A Letter of Employment

"Way I figur' it, everbody's gotta find sumptin' they enjoy. Take me, fer example."

I looked at the man before me, wondering what goofy dialect was pouring from his tobacco-stained mouth, a mouth that spoke of years without contact with a toothbrush. He never slowed from the task he had at hand, continually slopping at a large pile of manure. From what I could tell, he was busy moving the pile about five feet to the left. When that was done, he would wipe his brow and move it right back to its previous spot.

"I mean, sure I could be doin' sumptin' else. I got myself one of them fancy degrees, then reelized I din't know wot ta do wit it. Like you, I set ta wanderin' and wonderin', tryin' ta figur' out the best way ta put my talents ta use, 'though I never took time off ta write next ta nothin' and such foolishness as some people I know, who shall remain nameless. Then, of a sudden it come ta me. One day I reelized that I wanted ta move all this shit."

I slowly nodded, seeing the simple wisdom of the old man, while at the same time trying to catch a deep breath of fresh air, as I had somehow gotten downwind of this grinning Sisyphus and his life's work. The writing dig kind of smarted, too.

"Now boy, I can see somtin' special in ya, can tell by the look in yer eye, the look 'o madness is wot it is. It's madness wot can figur' it out sometimes. You jes' got ta find that thing that makes you all fire. That or a rich woman. Har, har har."

I actually knew what he was talking about, which scared me, as I only think I understood because I had a vague recollection of talking in a similar fashion on more than one occasion in my life. Each time, I woke up the next day with an empty wallet, a dry mouth, the smell of bar on me, and a pounding headache. As for seeing a glint of talent in my eye, well, I was unable to guess how he could see at all, having caught an unmistakable whiff through the stench of his task of recently downed Tequila. My Shaman, my Yoda, was out of his gourd.

Slowly, his image began to fade, but before he disappeared, he poked his one good eye back at me and gave a wink that reflected all the intelligence, caring, and feeling of the universe. He knew it all, and he spent his days slinging shit in the spiritual void with a rusted shovel.

If I had any sense, I might think the image some errant hallucination, or even allow myself to be offended by his little writing jab. I knew the image was probably a good thing, however, and that it would allow me to use profanity in a cover letter.

It was simple. The old man found something that he enjoyed. Sure, I had to stereotype him by giving him a remedial vocabulary, but he was true, he was Zen. Toiling away at a task that nobody in their right mind would want, he found a sense of self-worth by doing something he loved.

I would love to be your new [fill in blank]. I am extremely creative, highly organized, and I can get a shovel at any time. I enjoy working with others, can cook a decent meal in a pinch, and have good personal hygiene. I learn quickly, am fascinated by new technology, and am intrigued by the possibilities of the Web. I am a storehouse for information on pop culture, I am not afraid to break form and write a cover letter longer than one page, and I know when to stop writing sentences in lists of three.