The Limits of Fiction

Yesterday I had a temp gig where I was given a stack of resumes printed off Monster and CareerBuilder and asked to call the poor suckers people to let them know about an exciting opportunity to work Airport Security at Kansas City International. (I don't live in Kansas City, no. But I know now that the Kansas City area codes are 913 and 816, just in case y'all were wondering.)

I did this all day long. They asked if I could come back today. I said, "Oh, darn. I've got an appointment. So sorry." And I do need to do my taxes. But I don't need to work at this place again, not for $10 an hour. (Although Catholic guilt and my shrinking checking account necessitated me saying "maybe Friday." Catholic guilt sucks.)

But this post is not really about my misery. No, it's about the fact that while reading these resumes -- and the term must be used loosely in this instance -- I realized that I cannot write stories as sad as these. I can never equal the pathos of a resume headlined "Excellance," or of someone who proudly states "I'm well educated in computer literance." I will never be that good. The longer ones, like the ones where you see how someone graduated high school, opened a health food store and waited tables to keep it open for eight years until it collapsed under Bush's dreams of worldwide Christianity and now I'm calling this poor woman to let her know that she can wave a magnetic wand at people for $13 an hour (that's right, more than I was making to recruit them, but enough about me) -- the longer ones, I could almost write.

But not "Excellance." It has pathos, it has irony, it has dark humor. It's a thing of beauty. It can never be equalled.