Don't get too close to my fantasy
by Matt Worley

Brief prelude. I'm beginning to wonder if my CD player's random mode is truly random or if the CDs themselves have encoded bits that call to the CD player as it "randomly" picks a song from the more than 300 available. If I hear Prince's version of "One Of Us" a few more times, I'm going to have to go back in time and kill Joan Osbourne. I'm beginning to like the damn song. Of course, I could listen to "Pet Name" by They Might Be Giants as much as my CD player wishes. Strange.

Also strange have been the events of my week. I thought it was going to be another one of those weeks where not much happened, but maybe I'd get a funny e-mail or something else that would lift my life enough to keep going for another week. It really doesn't take much. Actually matching one number on the lottery usually does it-and that happened on Saturday night. So I wasn't even thinking (In my world, the week runs from Saturday through Friday) anything drastic had to happen in my life at all.

I started on Monday the way I always do. I sent out resumes to all of the job listings that were anywhere close to my abilities. This week there was only one listing deemed acceptable. I've learned from doing this for about two months now that no one ever actually answers any of these kinds of things. It's like writing the David Letterman show and asking more than one stupid question: he's just not going to read it over the air. So imagine my surprise when a guy called Tuesday morning about my resume. After the initial shock of getting out of bed for the phone call, I told him I could come in for an interview the next day. And it wasn't even for the job I applied to in the first place, it was for a job I was more qualified for.

The last time I had a regular job (y'know, where you go in at a certain time and "day off" actually means something) was a little less than two years ago. Since leaving the ski rental guy job when the snow left the mountain, I've been living on occasional temp jobs (painting houses) and freelance gigs. Other than not always having money when I needed it, I really liked that kind of life. I worked on my little projects, played drums when I felt like exercising and just tried not to spend too much money. It was nice. If I needed to go somewhere, I just went. If I felt like sleeping in, I did--even though I usually felt a little bit guilty about wasting a few hours (usually made up in the late night hours). I had drinks with friends who had real jobs and noticed that they weren't much happier about their lives than I was with mine. Oh sure, I always had something to bitch about, but I was happy. In the back of my mind, I wondered if I would ever have another regular job.

So you probably realize by now that I got the job. He was basically giving it away. Pushing it in my face actually. I made a valiant effort to make him not like me for a candidate, but apparently circumstances were not on my side. People I used to work with in college put in a good word for me, and so did people who's names I didn't recognize. It was like some big worldwide conspiracy was set up to make me get a job. I really couldn't say no. I mean, I went in for the interview--that was an admission of need in itself.

All I can hope for now, of course, is to win the lottery. Otherwise, I may have accidentally started down that road of life where the land is level and straight. I'll start hanging out in singles bars and meet my inebriated princess. We'll have stupid kids who want to play football. And then they'll blame me (because I'm a small man) when they get cut from the pay to play team. I'll have affairs, get divorced a few times, have seven kids by seven mothers. My older brother's kids will still get the Legos and Star Wars Figures because there'll no way to split them between all of my kids and step-kids.

Well, maybe I'll get fired or something cool like that.

Matt Worley is hopelessly neurotic about being considered anything other than a slacker or artist.

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