today: 12.5.99
every day

It has recently occurred to me that I have reached a milestone point in my professional career. I wasn't paying attention and I guess it just happened while I was enjoying a plate of Eggos or reading Crack'd Magazine: I don't use my résumé anymore. I occasionally update it, more as an exercise than a necessity; a way to record what I've been spending my days on for the last 8-12 months. But I no longer depend on it, as if it were the only way to delight the scrutinizing eyes of Chili's Restaurants, Inc. management or any other potential employers. No, my résumé has passed from active duty to historical document, and I couldn't be happier.

And it isn't as if I've settled into any jobs that render résumés obsolete, or at least uninteresting. ("June 97 - Present: Creatively evaded upper management, facilitated company-wide Fantasy Baseball League and developed and executed Funny Hat Fridays for a fortune 500 market research consulting firm.") In fact, I've had no less than 9 employers this year, none of whom even thought to ask me for a résumé. It seems my particular set of inter-personal and professional skills caters to a very particular type of client possessing a more, shall we say, sophisticated sense of character judgment.

Instead of wracking my nerves, sweaty-palmed and cotton-mouthed, greeting human resources personnel in the lobby of another anonymous corporate satellite office, I am meeting people with exotic names, like Rolf and Carlos and Lord Xiao, beneath picaresque wharfs or in the hidden back-room offices of Pakistani discos. These men and women have no time to print up business cards, only to be ceremoniously exchanged across conference room table tops and discarded hours later. These men and women do not possess Audix phone extensions; many of them do not even possess last names, or social security numbers·or a full set of teeth. Or if they do possess a full set of teeth, they're not neat, flat teeth like the kind squatting in the mouths of every single boring executive in America. They are usually daring or unusual teeth, capped in gold or filed down into dangerous points, and dipped in lethal poison or the like.

I'm lucky. My problem with authority has paid off, in a way. I have a lucrative career. I travel to exotic locales, and eat suckling pig without ever having to unjam a printer misfeed or scramble for 3/4-inch binder clips. My hours are not exactly flexible - sometimes requiring that I report to work at an agonizingly precise moment, usually coinciding with a motorcade arriving at a specific street intersection or a dignitary exiting a stretch limousine or John Denver flying through a particular mountain passage. But the fringe benefits are unparalleled.

And on the rare occasion that a résumé or professional references are requested, I generally raise both fists and rotate them slowly, allowing my interviewer to examine the intricate map of deep scar tissue cross-crossing the striking surfaces of my knuckles. A minute might pass, possibly more, and the interviewer will invariably say the same thing: "How will this help you deliver pizzas and Crazy Bread more efficiently?" And I slump back into the folding chair facing his desk, expel a thoughtful sigh from the back of my mind, and laugh maniacally, dreaming about beginning another glorious unemployed day with my satellite television system as soon as security removes me from this chair.