To live beyond the pale, to work for the pleasure of working, to grow old gracefully while retaining one’s faculties, one’s enthusiasms, one’s self-respect, one has to establish other values than those endorsed by the mob.
Henry Miller
I visited a Waffle House this past weekend, and I noticed a poster that touted employment opportunities with the greasy spoon. Since one must always be on the lookout for new challenges, I decided to study the employees working that afternoon to see where I might fit in the store’s hierarchy.
So, I sat there eating my All-Star breakfast (which is now $12 for crying out loud) and watching.
It appeared two Black women were the primary cooks, but I dismissed that role as too dangerous. A poorly rendered omlette can get you beat up at 3 a.m.
Another employee appeared to be the restaurant’s hollerer, shouting a variety of cryptic commands at the cooks. Things like “quarter egg cheese,” “drop two hash browns,” or — my personal favorite — “cheesesteak, say yes to onions.”
I never developed much of a talent for hollering, so I dismissed that role, too.
An older woman with silver hair was the day blesser. At one point, when customers had thinned out and day blessings were no longer needed, she announced that she would be taking care of the syrups and the napkins, a bold initiative I’m sure her fellow employees appreciated.
Then there was the employee I will refer to as the wanderer, because all he appeared to do was wander around and look at things. When I noticed that he had missed one of the belt loops on the back of his pants, I decided Waffle House Wanderer would be the ideal job for me. (Note for those who are interested in such things: this column referencing Waffle House will appear on 8/1.) Ha!
As long as my boss is satisfied with my efforts, I guess I’ll stay here and use the talent the Good Lord chose to bestow upon me, meager though it may be.
It could be much worse, you know. Some people pursue careers that don’t suit them at all.
According to vocovision.com, a survey found that 29.2 percent of girls want to be doctors when they grow up, while another 25.2 percent want to pursue teaching.
Nearly one-fourth of boys surveyed want to be professional athletes — no surprise there — while 19.1 percent want to be doctors.
Nearly 14.1 percent of all children want to be musicians.
One of the first careers I considered as a child was that of a motorcycle daredevil like Evel Knievel, who had recently announced that he would one day jump the Grand Canyon. I already had a Honda 70, so I built a ramp and gave it a try myself. I figured I could jump a few cars every other weekend and make six figures a year.
After one especially harrowing encounter with gravity, I gave up my idea of jumping into the Amazon River, where it is filled with piranhas.
Then tragedy struck. A particularly sadistic high school teacher suggested that I had some writing talent. I will always hate that woman.
“Perhaps you might like to work for a newspaper,” the evil crone told me, sealing my fate with nine words.
I was further bamboozled when I came home from school one day to find my mother reading one of my short stories to my grandmother over the phone.
In that story, the Soviets had invaded the United States using submarines that drove along the ocean floor until they rolled up on the beach and started killing everyone except those with severe sunburn. (Extra points for understanding that lame joke).
I did stray into the 14.1 percent of children who want to be musicians, and I still harbor dreams of playing the blues on stage at State Farm Arena.
I had other jobs along the way, including a truck driver and a security guard. Yes, I once wore a badge. They wouldn’t give me a gun.
Whatever, I always wound up with a pen in my hand eventually. But lately I’ve been thinking about that motorcycle daredevil career again.
When you reach a certain age, every day becomes a death-defying act.
So, enjoy life while you can and say yes to onions.
Selah.