Tying Isn’T Losing

By C. Roberts

It was not long ago when forty-something C. Roberts realized his career trajectory had just peaked at the cruising speed of a 1973 Pinto. Officially at the pinnacle of mediocrity, Roberts decided he wanted to make a real difference in his careerother than bringing donuts to share on his birthday. Tying Isnt Losing details ways in which he eventually achieved his goal.
In his compilation of humorous anecdotes, Roberts offers musings on a variety of subjects, including his life growing up in the Midwest and subsequent journey into manhood, during which he soon discovers that copping a marginal attitude does absolutely nothing to help move him from the slow lane into the fast track. As he details how he attended college on the extended plan and endured a series of mundane jobs that offered nothing but headaches and little mental stimulation, Roberts provides an eye-opening glimpse into how one man seeking his true destiny learns to look inward first in order to realize his dreams.
Tying Isnt Losing shares a compelling story that offers encouragement, empathy, and humor to anyone struggling with finding their way in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jul 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458204844

C. Roberts

C. Roberts is a middle-aged guy who struggles with wanting to be a superhero, but is instead chained to beer and sports. He currently lives in the Midwest, where he enjoys playing the guitar and waits for a record label executive to ring his doorbell.

Book preview

Tying Isn’t

Losing

C. Roberts

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Tying Isn’t Losing

Copyright © 2012 by C. Roberts.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0483-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0484-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0485-1 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912087

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Abbott Press rev. date: 07/11/12

Contents

Chapter 1      Wow, I’m Stuck

Chapter 2      How Did I Get Here?

Chapter 3      College, The Extended Plan

Chapter 4      First Real Job, Last Love

Chapter 5      Sabbatical

Chapter 6      Another Job, Attempting To Make A Difference

Chapter 7      New Job, On My Way

Chapter 8      New Position, Jet Fuel Optional

Chapter 9      Probably Not On My Way

Chapter 10      No More Snow

Chapter 11      Where’s the Snow Shovel

Resources

Um, not sure how to start, or where to go, but know how it will end, so 1/3 of it should be pretty good. In a nutshell, story of a Midwest guy trying to find his way in the corporate world, yes, you would think closing in on my mid-40’s I would have kind of figured that out by now. I have been told by several people, including a professional author, but what does she know, that my writing is very difficult to read. I don’t intend it that way, it’s just that I bore easily and my mind wonders, not my fault (common theme) and structure is way overrated, as I believe the hippies found out after they became accountants. Now to the real world…

Chapter 1

Wow, I’m Stuck

There is a boiling point, the threshold where you’re sitting (think frog in frying pan: Um, smells like chicken?), and then all of a sudden, it bubbles to the surface. Not exactly career Nirvana (With the lights out, it’s less dangerous.) (1); perhaps purgatory is a better description. (Hey, anybody seen my chains?) The realization that you’re stuck—that’s right; your career trajectory has just peaked at 1973 Pinto cruising speed. (Man, I hope nobody plows into my ass.) I reached this pinnacle of mediocrity and am here to help others. (And that’s why you don’t use the ‘MF’ combo during human resource events. Are you going to eat that?) Actually, it’s more of a whine fest, and who doesn’t like a good old-fashioned whine fest? ("Gout drama? That’s exactly why I hate going to your mom’s house for Thanksgiving!")

I’m sure there is a legitimate read regarding career growth somewhere (Oh the Places You’ll Go? Is that the way it works, Seuss? Huh, you just bust your ass in Happyville and crap just kind of ‘comes together’? Oh wait, here comes a postcard from the real world, and it says ‘that’s not good enough!’ Mommy, Grandpa smells like beer and is yelling at the Seuss book again.) but this is more of a don’t do this kind of guide, like reality TV.

That said, the beauty of being stuck is that one can still live a respectable life (Howdy, neighbor, um, your zipper’s down.) and more importantly, still have stuff. (Wow, I finally bought a TV bigger than my price-reduced house.) Anyway, being the garden-variety self-centered American, let’s bring the focus back to me, where it belongs. This is kind of a rant, so let me start over. (C’mon, man, you can’t put me in back in the womb? I need a life mulligan!) This great piece of literature (Honey, we’re out of toilet paper … never mind. Rip!) is one man’s struggle to make a difference in the professional world, outside of bringing in donuts for his birthday. (Hey, way to go short on the strawberry frosted … asshole! At least he’s one year closer to death.)

