A new challenger appears: 1

I’m a 55-year-old man who’s out of work at the moment, technically speaking. No, I‘m not lazy; I’m only back in school for the first time since 1996.

I was 54 when I started school. And I’ll be 57 by the time I get my degree, if you can believe that.

Some nights I wake up around 2, 3 o’clock in the morning, asking myself what the fuck I’m doing. What if this doesn’t work? What then? I think to myself.

I’ve always been a bit of a late bloomer, I suppose. It wasn’t until my mid 30’s that I felt the thread was finally in the needle for me. A career path presented itself! Man, it was thrilling.

I really ate it up, too. Pushed myself. Owned my life in a way I never had previously…

For the ensuing 10, 15 years I felt I’d finally figured out my goddamned life. I was sure as I’ve ever been about myself. I knew what I was and who I was. Knew what I was capable of. The hard work of life was finished for me, I thought. I was on the top of the mountain. Nothing can bring me down now.

Then it all collapsed. The media landscape imploded. At this point it’s virtually impossible to make a living as a writer.

I tried podcasting for awhile. Had a whiff of success there. I sold my podcast to a big media company. Then the podcasting business changed, too. Celebrities took over the whole thing. The big media company dropped a bunch of podcasts, including mine.

I was numb for awhile. Saw an ad online for a bartender at Nordstroms. Figured I could mix cosmopolitans for bluechip betties. Tried to call the store. No answer. No one answers fucking phones anymore. Went to the store in downtown Vancouver when it opened first thing in the morning. I wore a houndstooth sport jacket. I connected with the manager, this share-dressed woman in fashionable heels who was 15, maybe 20 years my junior. She looked at my resume and shrugged. I’ll never forget when she said, “OK, so you haven’t worked in a restaurant in 30 years…” Honestly, I didn’t know it had been 30 bloody years since I waited tables at an upscale country club in downtown Chicago. How in the world had 30 years gone by?

Then this sharp-dressed woman told me that if they did hire me, they’d have to train me like I was a new employee.

The manager was nice enough about this, told me that she would keep my resume, promised to let me know if a trainee position became available. Her words fortified me with a very modest amount of hope. Very, very modest. Still, it was something, right? Then I exited the store, and before I had even reached the street, I received an email from her, correcting her words. There was no chance whatsoever for Nordstom’s to hire me. She told me to work in a smaller cafe for awhile, then to circle back with her in six months or a year.

“Six months or a year”? I pulled to the side in one of the brightly lit corrdidors of the lobby and I doubled over. My legs wobbled underneath me. It took every bit of strength I had to not throw up my breakfast cereal on my crappy pair of cap-toe Florscheims.

OK, more to follow.