-by MOTHER |
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Well, I don't think I got to tell you about the failure of my idea to get a
Starbucks franchise on Mount Everest. Seems the Nepalese government is on
some "pristine wilderness" campaign, and they have already bulldozed three
coffee houses, an outlet mall, and a Chuck E. Cheese! I didn't really want
to go there anyway, it didn't have a Barnes and Noble's.
So, I am careerless again. I've decided instead of flapping around aimlessly, I should go to a career counselor. There is one at the local community college, and it is a free placement service. (Well, not free if you look at my real estate tax bill). So I got a selection of #2 pencils and headed out. I got a little nervous when the "counselor" turned out to be a 19-year-old, blonde-haired cheerleader type who was in the placement department on work/study program. But she gave me this pep talk that she apparently memorized, beginning, "There is more to life than flipping burgers. Here at Ray Kroc Community College we are dedicated to training you" (here she gestured at me) "to find a fulfilling career in one of our many programs, including" (she consulted printed list) "copier repair, home health aide, bar code administer, and many more exciting 21st century careers!!! (big grin)" Hummmm, maybe I am not community college material... Then she continued, out of recorded message mode, "The first step you, um, take is to, like, take this, you know, test? It is, um, really easy? And I, like, you know, read your answers? And I have this, um, awesome thingy, that tells mean what your answers mean? Honestly, it is like maximum cool, it, like, knows all about what is coming down in your head, you know?" |
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Riiight. So I got out my pencils, and she got out this spiral binder of
questions; you slip in a computer code sheet and make those little black
marks in the little squares, like, you know? (Sorry, she was a bad influence
on me.) She got out a timer and set it for 40 minutes. I wasn't sure what
would happen at the end of the 40 minutes. If I didn't finish on time, would
it mean I was destined for a life on the unemployment rolls, or did it mean
that was when her nails would be dry? I never did find out...
I start with the questions. Number one was, "Would you rather read Popular Mechanics (1) or brush your teeth? (2)"Hmmm. And it went on: I like the outdoors(1) or hiding in the closet (2)?And so on, for 23 pages. That came to over 535 little black squares to fill in. When I finished, I looked up at my counselor, who seem perturbed that she could not curl a strand of hair (1) and stretch her bubble gum at the same time (2). I waved and whistled and she came back to consciousness. "You're, like, done with the stuff? Wow! That was sooooooo, fast, like none of the guys around here ever finish before the dingy thingy, you know..." |
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She picked it up and put it into an optical reader, which proceeded to whir
and ping and make all sort of noises, including a couple that I'm sure were
laughs of derision. Then the printer started to chug and sheaves of paper
came pouring out, covered with graphs and charts.
"Like, you know, I'm suppose to look at this with you, but, ummm, I have to go to my, like class? You take a look at it, till the next shift comes in?" And she flounced off, carrying a textbook entitled "Molecular Engineering and You (5th edition)." I sighed for the future of Western civilization. Then I pick up the pages and sighed for the future of me. As I looked them over, it appeared the machine had analyzed my answers and plotted them on a circular graph divided into four quadrants: creative, mechanical, scientific, and interpersonal. The outer edge of the circle indicated outer-focused orientation, the center introspective. All the careers deemed appropriate for me were placed, based on my responses, somewhere on the continuum. The largest dot was at the intersection of mechanical and introspective -- it was lighthouse keeping. At first I thought it meant light housekeeping and had a good laugh, but then I realized the machine had decided that the best placement for me was isolated thirty feet above a rocky outcropping at the end of the world! Some of the other points of light on my computer generated zodiac included religious school office clerk, fry cook, computer screen polisher and spoiled suburban princess. But the one that caught my fancy was in the creative quadrant, up near the outgrowing edge: circus member! Yes, the computer decided I should run off and join the circus! What do you think? There are such a range of jobs in the circus. I pictured myself roaming the stands with a peanut box hung around my neck. Some guy in a straw hat, trying to impress the gal at his side, motions for me to send a bag over. I sail the bag, straight and true in a graceful arc three rows up and 10 seats in. I hear the low rumble of amazement at my skill and style! Soon everybody is clamoring for me to loft bags of peanuts their way, and not a soul is watching the bareback rider in the center ring! But, of course, the bareback rider is a lithe and supple young thing (looking rather like my blonde counselor, matter of fact) and she is sleeping with the Ringmaster and she doesn't like being ignored during her big finale. So the next day I'm off peanut duty and find myself assigned to scrubbing the elephants. I use an extra long floor mop and Ivory liquid (so gentle on the skin) to create a thick cloud of foam and the elephants love it. They pull long draughts of water to rinse themselves off and rub up against me so I'll scrub them down again. With time I learn exactly how to spot an itchy patch and the big brutes become totally devoted to me. They trumpet when they hear my voice and try to follow me around, dogging my footsteps like four-ton 3-year-olds. Up until the point that they try to follow me into the mess tent. And I don't call it a mess tent because they serve food there. The circus folk had been happily calling it the dining hall, until my elephants followed me to lunch. |
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Once again I'm removed from a job. In desperation the circus manager decides
he has to keep me under the big top where he can keep an eye on me, someplace
where I can't get in anybody's way. A glow comes into his eye and he looks
up, and up, and up, and up into the muted darkness at the top of the tent.
