Story 222: When I Grow Up….

            Child, Age 6: Momma, Poppa: when I grow up, I’m going to be a doctor, a police officer, a ballet dancer, and a firefighter.

            Mother: That’s great honey – now get ready for school.

            Child, Age 6: Aw, do I have to?

            Father: If you want to have any of those careers, yes.

            Child, Age 6: OK – oh, and I also want to be an international spy.

            Mother: Well isn’t that nice.  (Mentally reviews toys currently in the house for ones that may need to be relocated)

            Child, Age 10: Mom?  How much schooling do I need to be a barrister?

            Mother: That’s in England, sweetie: if you want to be a lawyer here, then you have to go to law school after college.

            Child, Age 10: Oh.  How about if I want to be a lion tamer?

          Mother: I believe that’s a mix between being a part of the family business and on-the-job training.

            Child, Age 10: Oh.  I think I want to be a politician.

           Mother: If you want, but be prepared to have half your constituents hate you and the other half asking you for favors all the time.

            Child, Age 10: Cool.

           Child, Age 18: Dad, do you know who I should contact if I want to work for a newspaper after college?

          Father: That’s great – I think I know a few people, and I’m sure your school’s career center can help with an internship.  Interested in being a reporter, eh?

          Child, Age 18: I actually want one day to be in charge of the Obituaries.  I find all those stories absolutely fascinating.

            Father: …OK.

            Father: So, how’s life in the obits?

           Child, Age 20: Kind of limiting, really.  They have me also doing features on local restaurants and community carnivals, and the whole thing day in, day out, week in, week out, and on and on is getting a bit repetitive.  I don’t think I can stay in this business for the next half-century, if I even last that long.

            Father: Have you been looking into anything else, then?  What about your goals way-back when of being a lawyer, or a doctor?  Or a ballet dancer?

            Child, Age 20: Dad, I haven’t wanted to be a ballet dancer since I was a kid!

            Father: And what are you now?

            Child, Age 20: Dad!  But seriously, I don’t know, maybe I’ll try doing the doctor thing.

            Father: “Try”??

            Child, Age 22: So Mom, hate to have to tell you this, but I decided to take some courses to be a CPA now.

            Mother: Your major was English.

            Child, Age 22: Yeah, but that can translate into almost any career – that’s the beauty of it.

           Mother: If that’s what you really want.  You do realize that this round of schooling’s on you, yes?

            Child, Age 22: Huh?  I mean, yeah, I knew that.

         Child, Age 30: Mom, Dad: I wanted to let you know that I can’t stand being a paralegal anymore and I decided to go back to school to become a physician’s assistant.  Or a nurse practitioner – you know, whichever.

           Mother: That’s great, hon, but are you sure you want to change careers so drastically?  It’s a lot more schooling, and what if you wind up not liking it?

            Father: Or you’re just no good at it?  (Mother lightly smacks him)

           Child, Age 30: I’m sure it’ll all be worth it.  I’ve always wanted to help people, and I know I’ll never be able to do the whole doctor bit so I figured this would be the next best thing.

          Mother: It’s going to be a lot of work and dedication, though, plus malpractice insurance – what if you get sued? –

            Child, Age 30: But Mom, it’s such a noble profession!

            Child, Age 35: So, I think me wanting to be a P.A. was a bit of a mistake.

            Mother: How’s that, dear?

          Child, Age 35: Turns out that, try as I might, I really don’t like people that much, and I’m really not that good at medicine.  Or math.  Or stressful situations.  Or life.

            Father: All right, you’ve figured that out, now what?

           Child, Age 35: I think I’ll go join the Peace Corps, or some other worthwhile cause.  Maybe then I’ll feel fulfilled.

            Mother: What about going back to journalism, hm?

            Child, Age 35: I guess, if I wanted to kill my soul!

            Mother: Don’t be dramatic; you have to do something with your life, though.

            Child, Age 35: I know, you’re right.  It’s the whole paradox of choice that’s getting me down, is all.

            Father: I can solve that for you by enlisting you in the reserves.

            Child, Age 35: That would be something.  Yes, I think that will do nicely –

            Father: Thank goodness.

            Child, Age 35: – for now.

Story 221: Now They Have You; or, Trapped in Telemarketer Prison

            In the supermarket, Shopper had just finished with the checkout line and is on his way to the exit with his one bag when his eye naturally is caught by a huge sign above a table.  The sign reads “GUESS THE NUMBER OF PIECES OF CANDY TO WIN!!!”; on the table itself is a tall jar filled with the candy, a box marked “GUESSES,” and a tear-off pad for customers to enter their guess and contact information.

            Shopper stares at all these for a few moments.

Shopper: (Shrugs) Hm.  Couldn’t hurt.

He leans down to write in everything the form asks.  He views the jar at different angles with twitchy looks on his face as he tries to calculate the number, at one point picking up the jar to count pieces with his pen before shaking his head and setting it back down.  He then writes “365” on a whim, tears off the page, and places it into the box.

            Guess Box: (Demonically) HA.  HA.  HA.

            Shopper freezes with his eyes widening as he stares at the box.  He looks around to see if he is being pranked, then stares at the box some more.  He then thinks maybe he is losing track of the seasons, as his 30+-year-old brain has been doing so more and more lately.

            Shopper: Is it Halloween?  (Looks out through the store exit and sees the snow falling on the parking lot, then turns back to the box) Guess not.

