What?

“What do you do for a living?” The question that makes you question who you are, were, want to be? It is not that I’m embarrassed by what I do, although I am. Not so much embarrassed really, as ashamed. Not because of what I do, but because of I’ve been told I am capable of doing better.

I went to one of those job fair events where businesses attempt to recruit people who are congruent with their mission. Their mission depends on what their policy concerning what performance and corporate attitude imbues. Although you would think that most businesses would have similar philosophies on employee requirements as far as what is expected both in competence and social interaction, but they do not.

Some businesses demand a rigid adherence to rules of conduct and performance, while others do not. Some demand dress code observance, some seem to care less. The whole concept of what should be considered a work atmosphere is little more than a ragged confluence of strict adherence or laid-back acceptance of whatever.

I happen to believe rules have value if they are relevant to expectations. Many demands on individuals have little to do with performance. Wearing a suit does not make you a better butler or symphony conductor. A top hat does not make you an English diplomat any more than it makes you a mad hatter. Expectations demand a level of compliance that in many cases have nothing to do with what is expected as far as performance is concerned, any yet they persist.

The Nickel and Dime agency, although not distinguished, and is not on the Forbes list of top business. They are concerned however with placing people in positions that utilize their talents, benefiting them as well as the company they work for. That is what I was told. I rarely believe what I am told, but for some reason managed to avoid my usual pessimistic outlook when dealing with the psychology and or philosophy that attributes success based on the inherent talents of the one being tested; at least in this case.

The test was simple enough. I was told to reach into a bag and pull out as many coins as I could with my left hand. My right hand was to be kept on top of my head, and my eyes were to remain closed unless I heard any sound I found disturbing. 

The instructions were direct and to the point although they made little sense. Having completed the instructions to the cluck clucking of the one with the pad and pencil, I felt I had done as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Being scrutinized by a man wearing only an apron, a toupee, and what appeared to be black lip stick, I found I was distracted beyond my normal acceptance of things that don’t pertain to me, as I pride myself on my ability to not judge.

After several hours of questioning, sign language I think, I received an envelope with my scores and a brief note from the man with the black lips who was called Lucile for some reason. I looked at what was supposed to be my aptitude test which made little more sense than the man named Lucile. 

Apparently I was leaning towards being a race car driver, or working at an amusement park in the bumper car arena. Being a pick pocket, and I might add, a damn good one, I wasn’t prepared for the abrupt change in direction my future had taken. 

Lucile seemed content with prognosis and was attempting to show me how to hitch hike, or I don’t know what. I’ve never been very good at signing anything. I guess that might have had something to do with the years I spent attempting to be a forager and got caught the first time I attempted to sign my mothers name to my report card. I should have waited I guess as I don’t think they even do that anymore.

There is something about being a pick pocket that gives me a sense of accomplishment, I can’t imagine getting from being a race car driver. The bumper car thing sounds more my style, but then I never learned how to drive so I can’t see how I would be any good at it. But then those aptitude tests are supposed to be able to show you things about yourself you have no idea even exists. 

My mother was convinced that all our talents are passed down to us by those who came before us. God’s way of encouraging diversity while at the same time keeping those without any talent at all from feeling bad about the life they inherited. But then my mother always wanted to be a nun, and that didn’t work out. She was fond of wearing scarfs and black suits though, so some of it might have come from one of our ancient relations. 

I know I got my abilities from my Grandfather. I didn’t know him but they said he could pluck a chicken before the chicken even knew what was going on. It is all in the hands you know. That and you have to learn the art of distraction as it takes the focus off of the intent and puts it on something no one cares much for, but pretend they do.

So now I’m kind of stuck as to what to do. I kind of like picking pockets cause I’m good at it, but the idea of learning to drive, even if it is in a building, is appealing. 

Lucile has informed me he has given me the wrong diagnosis, and it seems like I’d be better at being a doctor than a car driver. I could have told him that. I was always good at picking up the pieces and putting them back together. 

Lucile thinks we ought to go get a drink of some kind and think about the possibilities. He says that one shouldn’t make up their mind about a future until they’ve studied the consequences for a while, as being a pick pocket although exciting won’t get you as killed as being a bad car driver. I don’t know about that, but I know if you don’t have the aptitude for picking pockets, that can get you killed too. 

I guess it’s best if we just do what comes natural and forget how we got the way we are. Too much aptitude just confuses some people. Lucile tell me he was going to be a priest at one time until he took the aptitude test and found out he was allergic to praying.