Career Opportunities.

It was the spring of 2005; I was unemployed and living with my parents.

I had been looking for temporary work on Craig’s List, ideally something that didn’t involve ‘amateur modeling,’ when I came across a post that offered $10 an hour for anyone who had an undergraduate degree. It didn’t matter what the degree was in, all you needed was proof that you had graduated.

I was a bit skeptical but I needed a job and more than that, I needed something to get me out of my parents’ house for 8 hours a day. So I drove out to Rancho Cordova and into a business park located on the decommissioned airbase out there. My group interview took place in a large warehouse that had been subdivided, seemingly infinitely, into small cubicles. The interview consisted of a middle aged lady examining our undergraduate transcripts and then signing us up on the work schedule for next week.

It was official; I was now a paid grader for mandatory standardized tests for elementary school children.
And yes, most of these tests are graded by a computer that scans all of their bubbled-in answers, but there are portions that require short essay type answers. This is where my undergraduate degree holding expertise would come in. For the next two months I would spend 8 hours a day in a cubicle in a warehouse on a former air force base grading essays from 5th grade students enrolled in the public school system of the state of Arizona.

The students had to write a one paragraph follow up to a given prompt. I suppose this was seen as a chance for them to do a bit of creative writing and show off their knowledge of the English language.

At first I diligently read through each response, carefully grading every student based on a set of standards we were all given on the first day. But over time I started to really appreciate the way these kids weren’t bound by the rigors of things like logical thought.

I now present to you my collection of my favorite responses to the prompt, “There was a mysterious knock at the door…”

-As you can see, I’m not very athletic or active
-the creature looked un-American
-Once a pond time
-then Ernesto said, “Holy crap. Space chicken!”
-there once was a man named cyborg. That man was me. I was at home upgrading my arm cannon
-approximately yesterday
-the monster looked like the monster from Harry potter. In fact, it was the monster from Harry Potter
-and that's when Mrs. Emering from gym class beat up that unicorn
-she was Irish, but was very intelligent
-read the next paragraph to find out what happens next
-extra-test-real
-thank you for your hospitalization
-I ran down into the back alley of Red Lobster
-please no flash photography until after the story
-the monster ate me lime by lime
-My favorite day of the week is Saturday, but today is Tuesday
-I opened my door surprised to see an Asian
-The knock at the door was my mom, back from jail after five years. She got stabbed in a fight with another lady in jail.
-then the creature suddenly returned to Alabama
-I ran away like a mouse, a very overweight mouse
-based on a true story
-then the creature said, “what up G”
-it was grabbing at his fudge pop
-oh, by the way, my name is Jesus
-the moral of the story was, DON’T MESS WITH FRANK

When we were young.

We were 14 and bored and at home unsupervised for hours everyday after school. What else was there to do but read old copies of Spin and listen to our Rancid tapes over and over. Well, I guess we liked to play with fire too. But like many other children have learned over the years, it’s difficult to rebel when you grow up a privileged child in an upper middle class two parent home. What’s there to be upset about?
Liv and I liked to dress up in our finest thrift store punk rock outfits. She would work on her make up while I spiked my hair. She would tie the purple laces in her boots (the ones with spikes in the top of the leather) and I would put the safety pins back in the collar of my torn, striped sweater. And then we would walk down to the 7-11 to loiter out back, or if we were especially bored we would walk the half hour to the Tower Records to read the magazines.
On weekends we would ride light rail, or more often get a ride from our parents to mid-town. There we could spend the whole day wandering from thrift store to costume shop to record store. We always made sure to stop in on The Hindenburg, a tiny little record store on the second floor of a small commercial building in the back of a parking lot. I loved The Hindenburg because they sold punk rock 7”s, a true novelty to me at the time. Later, a different girlfriend of mine would end up living in the first floor of The Hindenburg on a couch for a few months. She always referred to it as, “the cutest little shooting gallery I’ve ever seen.”
But most days we spent at her house or my house, leafing through magazines and burning things out in the backyard.

The Press.

My friends made this website.

http://www.sacramentopress.com/

They put a lot of thought and effort into it and I think it turned out well. Go check it out if you want to see what they've been up to. It's still in its beta stage, but you can get a pretty good idea of what it can become.

And if you feel like contributing, just sign up.

While I was out.

Near the end of my senior year of high school my mother informed me that I would have my wisdom teeth removed from my head. This did not seem like the best graduation gift I’d ever heard of, but I wasn’t too concerned. I grew up in a house full of doctors where it was not uncommon to discuss procedures over dinner. (The story about the patient who cut his knee cap off with a chainsaw was especially memorable on brisket night.) So I wasn’t too worried about going under the knife for something routine.

I got dropped off at the oral surgeon’s office in a pink stucco strip mall not too far from my parent’s house. The interior theme matched the exterior paint, pink hued seashells lined the wall paper and some fake white orchids rested in a large vase on the counter. After filling out all of the tedious medical releases and reassuring the nurse that I had no allergies, the surgeon came in to speak with me. He placed a large plastic cloth over my chest and asked me if I was scared about the impending procedure.

I told him that I was not, but that I did have a request. It seemed like a pretty obvious request to me. Certainly most other people who had their wisdom teeth removed asked for the same thing. I faced the surgeon and said, “I would like to keep my teeth when you are done.” And to his credit, the surgeon didn’t ask why or even blink; he just nodded and called the nurse in to prep me for surgery.

I laid back in the chair as it tilted to horizontal and the nurse placed the cold rubbery mask over my mouth and nose. I could barely hear her voice over the hiss of gas while she asked me to count backwards from ten. The anesthesia must have been quite effective, or the nurse must have found a vein especially quickly because I didn’t make it past nine before everything went to black.



I awoke sitting in a chair by myself. It might have been hours later, I had no way to tell. My cheeks were stuffed with gauze and my chin was lightly crusted with dried blood. I didn’t know where I was or who had left me in the chair, but after looking around the room I knew one thing for sure, that surgeon had lied to me! My teeth were nowhere in sight.

So naturally, I got up to search for the surgeon’s hidden stash of post-operative wisdom teeth. I wasn’t so naïve as to think that he kept them in a pile under a pillow somewhere, but I figured that the medical staff had simply forgotten my special request and I wanted to make sure to find the teeth before they were lost.

I dragged my heavy limbs out of the chair and made my way out the door and down the hall in search of my promised teeth. I walked down the empty hallway until I came across a small window inset in a door. I pressed my bloody swollen face to the window and tried to focus my eyes. Inside I could see several people in scrubs surrounding a table. Obviously this was the surgeon who had my teeth. So I politely inquired through the glass if I could have my teeth back. However, as I was still coming out from under the anesthesia and my mouth was stuffed with gauze this came out more like, “TEEEEEEEFF!”

One of the nurses looked up from the surgery table and quickly rushed over to the door. She pried me away from the window and escorted me back down to my chair. I tried again to eloquently express my desire for my missing teeth. “TEEEEEEFF!” Apparently she was well versed in the inane cries of the recently detoothed, because she knew exactly what I meant and broke the bad news to me. It turns out that the removal of wisdom teeth is a fairly violent procedure that involves cracking and splitting the teeth. All that was left were small shards of enamel and dentin. I later learned that the surgeon assumed I was joking when I asked to keep my teeth. He figured that I was nervous and trying to make light of the situation.

I was disappointed and over the next few days while I recovered from the surgery I consoled myself by researching local taxidermy and medical supply shops. I would someday have my necklace of teeth, it just might take a little bit longer than I realized.