by Benjamin Kepple
I have to face facts, I suppose, and live up to the unpleasant and annoying fact that in a few months I am going to have to become employed. This, while not nearly as bad as starving, entering graduate school (read: starving), or deciding to take time off and find myself (read: starving), will most likely be somewhat unpleasant. After all, in all likelihood, my dream occupation of working for The Wall Street Journal will take years and years of experience in the journalism field. It is more likely that I will begin working as an editorial assistant for the Sacramento Bee or the New Orleans Times-Picayune, making $18,000 a year. This is about average, apparently, for an entrant into journalism. Hey, it's not the lowest paid job generally requiring a college degree for nothing!
I greatly enjoy journalism, and when I feel I have the time to really work at it as much as I would like, I feel that I can do quite a decent job of reporting. I've even been Paid to write, which is pretty scary at that, but I also have a great deal of amateur experience, working my way up through the ranks here at the Review.
GEOFF BROWN: KEPPLE! You're FIRED!
ME: But but but ... Mr. ...
BROWN: Ha! Just kidding, Managing Editor Kepple!
ME: Managing Editor?! Wow!
I'm just kidding, of course. Geoff was a good guy to work for, and I must admit that sometimes I wonder just how effective I am.
BUCKLEY: Right, here's the page plan. Anyhow, we've got to get this done before ...
LEE: Oh no! Here comes Idi Amin!
ME: Hiya lads! Hey! Tim Horton's! Mind if I have some?
However, journalism is a far better option than some of the other Work Options that I could do for a living, now isn't it? Yes, it is. After all, I could be a graduate student working in the History department (bad), English department (worse), or the American Culture department (hell). I can see it now. I'd be working for Assistant Professor Diversity (thank you, Anthony Burgess, for inspiration on that one) or some such soontobe tenured academic whose dissertation was on 19th century American Potholders. And I would be forced to enter into a working relationship with this academic and pretend like I really cared about potholders and how they were tools of oppression. It would be awful.
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR DIVERSITY: Kepple!
ME: Yessir?
ASST. PROF.: DON'T CALL ME SIR! Call me "Bob."
ME: Right, well, Bob, there's this problem ...
ASST. PROF: Kepple, have you ever visited Nicaragua?
ME: Ah ...
ASST. PROF: It's such a beautiful land. So pristine and untouched by man, that is, until the contras came and ruined the Sandinista experiment! ALL MY WORK RUINED!
ME: Your work?
ASST. PROF: AN EGALITARIAN SOCIETY WIPED AWAY BY THE CAPITALIST SCUM!
ME: Uh, Bob, do you need a Xanax, or something?
ASST. PROF: DON'T YOU SUBVERT MY WILL TO THOSE MULTINATIONAL ECODESTROYERS! Don't you know pharmaceutical companies are run by Satan himself?! SATAN, I TELL YOU! Oh, by the way, I need you to grade these papers, and clean out my file cabinet, and repair the Cuban flag on the door. Some fascist tried to light it on fire. Can you believe that? It's not as if it was an American flag. Butchers.
ME: I don't know whether I agree with you on that ...
ASST. PROF: Tut, tut, Kepple! Remember! I have a doctorate, and I've been published in three scholarly publications! Hence, I'm better than you are!
ME: But two of those were letters to the publication's editor complaining about how there needed to be more female Native Americans and/or other persons of color on the masthead. In fact, didn't you just shotgun that letter?
ASST. PROF: No! Not at all!
ME: Wait! Yes, you did! That's why you had me lick all those envelopes! I mean, something like that was bound to come up in the Utne Reader sometime, wasn't it? So you had to go and do it!
ASST. PROF: Shut up! You're creating a hostile and uncomfortable environment for me!
ME: Right, Bob.
ASST. PROF: Sycophant.
Only slightly better would be working in the Classics department, where I would be instantly executed by a Latin professor because I had no idea how to decline hic, haec, hoc. Think about it - how many of you Latin students can do that without looking in the back of the book, eh? That's right! None of you! Face it. If any of us were to be graduate students in the Classics department, we would do absolutely wonderful until that fateful day when we mistranslated an ut clause, and that would be the end of everything.
I would hate to even think of me getting near a science related field. All I know about science is what I learned in high school, and I'll always remember how angry Mr. Sinclair got when I accidentally turned on the particle accelerator during that field trip to Western Michigan University. And that incident in high school biology class involving me, the fetal pig, Paul Unwin, and the small intestine of the pig is still talked about at the Kalamazoo Area Mathematics and Science Center, although Paul said he had recovered fully from ... well, never mind.
So now that I've eliminated the fun world of postgraduate education from the options available to me thank God I could go to work in a menial job while I figured out what to do with my life. I could become an accountant, or an accountant's assistant. Or even worse, I could become a financial analyst.
ME: According to my calculations, the price of soybeans is going to shoot right through the roof within the next few weeks, and ...
BOSS: SOYBEANS! PRICE! UP! (on phone) (gesticulating wildly) BUY SOYBEANS! BUY SOY PRODUCTS! GET SOY FOR THE CAFETERIA! WE SHALL LIVE, BREATHE, AND EAT SOY!
(three months later)
ME: Mr. Smith, uh, you know how I said soybeans were going up?
BOSS: Yes ...
ME: Well ...
BOSS: Well what ...
ME: Sign this, please.
BOSS: (reading and mumbling) ....blahblah....Idohereby... holdBenjaminKepplenotliableforany... economicdamagesorlossesincurredforanyof the transactionsthathehas ... KEPPLE!
ME: Well, what d'you know? You know three months ago? Well, I forgot to carry that two (pointing), right here sir, and... sir ... put that down ... it's not my fault you staked the college educations of ... your nieces and nephews too? ... but I ... NO! STOP! HELP!
I could always hope for a major war to break out. At any one time I have at least three serious medical ailments bothering me, so in the event of war, I would instantly be shuttled into nice, safe, warm Civil Defense service. This would enable me to wear a neat blue helmet and get shot at by members of paramilitary bands roving around the general area of Muncie, Indiana, where I would probably be stationed. The rest of our generation, due to the Defense Department making A Classic Blunder (Princess Bride Fans, you know: "The first classic blunder being, Never Get In a Land War in Asia!") would be sent, at least those people capable of combat, to die on some Pacific island someplace. If I was able to play it like Dan Quayle, I could always claim "wartime service," trick voters into making me Senator, and someday become Vice President.
But the most likely course that I will take will be, of course, into journalism. It's something that I enjoy, and if I work very hard at it, I might even be able to afford the rent on an apartment of my very own. I've even heard rumors that a few journalists in the profession even make over $50,000 or $60,000 a year! The fact that you could get paid that kind of money and still have an enjoyable job seems like a contradiction. But I'll take it. It sounds better than graduate school. MR