By Eamon Doyle

Part 1: How I Spent My Summer Vacation

5/20/04:

I’ve just arrived home after finishing my second semester at UC Berkeley, and things are not going so well. My skin is bad, my grades are worse, I’m deep in debt, and that godawful Hoobastank song is still floating about the upper echelons of the rock charts.

About a week ago, my English instructor sent me a concerned email reminding me how important it was that I turn in the final paper, since I never turned in the draft to begin with. I wrote back:

Hi Misa—

Sorry again about my sluggishness on the paper. But rest assured that the Broadcast News essay I am currently writing will be a groundbreaking achievement in the field of English compositions, and that when you receive it on Monday, you will erect a 40-foot monument in its honor, and declare all other essays (past, present, and future) null and void by comparison.

Okay, that last part isn’t quite true. But it should be good for at least a B.

See you soon,

Eamon

I never did write that paper.

The thing is, I don’t even have a good excuse for sucking so bad this semester. I’m not a drunk, I’m not a compulsive gambler, I’m not into day trading or mail-order schemes. No, my problem is that no matter the class, whenever it comes time to write the paper, I have nothing to say—even on the rare occasion when I like the material. I liked Broadcast News. I watched it twice. I took copious notes. I sat in front of my computer for three weeks. But in the end, I couldn’t come up with a word.

What it all comes down to is that I really don’t know what I’m doing in college. I tried to get help from one of the much-ballyhooed advisers at Campbell Hall, but that was a joke. The woman’s expert advice, for which I waited 40 minutes, was basically “Take classes that sound interesting to you.”

But then, what’s the alternative to school? Living with my parents and working at the Barnes & Noble until I die? I couldn’t do that. I just couldn’t. Fairfield is much too hot. I need fog, and plenty of it. My decision to attend Berkeley in the first place was largely weather–based.

6/6/04:

Yesterday, after two weeks of loafing around the house and getting chewed out by my mom for being a slacker, I began my summer job search in earnest. I submitted applications to Barnes & Noble, North American Insights (those people who walk around the mall with clipboards and fixed smiles and try to get you to take market surveys), and Project Green Team (some sort of community–service project co–sponsored by Anheuser–Busch and the City of Fairfield).

I have an interview with the survey people tomorrow, but the others haven’t gotten back to me. Probably because I have no job experience. But I have no job experience because when I was in high school I commuted 100 miles a day and had no time left over to become an expert in the fields of secret sauce and humiliating headgear.

Ugh.

My mom keeps telling me, “You just don’t want to work, that’s all,” and I’ll admit that there’s a bit of truth in that. I’m not exactly thrilled about the prospect of spending my summer getting paid six bucks an hour to shovel dirt or administer surveys about rival brands of taffy.

I will say this, though: you know you’ve reached a new low when you’re sitting in your living room eating frozen burritos and watching Juwanna Mann on HBO Family, and concentrating real hard to make sure you don’t miss a crucial plot twist.

6/7/04:

Holy Tofutti! I got the survey job.

First I had to watch an incredibly corny, mostly boring, occasionally hilarious training video. The narrator’s painstaking attention to obvious details (“If the subject responds, ‘Yes,’ then you should mark ‘Yes’ on your clipboard. If, however, the subject responds, ‘No,’ then you should mark ‘No’ on your clipboard. Now let’s take a study break.”) gave me the impression that this place would hire even the slowest slug in the garden. But toward the end of the video, the narrator said, “As you can see, your job as a market researcher will not be easy”—so I guess I was wrong.

Then I had to fill out a bunch of paperwork—the W2 form, the “don’t kill your coworkers” contract, the dress code agreement. Apparently I will be required to wear a tie. Ugh. I look ridiculous in a tie.

Next we worked out my hours. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday 1-9; Saturday 10-6; Sunday 11-7. Forty hours a week, for let’s say nine weeks—if I don’t get fired or something, it should be enough money to pay about half of what I still owe Cal for my disastrous spring semester.

When we were done I went down to the first floor of the mall and met up with my mom. She gave me a congratulatory rice bowl and Foo Fighters CD. Which goes to show, once again, that my mom could beat up your mom.

6/8/04:

Suddenly, I am a tie owner.

In one day, I have gone from zero ties to three ties.

I hate adulthood so much.

6/14/04:

A scene from the life of a market researcher:

Today my partner is Jesse*, a virulent homophobe. Jesse and I have virtually nothing in common, and can’t carry on a conversation for five minutes without him lapsing into a rant about how the arcade a few doors down from our workplace is the epicenter of the gay agenda.

Midway through his latest spiel, I spot an opportunity. “Hold that thought,” I tell him. “This one’s mine.”

I walk over to the 35–to–69–year–old Caucasian female and turn on the charm. It works. She heads into the office with me, while Jesse stays outside, narrowing his eyes at the arcade and muttering.

Now that I’ve nabbed my respondent, the rest of the job is a piece of cake. I have her sign in, I get her contact info, I take her around back, I ask her about haircare products. She provides yeses and noes and maybes, I check and circle accordingly. We are finished in just under eight minutes. I say, “Thank you, come with me.” She says, “Wow, that was easy.” We return to the front of the office, I have her sign out, and I ask Irene (the fiftysomething boss) to pass me the respondent’s compensation, which today is three dollars. Irene unlocks the drawer, opens the cash envelope, and hands me the money, which I in turn give to the respondent. I say, “Thank you very much.” She says, “No, thank you.” Big smiles all around.

