Odd job

So you want to be my personal assistant, eh? I should warn you though: it’s a tough gig. But if you’re dying to join the thousands of applications piling up in my study to dangerous heights, go right ahead. I can’t turn my ceiling fan on anymore for fear of losing some great candidates to the unforgiving spinning blade. Here’s what you should know.

You can’t email me, can’t apply online or enter into some encrypted portal. This is, strictly speaking, an old school process. But what you’re going to do is really quite simple: in every city across America there are a handful of remaining pay phones. On every single one of them (including that weird one under a bridge in Youngstown, Ohio), I’ve hidden a key. The key unlocks a PO Box somewhere nearby. In the PO Box there will be a self-addressed stamped envelope with your application inside. This helps separate people who are genuinely interested versus those who just want a little padding for their resume.

Now that you’ve gotten the application process rolling, I should cue you into the expectations.

Let’s say you get the job. God Bless. I might take weeks, even months to contact you. That’s part of the job. Patience is something they don’t teach in schools anymore, so I’ll teach it by proxy.

You are never to show up to my home.

You must pet stray cats, feed stray dogs and play with stray pigeons. Although, aren't all pigeons stray? You’ll adopt one to disprove this sad reality. Naming it “P. Jean” and taking it for vigorous walks around the neighborhood.

Compensation will come in the form of French francs and other pre-Eurozone currency.

You should know how to whistle well but abstain from snapping. You can hum, but only after asking permission.

You’ll get three hours of vacation the morning of Thanksgiving to brine a turkey without interruption.

You can sleep, but it’s by no means mandatory.  

You will never refer to friends by their given names. Instead, you will adopt my preferred nomenclature. For instance, my buddy Bailey “Skip” Von Bismarck who tightens the wires for acrobats at a traveling roadshow will be known forthwith as “circus boy.” Alternatively, my old pal Phineas T. Franco, the scion of a sausage empire, should be referred to only as “hot dog boy.” Understand? This is a security measure that I expect you to respect.

You don’t need to know a foreign language. In fact, English is not a prerequisite. Most of your meetings will with be with animals anyway.  

When I ask you to “get coffee”, I don’t mean for you to go down to the corner bodega for a big gulp of piping joe. I mean, though I’ll never say it explicitly, for you to take the next flight to Bogota and only return when you can fill a small aircraft with the finest beans.

You must understand the difference between a World War I doughboy and the Pillsbury doughboy.

I will expect you to have an encyclopedic knowledge of classic rock and make regular song requests on Q140.3, whenever I’m feeling creatively spent. Remember: Seger sustains. Additionally, I should see you building a strong rapport with the deejays to such an extent that I worry if you’re seriously weighing a career in radio.

Sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, huh? It sure is. Especially after OHSA intervenes and limits roof jumping as a now non-essential trust building exercise.

Bonne chance.