I have been told my writing is difficult to read (It made me want to gouge my eyes out! —C.R.) so just stay with me (too late), and you will be enriched with the knowledge bestowed upon you. (Alternatively, think of it as finishing a marathon: Man, that sucked; not exactly sure why I did that.) Being the low-attention-to-detail person that I am (Hey, look who got accepted to the city university), I’ll try to piece something coherent together, but chances are I’ll remember stuff out of context and try to jam it in. (And another thing that sucks—why can’t I choose between cable companies?) I’ll probably cross reference stuff as I remember (or embellish to make me look cool—something about hot chicks and Porsches), but don’t put this down. Keep in mind, you may stumble on something that triggers a certain kind of memory: That sounds vaguely familiar to someone I may have known … are there any fudge-striped cookies left? Also, I like to write poetry/musings, so that will periodically show up: Here I sit, all broken-hearted.

In high school, I was a grade-A jackass. (Book report? Ahh, man, haven’t they made that a movie yet? And that’s how Debbie did Dallas … questions?) For three years (no, I was not on an accelerated program, unless one considers a marginal existence of waking up around 11:37 a.m. during summer break, just in time to catch CHiPs while waiting for my evening retail job accelerated. By the way, CHiPs went downhill after original John left. I mean, the thirty-seven-car pile-ups just kind of lost something after John left). Anyway, the high school I attended (waking up is optional … cool!) was grades ten through twelve, as the ninth grade had its own building. In hindsight, this was a good thing, because it eliminated that awkward year of What the hell is going on? coupled with legal adults (i.e., seniors who were eighteen in number only). I managed to perfect the What is the least amount of effort I need to exert to make this come to a quasi-acceptable conclusion? My core competency, if you will. (What do you mean that standardized test says ‘retail?’)

Having successfully accomplished marginal effort (Look at me, world, I’m holding up the bell curve. Wow, it’s steep in the middle!), I was ready to graduate. Oh, I should probably mention, this is a learn from this moment. You should probably put in at least some effort in high school, at a minimum. Some people do, and they’re not really forgiving about helping you in the future. I know, people who work harder than you are soooo self-centered. Something about I worked hard, why should I just give you something? It’s like their brains quit working; it’s because I want it … dumbass! What more can I do, aside from working for it myself?

Chapter 2

How Did I Get Here?

After high school, I sat out a year, i.e., didn’t go to college. (Yes, I now understand the concept of opportunity cost, but thanks for the reminder.) One (or all) may consider this a mistake, but it probably served me well. ("Hello, TBS, um … can you only show the CHiPs episodes with the original John? Thanks, man.) Realizing daytime TV has its limits (keep in mind, this was before the Internet, which is probably a good thing, as that might have caused a bigger setback:  …and, um, that’s how I ended up with carpal tunnel syndrome on both wrists … are you going to eat that?) I thought maybe I should do something a tad more productive. Most of my friends (you can subtract the s from that, and um, drop most") were (was) going to college, and I was beginning to think this was a better idea than fast food.

Using experience as a guide, as one summer I had a job in the fast-food industry. That’s right, who’s blazing a trail now? (Hey there, swimsuit model, you want some of this? That’s right, I’m the assistant grill manager. You want an expert to squeeze your buns … OUCH!) Some highlights from my short-lived career in burger maintenance: On one occasion, I passed out at work, which is different from the office party. (I’ll tell you when I’ve had a-effing-’nuff! Burrrrrp! followed by crotch grab.) I passed out at Club Meat, after going several hours without eating. For some reason, inhaling grease all day made me sick. I’m sure there’s no long-term impact. (Mommy, Grandpa’s breath smells like Burger King. Can I kick him in the junk to see if there’s a toy?) Although I should market this diet plan via late-night infomercial: Hi, first we’d like to welcome all those who are just tuning in from the conclusion of our Girls Gone Wild promotion … I’m Howie D. Haughtaz, and I’m here to show you how to get into shape without any lame-ass exercise! Simply make your house smell like an eighteenth-century slaughterhouse.)

