Oh, the places I shouldn’t have gone

The past is never far behind.

I ask for a job with The Times-Picayune in New Orleans, La. They ask me to consent to a consumer report, "including information concerning (my) character, employment history, general reputation, personal characteristics, criminal or police records, motor vehicle record, mode of living and/or credit and indebtedness . . . from interviews with (my) neighbors, friends or associates."

Good God almighty, where will they start?

If I'm lucky, they'll ask my former journalism professor about my character. He always says I have "fire in the gut." I'm sure he means that in the kindest, possible way. If I'm not so lucky, they'll ask a woman with whom I used work, whose promotion did not go to her head. She will likely tell them I'm "evil," a term she used to describe my inclination to disagree with her.

My employment history is best described as diverse. I've been a farm laborer, fabric cutter, waitress, airplane parts jockey, pizza cook, cleaning lady, clerk, seamstress, stagehand, aerobics instructor, gardener, landscaper, human forklift, editor, writer, reporter and a dozen other things I can't remember and don't want to. I've done things for money that will leave me defending illegal immigration until I'm blue in the face. My very first resume was a work of true, poetic license.

The T.P. investigative team will discover few generalities about my reputation. Depending on whom they interview, I am a shameless maenad, a spiritual ascetic or Marion the Librarian. As for my personal characteristics, I am pathologically tidy. I wear leather but don't eat meat. I am heterosexual, much to my frustration, given my expertise in handling men. I am childless, 37, tall and thin, and I have both zits and wrinkles. I am a walking testament to the Creator's love of irony.

My criminal and police records will reveal back-to-back DWIs from 20 years ago when I was hell-bent on self-destruction. One particularly dramatic gesture landed me in a place where I painted ceramics for two weeks while medical students took notes through observation windows. I made many friends there, including John, who was later locked up for real after he killed two people. Perhaps John will attest to my fine character.

It was five years before I turned up in another motor vehicle department. When I finally got up the nerve to drive again, I borrowed money and bought a truck. It was my first debt. I drove the truck home, parked it in the driveway, sat on my porch and stared at it. I kept it longer than I kept my husband.

I was quick study at debt, and not the all-the-stuff-you-can-buy-on-credit type of debt, oh no. Mine was the go-to-college-so-you-can-get-a-good-job-and-pay-for-all-that-stuff type of debt, but since I just graduated a few years ago, I'm still paying the debts I took on to avoid having debts.

The Picayune sleuths, should they proceed to examine my mode of living, will find it more resembles that of our favorite dead nun than that of our favorite dead monarchette. The total collection of my home furnishings includes a desk, a chair, a bicycle and various computer devices. I believe this will work in my favor when the newspaper's accountants see that moving me will cost less than 25 minutes at amazon.com. I could also save them the expense and trouble of doing a consumer report if I told them to check out this column on my website, but I think I'll refrain.

I'd like to make sure that having "fire in the gut" doesn't have anything to do with food from a vending machine.

Monday, March 1, 1999

Copyright 2010 by Deborah McAdams. All Rights Reserved. For Reprint Rights, click here.