"Lady, you are our new tightrope walker!"
Well, let's face it, I'm flattered. This is the pinnacle of the circus world (no pun intended. Okay, I lied, of course the pun was intended. Have you ever known me to deny a cheap laugh?!) I could see it in my mind's eye. I'm in a spangled leotard, hot pink, with golden sequins and fluffy white ostrich feathers around my hips. On my feet I have only the thinnest and most delicate of ballet slippers - nothing should come between me and my oneness with the rope. My hair is piled high - I even tint the gray streaks with golden highlights to match the sequins - and I wear a modest but glittering tiara that winks and glints in the light of the spotlight that is focused on me and me alone! I can hear the crowd oooohing and ohhhhhing, but I am able to put the adoration out of my mind, for all my powers of concentration must zero in on the strand of wire before me. I take my pole in hand, hefting it once or twice to get the balance right. I slide my foot out and I know I can do it. Gravity and I have no personal relationship; I'm as free of it as Bill Clinton is free of shame. Gravity simply does not exist in my world. I make my second move. Step by step I move forward. I stop sliding my feet and start to prance. I bounce a little bit, just to scare the suckers in the audience. I get to the other side and laugh, then move out to the center again. When I reach the center, I dramatically toss the pole aside. The audience gasps. Then I feign a yawn and pull a mirror and lipstick out of my cleavage. I pat my hair and recoat my lips. Then I lean forward and do a cartwheel along the wire. I pretend to retie my shoes. I wave to the audience and do a back flip. Then I skip back to the platform in time to a swell of applause. I bow, just once, and then slide down the rope to the sawdust ring below. The applause is deafening; the audience screams for more. But I shake my head modestly and retire from the ring. I head for my trailer, to unwind, but soon I hear a clamor outside my door. I look out and there is the whole cast of the circus. And they look mad, hostile even. I notice that some of them are carrying sticks and Indian clubs. The animal trainer has his whip at the ready and the clowns are all armed with seltzer bottles. The ringmaster comes forward. "This has to stop! You are overwhelming all of us with your skill and dexterity. No one in the audience wants to watch us, they just keep yelling for more of you. This is a cooperative performance, a three-ring circus. We won't play second field to you under the canvas!" Growls of agreement came from the crowd. I was afraid for a moment they might storm my trailer. I step forward. "I am sorry to see this problem growing between us, but I must be true to my art. I cannot hide my light under a basket. I will not do anything less than my best. I am afraid I must leave you now. I will return to my home, to my other life. But I will always remember you and the triumph I achieved tonight." Then I will put my meager belongings into my bedroll and head off to the nearest highway. I will stand at the side of the road, with my thumb out, looking for a hitch back to suburbia, and glance over my shoulder, with tear in my eye, at the circus tent as it is lowered and the troop goes on without me. Alas, for what can never be... maybe I should give serious consideration to being a lighthouse keeper. Or maybe I should keep my day job as a spoiled suburban housewife. More later, |