Another highlight: I had the privilege of taking out the grease bucket. I actually think that’s what its technical name was; there’s all kinds of fast-food lingo. If memory serves me correctly, I don’t think it helped me pick up any chicks. (Hey, doll, how ’bout you and your sweet ass stop by at midnight after I’m finished scrubbing C-pot? with C being code for chili. Yeah, I kind of played that one safe and kept the pickup line to myself). Anyway, it was a hot July afternoon, but I’m looking cool with my 115-pound frame, 87 pounds net my afro, pulling the grease bucket across the lot to its environmentally friendly new home, a bin next to the dumpster in the corner of the parking lot. Yes, I was kind of recognizing my spot in the world. (Next on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous!) I’m not sure if it was a stick, rock, or some sort of demonic force that was looking for a good laugh (Hey, Beelzebub, look at this tool! Wait, isn’t that they guy that tried to pick up that chick with something about a chili pot?), but somehow I knocked the grease bucket over in the parking lot, with some of it spilling over the drive-thru section. (I’ll have a super-size value meal, shake, and um … a car wash from all the crap I just ran over in your lot!)

It’s ironic how life can turn on you, like living a Camus novel. I mean, one minute I’m living the high life of dragging exhausted grease from fryers; the next I’m using a giant squeegee on blacktop while cars are being rerouted through the drive-thru.

Final highlight on my quest for fast-food dominance: (For a dollar more, you can accelerate a heart attack, I mean ‘Super-Size’ that.) It was a slow afternoon, and I was plotting how I was going to change the world, or thinking about what to do when my shift ended. (Oh yeah, that’s five hours of my life I’m not getting back. At least it was worth it. I said extra cheese … asshole!) The manager—quick note on The Manager, who was brought in from Tuck, or maybe it was the streets, I forget—Manager, which is an anagram for Ma anger (No, I don’t think I have child-related issues. I tell you what to effing do!) was in his early twenties and had a boss Mustang. At age sixteen, I was damned by nature to be envious of this car/testosterone boost (Like her, fry cook? Thought so, princess needs a new set of tires every nine days … listen, she’s squealing them now … SCREEEEEEECH!) all the while thinking to myself, Man, when I’m running this dump, I’m getting a kickass boss Mustang. I’ll probably get ‘Tang vanity plate. Yeah, chicks will probably like that one … VROOOOM!

As you get older, you realize (remember, we all have our own learning curves; mine is just a little flatter: f(x) = dumbass + E) that it’s easier to buy a nice car when you live with your parents. I guess I am thankful I’m without a Porsche. Ma Anger would get into power moods (I know, it’s really hard to imagine a guy in his early twenties with limited education getting off on yelling at teenagers, but try to stay with me for a minute) and make demands. My favorite power play was the Booom, I want it now. Shunning the yelling tactic, he opted for the soothing but demanding tone. He was a true leader before his time, as he was able to strike a chord, a musical pitch that moved you from indifference. Despite being from the Midwest, somehow he managed—wait, he couldn’t manage anything; somehow the word boom had a Southern drawl when he said it.

Some examples of his communication skills: (Hey, Covey … you missed one!) When I say Coke … booom, I want it now. When I say fries … booom, I want it now. When I say burger … booom, I want it now. Unfortunately, it always required multiple examples. Somehow the Booom, I want it now just didn’t sink in with the first one. Hmm, sounds like he wants fries, but I’m not exactly sure when. I’ll just listen; see if I can ‘Holmes’ my way through it. Okay, he wants a soft drink. There’s no specific timeframe, but I noticed Booom has been used again … is it explosive? Let me listen some more … Eureka! He wants it now, hence the Booom! Maybe I can use this to my advantage. ‘I said I want a raise … booom, I want it now … Booom I want off early … Booom, have Suzy wear a see-through shirt.

