He read my resume for a few minutes and then gave me a puzzled look. I get that a lot.
"So what sort of position are you seeking?" he asked.
"Something interesting."
He glanced back down at my paperwork and grimaced. "You seem to have done plenty of interesting things in the past few years."
"Yeah, but the interesting jobs didn't pay."
"This job with the Clinton Campaign in '92?"
"Five hundred a month."
"A month?"
"Right. Ate a lot of beans and rice and scammed a lot of dinners on the expense sheet."
"Program director of a radio station sounds pretty interesting."
"Yeah, it was, but the station had a range of about five miles, and I didn't get paid."
"Nothing at all?"
"Well, I did score a free copy of the first Pearl Jam album, but that's not exactly raking it in, musically speaking."
"So what do you want to focus on?"
"Finding a job that will pay me some money." I figured I might as well get right to the point.
"Are you picky?"
"Well, I would prefer to work nights and I really hate actually working for someone."
"Come again?"
"I don't like working for other people. Gives me a headache. And it really screws up my sex life."
He seemed truly perplexed at this point. I must admit that I did throw him a bit of a curve, but every word is true. I hate working for other people. The very thought brings on a migrane.
"When was the last time you worked for someone?" he asked.
"Um, I scanned graphics for the GTE Yellow Pages for three weeks a couple years ago. I quit right before they were going to dump me and all the other temp people."
"And then what did you do?"
"I focused on marketing my music newsletter."
"How did that go?"
"Poorly. I'm really bad at self-promotion. That's one of the reasons I'm talking to you. I have a music web page that gets three thousand hits a week, and I can't make any money with it. I made a deal with my wife, and so now I am looking for gainful employment."
"But you don't have a career in mind?"
"I prefer to think of myself as being on the non-career track."
He just stared at me for a minute. Then, finally, he shook his head slowly. "You think you might want to do something with computers?"
"Sure, as long as the work isn't mind-numbing."
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"Doing the same damned thing over and over again, listening to a boss tell you how you messed up the last batch of crap."
"You're pretty picky, aren't you?" He obviously had tired of the discussion.
"I just want to have a job that makes me happy."
"That's all, eh?"
"Yeah." I leaned back in my chair.
He did the same, and threw all my papers the air at the same time. "You know something, Mr. Worley?"
"Call me Jon."
"I'll call you stupid, how's that? You're a naive dreamer who refuses to enter the real world. It's people like you that cause unrest. A couple of you get elected to Congress and all of a sudden it's illegal to even mention a women's breasts in her presence."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm sick and tired of you namby-pamby little college kids wanting everything handed to you on a platter. I don't know how you've survived so far, but I'm not planning on helping you find your future."
"Whatever."
"Whatever? That's all you have to say to me?"
"Yeah."
He sighed loudly, got up and opened the door, motioning for me to leave. Didn't even bother to give me my stuff back. "You're a dangerous man, Mr. Worley. I'm calling the police."
I decided a quick egress was entirely in order. And I still have no idea what the hell he was talking about. Though I can say that I've never commented on a woman's breasts in her presence, and haven't done so behind one's back since I was 14.
The guy must not be getting any.
Jon Worley is still job hunting in St. Petersburg. And yes, every bit of this conversation actually happened.