I Don't Wanna Work...

Terri and I had only been married a couple years when I decided quitting my full-time job and going back to school was a great idea.

I convinced Terri to go along with this ill-conceived notion by explaining I wanted what she had—a career she loved. And y’all know me: once she agreed, whenever I took a break from studying, I’d walk around the house singing the Todd Rundgren song: “I don’t wanna work / Just wanna bang on the drum all day” just to keep her on her toes. She didn’t see the humor in it.

I did want what she had, though. Terri’s had the same career since high school. Since high school, my “careers” have been:  dishwasher, sold shoes, drove a forklift, musician, window washer,  cube jockey, auctioneer, real estate broker, self-employed business owner, teacher, writer, and countless side hustles. This sort of commitment level history notwithstanding, Terri stood by me, and eventually I ended up here: teacher and writer (although I still doubt the writer part on many days).

My first story was published in 1998 and I taught my first class in 2001. I have now been a writer and teacher longer than any other “career” I’ve had. The funny thing about my current career, especially the teaching part, is that students ask me all the time about their futures, advice on career paths, suggestions and options for making a living with a degree in hand. If they only knew…

I’m not the one to ask, but this past weekend, I met the guy who is. I went hiking in the Linville Gorge. There are no easy hikes in the Gorge, but every one of them rewards you with several spots that force you to stop, not because you’re beat, but because the view leaves you gobsmacked. This guy was standing in just such a spot, staring at the vista. I was on the way back to the trailhead and I’d stood exactly where he was standing earlier that day.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Makes me sad, though,” he answered.

He did look wistful. I noticed the red backpack, the beige shirt, then the patch and insignia. “You’re a ranger?” It was as much statement as question, mostly an acknowledgment.

“Wilderness Ranger,” he answered. “Today’s my last weekend of work. I’m off for the next couple months. I hate it. Look at this,” he poked his chin toward the view, “this is my office.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love teaching and writing, but as soon as he said it, the look on his face, the view, all of it, the full weight of what he said, I understood him and for that one second I hated that I had to come “in” to work on Monday. So, when my students ask in the future, I’ll tell them: find a job that puts the same look on your face that guy had on his and you’ll be fine.

Or, you could always bang on the drum all day.

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