Me, I found it highly effective. (In a minute. My left nad itches.) and wondered why it never made its way to a presidential debate: "And if elected, I’ll balance the budget, lower taxes, increase entitlement programs and … booom, I’ll do it now (followed by roar of applause, or boss Mustang).

On this occasion, Ma Anger brought his A game. Using his business skills that were refined via the University of Hard Knocks (it’s kind of coming back; I don’t think he went to Tuck), he made an executive-level decision (relative term: Honey, do you think you can salvage these boxers?) to send me out to pick up trash around the building. That’s right, only your best and brightest get sent out to pick up trash around the building. We’re like the Navy SEALs of fast food, doing a little trash recon. (Alpha One, this is Oscar G out in lot. We’ve got a bag with a half-finished shake rattle and roll. Requesting Delta Team, sir.) Enjoying my reprieve from the slaughterhouse, I’m taking my time with this much-heralded task. Plus it allows me to optimize the jealousy factor with co-workers/fellow prisoners: Man, why does he get all the good jobs? I want to pick up trash … I said I want to pick up the effing trash! … Sorry, sir, per your ‘booom,’ I’ll go finish scrubbing the C-pot.

It’s midsummer (Thanks Felix, love those four notes!), and I’m looking mighty fine (in a last man on Earth and the baboon ran off kind of way) walking around the lot, picking up trash. Surprisingly, fast food patrons are not the cleanest folk on Earth. (Somebody needs a snack before heading to Wal-Mart?) There’s a relatively busy road on one side of the restaurant/hell’s food box, and I’m near the road, scooping up the goods. A convertible with four ladies in their early twenties starts beeping and hollering at me. I know, you probably think I would be used to this attention, but this time it caught me off guard. (Hmm, what should I do, rip off my shirt and show them my pecs underdevelopment or quietly turn around?) I gave a regular smile. I was wise enough not to flash the conservatively used (mainly in bathroom mirror) you want some of this? grin. Something told me to abort trash recon and get into the building; the enemy has become hostile. As coolly as one can look weighing 115 pounds, wearing a striped shirt and 1930s hat, I slowly walked to the door in a my work here is done, ladies kind of way. Open door, go back to grill; we’ve got your sanitary conditions right here, Health Department.

Ma Anger, well-versed in the usual time required for grounds trash removal, asks, Finished already? Thought about ladies beeping and whistling at me, answered accordingly: Yep. That about rounds out my fast-food experience. If I think of anything else, I’ll come back to it.

The next job was pity job, and really, aren’t those the best? Look at him, he has no discernible skill … just pay him something and make him feel like he belongs, you know, like an extra on a reality show. He’s too fat and white to use in a hip-hop video. My sister managed apartments and was kind enough to let me do some maintenance stuff, mainly mow grass, as I wasn’t competent enough to handle the big jobs. Um, so uh, change a light bulb in the hallway … delta hallway light bulb, making big moves in the light bulb arena district … is there a manual? This wasn’t that bad, because I was pretty much my own boss, kind of liked it. Booom, when I say start the mower.

Some highlights of this career starter (Okay, so you want to run GE’s Medical Division. Let’s see, it says you know how to mow grass … college experience, oh, there it is … so, according to your résumé, you think college is—and I’m reading directly from this, ‘for bookworms and’ … I’m not going to dignify the ‘P’ word, Mr. Badazz). One time, I mowed over a snake and started spazzing out when it was jumping around. There really wasn’t an HR department or formal training regarding so your dumb ass mowed over a snake. I just waited for it to stop and then threw it in the bushes. I figured nature’s pretty good at solving that one. Next on Nova.

Another highlight was mowing, looking good doing it, and thinking about flashing the you want some of this smile to the ladies occupying the pool chairs. But a bee was coming at me. I swatted at it, as I’m ninja-like when it comes to bees. You want a piece of this, bumble … ker? For whatever reason, psycho bee kept coming at me, stung my arm, and I ran backward into the building. Thankfully, only people at the intersection saw that, as it wasn’t visible from the pool.

