Welcome to the Working Class

The mad scramble to secure a place in the upper middle class marches on at breakneck speed. People are more qualified than ever for jobs that seem to pay less than ever. (Luckily, I am a cynical, sarcastic, pain in the ass - and there's always a market for that.) Many of you - you responsible, educated, competent, self-reliant little baby boomers you - are, in fact, probably not qualified to manage an Arby's. You scoff, you laugh, you titter at the thought that you could not successfully navigate a full day of pushing meat-like products through a bullet proof sliding window. But, alas, though you may have the intellectual, culinary and math skills necessary to prosper in the field, it is entirely possible that you do not have the zest.

Consider for a moment the plight of my friend, Barbara. After many months of unsuccessful job hunting and recession-induced dementia, she lacklusterly applied at (oops, better not incite a lawsuit) Urby's. She assumed, and I think reasonably so, that fifteen years of managing a small country, her Rhodes scholarship, and her PhD in Marketing qualified her to schlepp curly fries to the thronging masses. Wrong. It turns out Barbara didn't test well enough for the position. Urby's, strangely enough, requires an IQ and personality test as part of the application process. Let's pause for a moment to consider the Urby's IQ test.

1. Underline the word that does not belong with the others:
a. condiment
b. egg bun
c. special sauce
d. walk-in freezer
e. revolver
2. Tongs are to bun warmer as ice machine is to:
a. Norway
b. sensitive skin
c. a metro-rail map of London
d. detailed instructions for building and using a hydrogen bomb
e. all of the above

Needless to say, Barbara coasted easily through this little intelligence assessment. It was the personality test she booted. Because of her impressive credentials, Barbara's application went all the way to the Czar of Urby's, who confirmed what the personality test revealed - she simply did not have enough zest.
Now, I have personally witnessed Barbara flock a Christmas tree, perform an autopsy, suckle a child, and make really good Jello salad while talking a wingless Cessna to a successful landing in a torrential downpour, and still have enough energy to sing She's A Brick House later in a karaoke bar. It turns out, though, that Barbara was beat out for the position by a seventeen year old yell leader (let's call her Cindy) who tested off the map in terms of zest. Zest is apparently the key to selling thinly sliced beef to carloads of drunken frat boys after the bars close at 2 a.m. Cindy (nah, let's call her Barbie), upon hearing the news, exclaimed zestfully, "No way, dog!" Barbara, upon hearing the same news, replied simply, "For the love of God."

The whole thing takes me back to a time in college when I tried to get a summer job stuffing envelopes. "You're overqualified," they said. "Who isn't?" I asked, in dismay. "People who can't work up saliva? Postal phobics? Igneous rocks?"

By the way, Barbara's managed to deal with the rejection. She's become a cynical, sarcastic, pain in the ass - and there's always a market for that.