Hire Me

I'm Back.  Hire me.

On Mother's Day, I received accolades.  On Father's Day, the Hallmark moment dimmed, the praise, the glory, went that-away.  I stared into my bagel of cream cheese and lox and asked, "Why, bagel? Why must my favorite cuzzy and his stunning wife, a gal I adore on such a level, I actually call her Sis (no more, Sista!) bring that up again?"  My bagel remained tight-lipped, I'm sorry to say. 

There we were, outside on my brother's patio, discussing the college grad's job search, a noble quest to improve the environment and fatten his bank account by next Tuesday, if not sooner.  "Remember when you quit Billy's job for him at the market?" asked Allison.  Here I played dumb.  "I have no idea what you're talking about."  "Oh come on, you do too.  Didn't she quit for you, Billy?"  The eldest laughed.  "Yeah, I guess she did."  He guesses.  Convenient memory.

Fine.  So what if I did march down to the market and tell the manager that my then-16-year-old son wouldn't be coming back to his crappy establishment?  I only did it because the boy refused to quit himself, on principle.  Besides, he'd lasted three whole weeks, besting his father's "box boy" record by a good ten days. 

"I was a box boy at Gelson's for a year and a half," said Andy, now president of a mega-entertainment company's international division.  Nicely done.  Even so, if there's a connection between the length of box boy servitude and one's future success, I'd prefer to ignore it.

In self-defense, Billy reminded the table, "I worked at the UPS Store, two summers in a row."  Take that, Cuz.  Can this kid hold a job, or what? 

"Are you going to quit for him if he hates his next job?" asked my former Sis.  Before I could answer, Billy took the lead again.  "I won't need a job, anyway.  I plan to sell my screenplay for millions."  Well.  There you go.  That settles that.  Nothing wrong with being your own boss.  I've been doing it for a long time, myself.   Which reminds me, I should hit myself up for a raise.