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I pensively sipped my General Foods International Coffee-like beverage, forked up another cold, greasy globule of leftover huevos rancheros, and masticated morosely upon the dank, mouldy compost of once bright-eyed and rosy-bottomed dreams. My bold ambitions to become the next James Thurber, George Carlin or Prairie Dog Home Companion guy had spiraled slowly down and away, and the final, glottal swallow of the flushing mechanism told me they probably weren’t coming back. A thick, bubbling, black-bean soup of despair cooed to me like the most importunate of lovers, and I'll admit that part of me yearned to surrender to its unnatural embrace, accept its dreary seed, and then take a nap afterward.
But another part -- tough, stringy, chewy and full of gristle, lodged inside my gut as stubbornly as any of Tweeter's hairballs -- shouted, "No, I won't have the black bean soup today, thank you very much! I'd like to see the rest of the menu please! Lemme see, would you recommend the sardine melt?" It squeaked defiance and shook a tiny fist in the disdainful mugs of all the friends, relatives, bloggers, agents, editors and members of the general population who had spat so enthusiastically in my face, or, if no actual spittle had been conveyed, had still enjoyed a nice hot noodly plate of schadenfreude at my expense. Raising my eyes, I considered once again the incandescent words of hope, of challenge, radiating from my monitor:
“Great Things Start with a Career at Yum! Brands.
Because this is a place where great people are in great company. Where the fun is in the work. And the work offers personal challenge and growth. Yum Brands, Inc., the parent company of A&W Restaurants, Long John Silver’s, Pizza Hut, and Taco Bell …”
Against my will, a fierce driblet of desire leaked out my clogged, stunted heart, and I asked myself for the thousandth time:
“Do I have what it takes to be a Yum! Brands Man?”
I didn’t think I could live with another failure, but, on the other hand, that’s what I had said before the last dozen failures. No one saw the scars and bruises, the boo-boos and ow-ies so apparent once I removed the shining armor, leather jerkin and inflatable codpiece of my public persona. Lord knows, I wasn’t made of stone or steel, Formica or Bakelite, only fragile and deliquescent sinew, bone and mucous membranes; also a dwindling tuft of listless hair. I knew all too well that there were only 43 highly sought after Yum! Brands openings within a three mile radius of where I now sat, mouth agape, body rigid with terrifying visions of greatness.
“Would you like an orange slab of ersatz cheese on that, ma’am?”
"Another tub of BBQ dipping sauce for your fried meatloaf nuggets, sir?"
Many apply -- recently desperate legions from investment banking and hedge-fund managing -- but few are chosen. And those few strut like demi-gods upon a planet increasingly populated by midgets, obese midgets. The odds that I might be invited to join this swaggering band of Wagnerian heroes were pitiably, absurdly, laughably low … and I might feign a cavalier, lip-curling, finger-sniffing, don't-give-a-damn nonchalance. But the truth was that I ached, hungered and lusted -- I wiggled, jiggled and nervously giggled -- to wear the proud, peaked, paper hat of a Yum! Brands Management Trainee.
It all came down to this: it was up to me to earn a crack at this most unimaginable of opportunities. But if I did prove myself at the fry station and bun warmer, the secret-sauce hose and the pizza-fingers buffet, then I would deserve the right to wear the resplendent Long-Johns-Taco-Pizza-Hut uniform, cocky as any medal-hung fly-boy. Ten-hut! Standing tall before the bobble-headed car-doggy collection of my dead father, for the first time unafraid of the unsparing judgment of those bouncing, plastic heads, I’d snap the sharpest of salutes and shout, “Papaw, sir! Your ‘puny, dick-less, yellow-bellied, little ass-bag’ made good after all. Sir! A manly, encouraging pat on my love-starved hindquarters? Yes please, sir! Thank you, sir!”
Then after throwing my cap into the sky to the wild cheers of my classmates, I’d heave Debra Winger over my shoulder and stride out the paper bag factory to the soaring music of crazy Joe Cocker singing, “Love Lift Us Up Where We Belong.”
Now that, dear Sancho, is a dream worth dreaming.
Henry E. Panky
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