Don’t let anyone tell you differently: in this economic climate, especially at this time of year, the term "freelance arts writer" is a euphemism for "unemployed." Ad sales are down. Papers are relying on staff reporters. There’s very little to write about because there are so few shows and new record releases, and there are simply way too many writers to fill the void. So I’ve been living close to the vest (note to Bill Safire: just what does that mean?) and watching the bills pile up.
Recently, therefore, I did something I swore I’d never do: I went to a suburban shopping mall and applied for a part-time job at a record store.
Needless to say, it didn’t go well.
The application
This is the tough part. I pretty much have to lie completely. In essence, I have to be the anti–George O’Leary, who, in his résumé for Notre Dame, claimed to have more degrees than the Mojave Desert at noon. I have to eliminate the master’s degree in literature because I don’t think those in search of J.Lo need the down-low on Rimbaud. I have to dumb down the thing so they won’t think I’m going to bolt if a few magazines come calling.
Age: I’m 42, which is way too old for almost anything these days. Jesus got it all together and became as popular as the Beatles in only 33 years, so what have I been doing? I write 33.
Sex: when I was 24, just out of grad school and in search of a job in the Reagan recession of 1984, I applied to a bookstore. In the box marked "Sex," I wrote "infrequently." What the heck, I thought: give them a laugh. I got the job, but a few weeks into it the manager told me he almost didn’t hire me because of my attempt at humor.
"It was a dumb joke," I agreed.
"No," he said. "I thought you were serious, and I know that an employee who isn’t fucking is an unhappy employee, and an unhappy employee is a bad employee. The more you fuck, the more you want to sell books. It’s that easy. So on your next application, write ‘Frequently.’ That’s the science of retail."
Of course, there wasn’t a next application, because after that job I got the hell out of retail. But here I am again, pondering the same bad joke. In the end, I just check "Male."
Potential co-workers
I’m filling out the application at the same time as another guy, who looks like he used to be a roadie for a Marilyn Manson tribute band. He’s got a tattoo of Jesus on the cross with a woman straddling him; it says IN GOD WE LUST. He’s peering over at my application like we’re taking a trigonometry exam.
"I’m not from around here; just moved to the area," he says. "You think that’ll make a difference?"
"Don’t see how."
"I’m from Pennsylvania — Amish country," he says. "You know any Amish?"
"Er, Martin and Kingsley," I reply.
"Really? What were their last names? Maybe I know them."
I don’t think so.
He’s amiable as we wait for the manager to show up for our interviews. "I cooked at a couple of Denny’s for a while, and then an IHOP. Pancakes with those M&M’s are a bitch." He laughs. "Got fired from one when a manager overheard me tell a waitress a joke. ‘What do you call a man with his hand up a horse’s ass? An Amish mechanic.’ Shit, I didn’t know that the manager’s wife was Amish."
I nod my head and chuckle, wondering if I could deal with this on a daily basis.
The interview
The record-store manager returns from lunch. He can’t be more than 23. I’m old enough to be his father — and we’re not even from the South. For some reason, I’m nervous, like I’m standing before the arts editor at the New York Times and he’s about to decide whether I’m going to get Jon Pareles’s job.
"Step into my office," he says, and leads me out to a bench in the mall. I laugh at the joke and follow like a sheep on Valium. "Okay, I’m going to ask you a few music questions just to see if you’re up to speed with what is happening today." What does he think, that I’m going home and spinning Lawrence Welk? Do I look that old? Do I have Big Daddy Kane etched across my forehead?
"How old was John Lennon when he was shot?"
What does this have to do with today’s music? I’m talking to Regis Philbin here. Who the fuck knows how old Lennon was? Next he’s going to ask me what book Hinkley was carrying when he pulled the trigger.
"Er, Lennon was" — lifeline to get-a-life Beatles fans — "he was 39."
The manager nods knowingly. "Forty. Close," he says, then comes up with his next question. "Marcus Camby plays what instrument?"
Now I’m really stumped. Is he trying to trick me, or is this some kind of fluff that only NBA insiders know? Camby’s close to seven feet tall, has thin fingers — so probably the piano. But it could be the fucking tuba.
"I’ll give you a hint. He’s blind, and he’s played with Wynton ..."
"Er, you" — I have to say this delicately because I don’t want to show up what could be my future boss — "you mean Marcus Roberts."
"Yeah, yeah," he says. "What did I say? Marcus Camby? Watching too much SportsCenter."
It goes on like this for another 20 minutes before he lets me go.
The outcome
Did I get the job? No. The record-store manager never called. I try not to take it personally. I say it’s because of the tight economy. Because I’m too old. Because I should have written "Extremely frequently" in the "Sex" box. Because I never read John Lennon’s death certificate. But here I am, it’s March, and things aren’t picking up much. And with my bank account holding more negatives than Kodak, it’s time to get a job.
Hell, look in the mirror: it’s time to get a life.
Employment offers can be sent to Ken Capobianco at kencapo@earthlink.net