Sure, this is a lousy job, but I could do it in my sleep, and the superiors like me. Irene and Darla and Stacy are used to supervising schmucks like Jesse, but I am a refreshing change of pace: a good kid! A good worker! A team player!

Plus, it turns out that they don’t really enforce the dress code. See you in hell, ties.

6/17/04:

When I arrive at work this afternoon, the office is abuzz with nervous conversation. Something is up.

“What’s going on?” I ask Darla.

Darla tells me that the cash envelope, rumored to contain two to three hundred dollars, has been stolen. She asks whether I know anything about this, adding that the money went missing right around the time I left work yesterday.

No, I tell her, I had nothing to do with this ignominious act, nor do I know who did. Okay, she says, and sends me on my way. I adjust my name tag and leave the office to begin what turns out to be one of my strongest days yet: seven surveys, seven commissions. I am a good kid. I am a team player. I will not let this aura of suspicion get to me.

6/19/04:

When I arrive at work this morning, Stacy tells me to come into the little administrative office. There, she opens the closet and hands me a check for my eight days’ earnings.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Irene told me to give you this and tell you it wasn’t working out,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I’m glad I haven’t eaten much, because suddenly I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, and yacking on Stacy is the last thing I want to do.

“Is this about the theft?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she replies, near tears. “Irene wouldn’t tell me. She said you could call her on Monday if you want. I’m so sorry.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” I say stupidly, and walk back home, carrying my lunch and fantasizing about paying Irene a little visit with a Garden Weasel.

6/21/04:

This afternoon, per her suggestion-by-proxy, I call Irene. It does not go well.

HER: North American Insights, this is Irene.

ME: Hi, this is Eamon. What’s going on?

HER (baffled): What do you mean, what’s going on?

ME: I was told to call you today if I wanted to know what was up.

HER: Oh. Well, I just decided to let you go, that it wasn’t working out.

ME: Right—(to self) I GATHERED THAT, YOU LOATHSOME GORGON!—(to her) but why wasn’t it working out?

HER: That’s all I can say about it at this time.

ME: Irene, if this is about the theft, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with—

HER: It’s not about the theft. It has nothing to do with the theft.

ME: And you can’t tell me what it is about?

HER: That’s right.

ME: Well, thanks for telling Stacy to let me know.

HER (confused, irritated): What?

ME: You know, since you couldn’t do it yourself.

HER (smacked down, grasping at straws): That wasn’t the issue. I wasn’t there. If I’d been there, I would have, so that wasn’t the issue.

Etc.

See, if she had fired me for a good reason—peeing in the coffee pot, let’s say, or downloading adult content when I was supposed to be asking a 30-to-34-year–old Hispanic male how moving he found the White Chicks trailer—that would have been fine. That would have been acceptable. But that’s not what happened. She left the cash envelope unattended, and when someone stole it, she needed a fall guy. This is wrongful termination like whoa.

Well, whatever. I’m not cut out for 9–to–5 work anyway. Like my hero John S. Hall, I am a sensitive artist.

7/15/04:

I’d like to give some birthday shout–outs to Linda Ronstadt (58), Forest Whitaker (43), Rembrandt (398; deceased), Barenaked Ladies’ classic album Gordon (12), and That Guy Who Played the Dad on Webster (69).

Also, I’m 19 today, but enough about me—Linda, Forest, this is your special day. I love you guys.

7/30/04:

The time has come to submit material for the next issue of The Heuristic Squelch, the Cal humor magazine. As a returning contributor, I am eager to whip some comedic butt this year. My first submission is this fake–news item:

Man Wasting His Life by Enjoying It

Sources close to Berkeley resident Daniel Arnette report that the 24–year–old percussionist and freelance graphic designer is throwing his life away by habitually seeking happiness and fulfillment from his waking hours.

“Just last week, Daniel was telling me that he had spent the day holed up in his apartment, watching cartoons, eating potato chips, and practicing on his bongos,” said Arnette’s mother, Helen. “I can’t tell you how it breaks my heart to see him enjoying himself like that.”

Steve Hewitt, Arnette’s roommate and a sufferer of chronic fatigue syndrome, agreed. “No two ways about it: Dan’s in serious trouble here. If he doesn’t get it together soon, he’s going to wake up one morning and realize that he’s squandered the best years of his life having a good time.”

Ho ho ho. It’s funny ’cause it’s true.

8/2/04:

The university has released the names of my new roommates. They are named Adam and Luke. I notice that both of these are Biblical names, which is a dramatic change from last year. (I’m pretty sure there’s no Albert in the Bible, but I’m positive there’s no Yoshihiko.)

8/23/04:

Whew. I’m back in Berkeley, and not a moment too soon.

So you know the old Onion headline, “New Stapler Makes All Other Staplers Look Like Worthless [Crap]”?

Suffice to say that my Clark Kerr triple suite is that new stapler.

And to think that all last year I considered myself a dorm snob because my straight–up triple was infinitely superior to the cardboard box–like rooms of the Units. But no—this suite is the real deal. It has a bathroom, a living room, a full kitchen…the works. Plus it’s only a few steps from the outside. Not to mention TWO FRIGGIN’ DOORS DOWN from a laundry room (compared to two billion last year).

It’s all too good to be true, but true it is. Life in the new stapler is gonna rock.

*The names of my colleagues at North American Insights have been changed to protect my pants from getting sued off.