The Job Soul Search

(This post is dedicated to my friend Megan Good. Who first came up with the pun about "Airing" my thoughts and was also present for the "April's Fool" story before I callously chose to omit her from the retelling. Megood, you deserve better.)

Right now, I am a second year graduate student who is furiously sending out job applications. For some of these vacancies I'm overqualified, for some I'm not sure I even want to work in the field, for others I've never even heard of the agency/company to which I'm sending my information. Well, for those of you (un)comfortably in the working world, I will reassure you that this is now a bit of a harrowing process. A friend of mine actually admitted being jealous of my two rejection emails, because at least I was hearing something back from potential employers.

Through all of this, it's all too easy to lose sight of what is really important. Why we go to work and care about where we go to do it. I was pondering this concept today, and I remembered an old cliché rationalization that was popular when I was an undergrad: "I just want to help people."

I can be cynical, so I always translated this response as "I want to make a lot of money, but I'm too socially-aware to say that out loud."

The honest truth, though, is that this is a valid response. We go to work because we want to help people: to help ourselves, to help our families, to help our clients/customers/coworkers. We may not all be handing out blankets to hurricane refugees, but we're helping. As I thought this, I remembered a story from my bar tending days that I hadn't thought of for a while:

I made friends with two of my Saturday Regulars when I was working at Capital City Brewing Company. They were a really cool, young couple who came in for drinks and nachos (with a whole bunch of stuff on the side, I used to remember it all but now I've forgotten) most Saturday nights. This was usually not a terribly busy night for me so we always got a chance to talk and became quite friendly. I even invited them to my wedding and they came (and bought Holly the pasta maker that had been discontinued since we'd registered for it).

One night, as they sat down, Emily (name definitely changed) ordered a ginger ale. In the months I'd known them, she'd never had anything weaker than our lightest beer so I was certainly surprised by her temperance. I gave her an "am I dreaming?" look and she blushed.

"Well, we haven't told anyone yet, but I guess you should know...I'm pregnant."

I was very excited for them because I knew this was something they'd been working towards for a while. I was also quite flattered that I, their Saturday barkeep, knew about their bundle of joy before their parents and family members. The rest of the night progressed as normally as a Saturday night at a bar can.

Two weeks later, Tom (name also changed) stopped by the bar alone during a busy Thursday happy hour. He stood behind the full bar, among a mass of young professionals, and sipped a couple of pale ales while watching TV. I was busy and didn't have much time to chat, but as he paid his tab he caught my attention.

"Brett, so you know, when Emily and I are in here again, don't raise your eyebrow if she orders a drink...we lost the baby."

Such is the danger of knowledge I suppose. I got to be a part of their joy, and I was now a part of their loss.

Two days later, they appeared for their typical Saturday ritual. They sat at the bar for a few hours and each enjoyed a few beers and several different appetizers. It was a slower night so I spent time chatting and joking with them. I tried to make it a normal night at the bar, let them get out from whatever cloud was hanging over their heads.

When the time came to pay the check, they found they'd gotten the best deal in the history of the DC bar scene. They spent about three hours in the bar and had only a happy hour nachos and a diet coke to pay for on their bill. I'd done everything I knew how: comped items, used my own meal allowance and even thrown some money from my tip jar (Sorry Benni, I know we pooled our tips but I always made more anyway) in to cover the cost.

I dropped the check with their credit card receipt to sign and went about my business. I really didn't want to make a big deal out of it and had other things I should've been doing anyway (trying to make back all the money I'd lost the bar). As I was standing at the service bar and Tom was putting his coat on and Emily approached me alone.

"Brett, I just wanted to thank you for making this week a little bit better."

I appreciated her thanks and they went on her way. That story has always stuck with me. I was just a bar tender, a guy who worked late nights and knew how to make a good Cosmopolitan, but I know that in that moment I got to make someone's life a little better. I got to "help someone." I was Sam Malone but got to pretend--for a second--to be Mother Teresa.

Though I've lost touch with them I still keep up on the growth of their family through the miracle of Facebook. I don't know if they still visit my old bar but I'm sure that wherever they're going they've found some other bartender to pour their beer and put their guacamole on the side.

They now have a beautiful son.

So, now, I'm going to keep looking for jobs. There's probably not a "dream job" out there right now and I don't exactly know where I'm going to fall. I promise, though, that wherever I land I will never again commit the sin of believing that there is any job in which I can't help someone: no work that is invalid.