Life Advice for English Majors

I allotted an hour in my schedule of perpetual and maddening unemployment to go around the block to Aladdin’s and meet my friend, folk singer Ashley Brooke Toussant, and her father for tea, pita, and hummus. Ashley Brooke was in town for a gig at the Beachland Tavern and happened to be dining right around the corner from my new place in the Heights of Cleveland. She had placed her guitar case in an empty seat next to the table while they dined. Adorned with Folk Alley stickers, the dark leather case sat before a plate of falafel and tabouli, exclaiming Indie Folk Songstress Does Lebanese. I thought it a great album title and ordered an Earl Grey compliments of Mr. Toussant.

As the waiter brought over my hot water and tea bag, I realized that I had spent most of December and all of January unemployed and with a college degree. At this stage, I would have killed for a job at Starbucks, like Ashley Brooke. I would have killed our server for his job. I was even willing to kill people as a job.

I remember joking with Ashley when she had said a few months ago, “You should talk to my dad. He can help you with your career. He’s a recruiter.”

“Recruiter?” I had replied facetiously. “I’m not joining the Army, Ash. And I can’t dribble a basketball to save my life.”

She had emitted one of her open-mouthed Ashley Brooke laughs that made me feel like the funniest person on the face of the earth.

Out of courtesy, the Toussants asked what I had been up to. I refrained from telling them about my devoloping habits of watching High Fidelity and rolling pipe tobacco into cigarettes. I didn’t mention my increasing disillusionment with this modern (read: adult) life.

Instead, I told them of the few job interviews I had obtained over the last week. Although those interviews had gone well, I still held no outstanding offers and my bankroll was hemorrhaging. I was getting very very nervous.

“My dad was an English major,” Ashley Brooke said.

Quietly humble until this point, Mr. Toussant nodded behind his wire-rimmed glasses. I asked him what he had done after graduation. He sprung to life and, much in an English major’s fashion, proceeded to recite his resume in narrative form.

“Well, right after I graduated, I found work as an orderly at a hospital. That went okay for a while.”

I nodded politely, though could not quite picture myself emptying bedpans for the hopelessly catatonic. I did not dwell on this image for long. Mr. Toussant had changed gears.

“Then I got a job at a plus-sized women’s clothing store, driving their delivery truck from store to store. That was a fun job.” He smirked, “You could say that I moved girdles for a living.”

Ashley Brooke looked up from writing her set list. “Dad, that is so gross.”

We were then taken slave by the Ashley Brooke laugh track.

Our conversation persisted for another twenty minutes and was pretty much one-sided, thanks to Mr. Toussant’s virtual mosaic of career moves. To date: electric company personnel administrator, Master’s degree, career services advisor, another utility company job. He came to rest as a recruiter for an employment referral agency.

“Dad, you talk for so long,” Ashley Brooke said. She had long finished her set list.

I asked her if she planned on playing “Brand New Key” by Melanie.

“I’m trying to do only original stuff,” she said.

“That’s a shame,” I said. “The roller skate song always brings the house down.”

Mr. Toussant jumped back in, “So yeah, I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years. I think the key to getting a job with an English degree is to find what you could see yourself enjoying further down the line and start in a related field. It doesn’t have to be fulfilling right off the bat, but you can work toward something that can make you happy.”

I had to admit it made sense. I could get by with a copyediting job. Save up money as I went along. Take night classes for an MFA. That sort of thing.

“So what are you doing now to keep busy?” he asked.

I told him about a bunch of creative non-fiction exercises I was doing for my blog, NOMENCLATURE.

“NOMENCLATURE, what’s that?” he asked. Ashley Brooke turned to me. She looked confused.

“Well, it’s, uh, the act or instance of naming,” I said.

“The instincts of naming, huh?” His eyes glazed over. “That’s interesting.”

I had to admit it was a lot less enthralling than moving plus-sized women’s girdles day-in and day-out.