My last highlight involves mowing during cicada season. For those unaware (alternatively, if anyone’s still reading: Hi Mom, I love you! Can I borrow $20?) Cicadas are giant grasshopper-looking bugs that come out every seventeen years in this section of the world. They’re attracted to noise, so mowing with them around was really fun! Oh look, it’s like I’m re-enacting one of the plagues! After a hard day of mowing, I was heading home (read: parents’ home), driving with the windows down. Normally it would be to show off my tunes (Hey, everybody at the light, enjoying the song I picked out for you?), but this time it was due to my non-working air conditioner. That thing crapped out a long time ago, and the $39.73 I had to my name—closer to $19.51 after you net out the import CD whose arrival I was likely awaiting, using probabilities at the time (z = 1.96). While I was at the light, a cicada flew into my super-cool Ford EXP, which a special person in my life referred to as: E-X-Piece of crap. (Ford quit making them, in case you’re wondering). I started wigging out at the intersection as this monster-size bug was flying around my car. No, they can’t sting and don’t really bite, but scary nonetheless! The car was manual transmission, which isn’t quite as exciting as nocturnal emission (Wow, maybe I should watch NatGeo more often.) and I stalled at the light as I was engaged in an epic bug battle. Constant beeping behind me brought me back to reality. (Green means go … mad swatter!)

Like a light—one that flickers from a cheap lamp you have to shake a few times and hope it stays on—a transformation was beginning to take place. (Ahh, man, he’s a giant bug … kick his dumb ass out of here!) Working one day a week mowing grass (yes, I recognize how pathetic that is, but thanks for pointing it out), living with my parents, and really, what doesn’t say winner like closing in on twenty and living with parents? (Hey, which one of you fine ladies is coming home with me? But you have to be quiet, because my parents, unlike me, have to work tomorrow … more champagne?)

That’s usually when I would wake up. Ahhh, man, just a dream? Well, at least I don’t have to mow today … what’s Ponch up to? I was thinking that maybe, perhaps in some twisted way, there was more to life. Maybe it was up to me to get to that more part. Maybe, just maybe, I should move my ass a little more. (Mom, the remote’s out … Oh, here comes the ‘I was at work all day’ speech … thanks, ‘Gettysburg,’ now can you turn the channel?) I decided to go to college; yes, a year’s worth of daytime television prodded me to do something thirteen years’ worth of school couldn’t. (Wow, I’ve reached the point where I would rather embrace graph paper than watch another episode of CHiPs!)

After determining Yail wasn’t good enough for me (Dear Mr. Badazz, After we finished laughing, we used your application to clean vomit from a frat house.… In conclusion, it’s spelled YALE, and you’ll be admitted when Beelzebub drops you off from a snowmobile.), I enrolled at the local school near the city. Being state-sponsored, they couldn’t laugh at me—or at least not in my face. I started with the grand ambition of being a teacher. (I still don’t get it; ‘those who can, do?’ WTF does that mean?) The idea backing this career choice (Hmm, fast food sucks, retail sucks, mowing grass over snakes sucks … maybe I could influence young people: ‘No, no, no, you’re holding the pipe wrong!’) was that I really wasn’t interested in much. I know, it seems counterintuitive to not be interested in anything and still be stuck.

Another learning moment: try to find something you’re kind of good at, or even better, kind of try on stuff. Regarding teaching, the idea was that I’ve gone to school, and it didn’t suck as much as my other jobs (Let that be a lesson to the rest of you reptiles!), so I could probably do that job. Plus, having summers, long winter breaks, and a week off in the spring, that fit my current lifestyle. (Mom, that TV beer isn’t going to walk itself over to me. How many times do we have to go through this exercise? Man, and you thought I was lazy?) I did kind of like history. Yes, I understand the contradictory statements of not being interested and kind of like, but life is more interesting, kind of, with contradictions. (I never said I wanted to see Suzy topless. Is there a thought bubble over me?) Anyway, I liked history, but even my dumb ass recognized a history degree probably leads to You want to Super-Size that? Andrew Jackson would. Thus, I didn’t want to take four (or six) years to go back to square one, although I probably would