            He leaves the store and goes home.  In his living room, he takes out his laptop and signs onto his e-mail: his Inbox displays “1,750” as the number of new messages, all received within the past hour.

            Shopper: (As he scrolls through the neverending list) Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa-how did this happen?!  Did I get hacked?!  (He thinks back to the supermarket incident) Oh no, I gave them my e-mail address.  And now they have me.

TWO HOURS LATER

            He got into a rhythm of selecting “Unsubscribe,” hitting Ctrl+V to paste his e-mail address, selecting “Submit,” and then “Delete” on the original e-mail for each and every one received and kept receiving, until he finally caught up.

            Shopper: There, they can’t e-mail me ever again, according to their code of honor.

          He watches in horror as e-mails from brand-new addresses begin appearing in his Inbox, increasing the count to 20, 75, 280, 900 –

            Shopper: (Slamming his laptop cover down, as if that would do anything.  Whispers) They’ve adapted.

            His phone vibrates, signaling it has finished charging as it had sat on the lamp table ever since he had gotten home.  He jumps slightly, then unplugs it, starts it up, and unlocks it.  He sees that he has 225 missed calls.

            Shopper: (Slowly shaking his head in denial as he scrolls through the random area codes, then selects “Delete All” for them and for the 225 voicemails) Ha!  In your face!  Oh, wait, that last one was Mom.  (The phone then rings; he sees that it is a local number and answers it) Hello?

            Voice: Hello, you’re hard to get in touch with – we’ve called you 17 times.  You’ve stayed at one of our resorts in the past and –

            Shopper: That’s a filthy lie and I hate you!

            He disconnects and triumphantly blocks the number.  The phone immediately rings again.

            Shopper: (As if nothing has happened) Hello?

            Voice: Hello, you’re hard to get in touch with –

            Shopper: You think that was hard?!  (Blocks the new number)

          There is a knocking on the front door: he stares at it in fear as his phone rings again.  He chucks the phone onto the couch and opens the door to see a courier holding an electronic clipboard and a leash attached to a large animal.

            Courier: Hello – did you order an alpaca and a deed to the farm where he lives?

            Shopper: NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!  (Slams the door and triple-locks it)

            Courier: (Looks at the clipboard) Oh I see, this is for next door.

            Back at the supermarket, Shopper returns to the scene and stares at the empty place where the table had stood.  An Employee then approaches him from his blind side.

            Employee: Hi!  Can I help you?

          Shopper: Yes, actually: I was just wondering if there is any way out of the telemarketing prison to which you people have consigned me?!

            Employee: Oh, were you the one who filled out the “Guess the Candy” card?  Be right back.

           Shopper stands there in impotent rage-filled confusion until Employee returns with the candy jar.

            Employee: Congratulations, you won!  (Hands him the unwieldy jar)

            Shopper: I… won?  This is the prize?

            Employee: It sure is!  Enjoy!

            Shopper: But I thought it was going to be, I dunno, like a gift card or something?

            Employee: …Why?

           Shopper: You’re right, never mind; my real point is, how could you people completely sell all my information to those scum-sucking, low-living, dedicated-dialing –

          Employee: You mean from the card you filled out?  It said on the sign what was going to happen.

Employee whips out the sign where, in small print at the bottom, it reads: “By entering this contest you agree that your contact information will be sold by this store to everyone.”

Shopper: Again I ask, how could you?!

Employee: What, you think we’d just give something away?  What business on Earth does that?  I must say, though, everyone else had the same opinion you do, but you were the only one who actually filled out a card – we were five minutes away from scrapping the whole display when you showed up.

Shopper: And now I’m trapped forever.

            Employee: As a consolation for your negative experience, I can offer to sign you up to receive store coupons, if you like.

            Shopper: How often would I be receiving them?

           Employee: Every week, until you die.  (Smiling wildly as he looks at her in terror) Or until our company goes out of business, which nowadays, probably will happen first.

            Back at his house, Shopper slumps onto an armchair and begins slowly eating the candy from the unwieldy jar.  His phone rings; he cringes as he picks it up to check the screen, then relaxes.

            Shopper: Hi, Mom.

            Mom’s Voice: Are you all right?  You haven’t been answering and your voicemail’s full.

            Shopper: Yes it is, and on a related note right now I’m trying to give myself diabetes to speed things along.

            Mom’s Voice: Don’t do that, hon – they’ll take your foot, just like Uncle Morty.

            Shopper: (Looks at his foot, then tosses the candy jar away) Do you know how to deal with a telemarketer problem?  As in a really bad, extreme telemarketer problem?

            Mom’s Voice: I just don’t answer them, thanks to Caller ID and spam filters; they usually give up and move on to new prey, those poor saps.

            Shopper hears noises outside his front door.

            Shopper: Thanks, Mom – I’ll call you later.         

            Mom’s Voice: Good luck, sweetie!  When in doubt, just say “Not today, evildoers!”

            They say good-bye and he disconnects the call; when he goes outside, he sees the mail carrier struggling with piles of envelopes.

            Shopper: Hello.

          Mail Carrier: (Relieved) Oh, hi, here you go, thanks!  (Dumps the envelopes into a jumbo garbage bag and hands that over to Shopper) Man, who did you tick off?  (Does not wait for an answer and skips away, chuckling)

           Shopper: (Peers into the 40-gallon bag) I wonder if anyone would believe me if I told them this is why I threw out my bills.