hopeful all the same. (Subsequent experience has taught me that when employers are hesitant to say what the job is, it probably involves feces or a pyramid scheme, or in the case of one unfortunate job prospect gone wrong, a pyramid scheme selling feces.) I called the number printed in the paper and the interviewer on the other end was really enthusiastic. I said next to nothing about myself, but he could just tell I'm a great person. Yeah, I get that a lot. In as polite a manner as possible, I tried to inquire about the specific duties of the job, but I was told I would learn the details of my exciting sales position when I showed up for training on the first day.

With good reason, I was a bit wary of the job. Why so secretive? Would I be selling drugs? Worse actually. I turned to the internet for potential answers, which is when I was first introduced to the infamous scam known as Cutco, the world's most obnoxious peddlers of knives. I read testimonials from former sales-teens who outlined in no uncertain terms to not enlist with the company. The business model was clearly bunk, with the worst offense probably being arming so many disgruntled employees with large knives. Nonetheless, after a month of searching fruitlessly, this job was still my best prospect yet, so I cried and decided not to go to the training. In retrospect, I did go on to earn the nickname "the nice boy with the knife," so maybe I missed my calling.

Dejected, I hit the want ads again. This time, I found a listing looking for a cashier at the local country club. It seemed a little preppy, but I could do that. I could sell tees and buckets of balls to the town's elite. I put on a polo shirt and inquired about the job. The manager told me he wasn't hiring and told me he hadn't placed the ad. Knowing what I read and miffed that this guy was clearly lying probably because I didn't fit the typical golf douche mold, I told him he better check the paper since it was there.

Arriving home, I locked back to the ad to confirm that I wasn't crazy. Well, I wasn't crazy, just illiterate. The ad was not for Hopmeadow Golf, but Hopmeadow Gulf, a gas station down the street from the country club. Apparently, I had read into the ad what I had hoped rather than what was really there. Frustrated, I cried again.

I never did obtain employment that summer.