The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Sanitation Engineer

Hi there--hey, aren't those coveralls supposed to stay in the auto shop? Oh, well yeah, I guess I can give you a career overview quickly enough to get you back by when that oil's finished draining. So, what'll it be--a mechanic?

Really? Garbage man? Right, a sanitation worker. Doesn't make any difference to the flies. I think I can figure this one out:

You'll need to get hired on by the city first. If you don't have a connection, now's a good time to get one. Find out who the local foreman is for the garbage pickup in your area, and maybe drop by to do a 'school project' about careers--make it clear you respect and value the contribution his crew makes, maybe even paint yourself as an environmentalist who sees them as heroes of the 21st century. Throw in some comments about the plague and stuff so he'll know you aren't just blowing smoke up his... well, you get the idea.

After you do the project, he'll likely suggest a 'ride along'--or if he doesn't, you come up with the idea. Take a video camera, and treat them like celebrities--use their nicknames, and if they don't have them, come up with some cool ones of your own, like "Ace" or "Lefty". Buy coffee at the break for all of them, and ask them to tell stories about the craziest things people have thrown out, or the worst weather they've worked in. Hang on their every word.

They'll remember you, and you'll stop by their depot every couple of months to say hi and maybe drop off some muffins. Once you're done high school, let them know you'd love a chance to even get on as a relief garbage ma..., er, sanitation worker. By this time you'll be a shoe-in.

Unfortunately, while they can help you get hired, it's the city who decides where you work. They won't put you in the nice residential area; as new guy you're stuck in the crappy neighborhoods where your main task is avoiding needle pricks and recognizing bags with body parts in them. The nice thing about working those mean streets is that at least people won't look down their nose at you--you've got steady employment with benefits; that will probably get you dates in that part of town.

After a few years you get a call--one of the guys you sucked up to back in your old neighborhood remembers your great attitude and he recommends you for a driving job. You'd already gone out and got your air brakes ticket just in case, and you are happy to sit in the warm cab while two underlings pitch trash in the back of your truck. You also get a nice pay hike in the new position.

Still, like all city employees, you have to deal with a labor dispute every five years or so, and sometime around your seventh year in your career there will be a nasty strike. You'll be there with your comrades, chanting slogans for the t.v. cameras and playing poker, sitting on lawn chairs, when nobody important is watching. Unlike the previous couple of strikes, this one gets ugly, and neither side seems close to backing down.

Meanwhile, the garbage begins piling up. A few private contractors cash in on the desperation of homeowners in the rich part of town, but for the most part, people try to look after their trash themselves--dropping it off at overpriced disposal centers, or simply tossing it onto the lawn at city hall late at night.

The taxpayers get angrier, and with their eyes on next year's municipal elections, the politicians decide to hire replacement workers--"scabs" to you and your friends.

This escalates the hostilities, and soon you and your union brothers and sisters are linking arms in front of the depot gates, while the city lawyers file for one injunction after another to move you aside.

Then it happens--your 15 minutes of fame.

In a particularly bitter confrontation early one Thursday morning, a frightened replacement driver accidentally hits the gas pedal instead of the brake, and you are struck by the very truck you'd been driving before the work stoppage. You're rushed to hospital, but the leg is crushed so badly they have to amputate it.

This tragedy helps win the public relations war for the striking workers, and soon the dispute is settled. You, for your 'heroism' receive the accolades and sympathy of your colleagues, and a sizable payout from the city.

You try to go back to your job; they even specially outfit a truck with a hand brake, but it's just not very comfortable for you, so they give you a desk job.

You fit in well with the guys in the coveralls; you're not so comfortable with the more refined member of the city's clerical staff. At age 33 you make your first suicide attempt, but fail.

The city realizes the potential scandal if the worker injured in the bitter strike two years earlier should subsequently off himself, so they send you and your girlfriend on a tropical vacation--everything first class. When you return, your girlfriend has had enough of your bitterness and dumps you. This leads to your second attempt.

The city sends you to a crack team of doctors and therapists, and after some counseling everyone decides you're not cut out for the office scene. Instead, they buy out the longtime dispatcher and give you his job in the depot. Soon your voice fills the airwaves--well, at least in the cabs of all the city maintenance vehicles.

Now you're back with your blue collar compadres, you begin to enjoy life a little more. They make sure you never have to buy a drink at the bar after work, and they introduce you to new employees the way new recruits might be introduced to a legendary military hero.

After a few years, though, the shine wears off. Your friends tire of buying your drinks, and your daytime consumption means you tend to ramble on the radio to the point where you become an embarassment. The city once again intervenes, but you refuse alcohol treatment, so they buy you out and give you a pension at the ripe old age of 41. You're lonely--after a series of unsatisfying relationships you seem destined to die single and alone--and your friends all seem busy when you call them or drop by the depot for a visit.

Finally, you begin gambling to relieve the boredom. The casino at first, then high stakes private poker games you hear about from an old work acquaintance. Unlike the other players, though, you don't stay sober enough to win much, and soon you owe more money than your pension pays out in three years. You go into hiding to avoid the mob types who come collect your gambling debts, and you move into a downtown street mission where you manage to get a minimum wage job in the kitchen, though spending all day on your artificial leg is agony.

There is one bright spot at the end, though--the down and outer who spots you and rats you out to the mob ends up using his reward money to start a hot dog stand that evolves into a chain of 30 in 8 cities and makes him a sought after member of the motivational speaking circuit. You, on the other hand, will likely be found by your old work mates as they empty the dumpsters in the sketchy part of town.

There, that was quick, wasn't it. Make sure you recycle that oil now.