As you read this today, the window of opportunity to obtain a large number of golden tickets has already passed. If the stationary with "Congratulations" nestled in the salutation isn't coming, don't bother joining an honor society now; have a Coke and smile.
To many, that postmarked letter signifies a major role in a Dickensian fable, or at least the modern remake involving 35 years of corporate serfdom and a pilfered 401(k). Obtaining the ticket seems to entail all the backbiting of a major Hollywood production, and from what I've seen, the choice of font on high-stock paper can nearly eclipse the sum of one's experiences.
My father must have changed his address too often for the tickets to find him, and I don't think anyone told him he had been missed. When I let slip some time ago of an insecurity about a career in journalism, he seemed surprised to have to tell me the solution: "Send the Buffalo News a story you wrote ... or maybe that Rolling Stone you used to read."
I'd known beforehand that my dad had little knowledge of my incognito mission to unhitch myself from the family caravan and blaze a completely different trail; I didn't know he had no idea of the outlying country. What I needed was one of those tickets, one that would give me 18 years of neurotic parents and private education in a single leaflet of promise.
My cousin Seth had worked at Wired magazine during his college experience as a layout intern, and his father, a publishing executive, said he'd been in constant contact with his friends and editors ever since. I was completely assured that upon finishing his ninth year of undergraduate philosophy studies, he'd be on the next plane to San Francisco. The morning after I arrived home for winter break sophomore year, I called an employment agency and set up an appointment.
Waiting in line behind Gus, a retired forklift operator, I contemplated whether I had "intermediate" or "beginning" Excel skills, and more importantly, what bar near the Syracuse paper offices I could get into with the writers. Sadly, the Post-Standard was obviously consumed with covering the Carousel Mall debacle, but The Business Record, upstate New York's number one middle-executive bi-monthly publication, was looking for an intern.
It's too bad I never made it out to Tully's with any of the editors, but after sitting in a "refurbished work area" (closet) and "researching over 100 industries for our top February stories" (calling logging companies in Ithaca, printing out reams of "About Us" Web pages), I only had enough energy to stumble past an irate bus driver on the wrong side of Dunkin' Donuts. I'm not quite sure what career track I was on, but it mostly involved un-jamming fax machines and developing a weakened stomach while stealing back some dignity through constant coffee pot emptying.
My dad picked me up every day from the bus stop and I delivered to him daily the Cliffs Notes of what was wrong with my life, our family and the corporate world. "Jesus, Kev-boy, you're 45 at 19," he'd say very often.
All my life, my dad had tried keep me from having to scrape my way up, though he didn't quite know how I could do that. The only contact of his I'd ever met was Simye, an Icelandic fishmonger. He'd moved his way from a tough neighborhood in Long Island to a farm in Sherburne, from an honored tank leader in Vietnam to National Guard chef, and eventually to owning his own fish distribution company, the largest in Central New York. To this day he probably believes New York Times editors sent in an article about a broken fire hydrant when they were young.
At the end of applying to numerous internships and learning the meaning of the word "humble," all I can hope is that he's right. Facing off against my own friends for positions, making graven images of some Ultra Kevin on the same Word resume wizard as millions of young hopefuls, all I can think of is how, somewhere along the line, my first full-time job became my 17th year of school.
Unlike my dad, I probably won't ever end up with a carpeting job in Florida. If I end up able to support a household with two children (one of whom is provably bright and creative ... the other one), however, I'll be thankful enough to have somehow snuck on the train without a ticket.
