I can scarcely think of a place more frustrating than the George Sherman Union’s only sandwich shop, the world-famous Charles River Bread Co. As a positive, it makes fairly good sandwiches using hours of operation that conform to a normal person’s eating schedule. However, in the words of a wise fool, it might be “the worst-run business establishment since Capitalism first angered Marx.”
I will never understand why, when every sandwich — paninis, cold sandwiches and make-your-owns — costs the same $6.19, the workers there need to dig around for each sandwich’s specific sticker. The prices are all the same – the only difference in those stickers is the bad pun on a BU-related neighborhood. Then the cashiers ask you what kind of sandwich you have, as if it makes a difference. Then you tell them. Then they scan it.
But what’s really bad is the way people order – a process that must have been designed by someone who got fired from the DMV for inefficiency. Hey, everybody, let’s all write down our order and then throw it on a counter! The sandwich makers will pick either at random or choose the slip that is easiest. You might get lucky and get your sandwich immediately. Or you may have to wait 30 minutes. Sometimes, if the cards fall just right, you might not get your sandwich at all. Then all you can do is go back to class and contemplate eating the person next to you.
Why do I write this now, when I know that I – finals willing – will still be studying law here and hence will patronize said sandwich shop for two more years because it’s the only alternative to hockey puck burgers, ultra-greasy pizza and radioactive Chinese food? Plus, I know that you never, ever, [Biblically know] with people who are preparing your food.
I do this because I believe, in my desperation slowly turning into full-fledged panic, that the above suggestions will somehow turn into a summer job. I’m so desperate for a gig that I’ll do anything — consult for the Co., make the sandwiches, sort the stickers — anything. At the very least, I can receive the orders and give them to the sandwich makers one by one, because God forbid an eatery adopts something as complex as a queue.
It’s because I’m ready for a job — or, to be more exact — I am ready to begin the process of obtaining one. I have been ready for months. I’ve thought about where I want to be in one year (not repeating the first year of law school), three years (gainfully employed) and five years (still in the United States). I’ve conjured strengths and turned some of those into weaknesses, like “working too hard.” I have my suit, dry cleaned and ready to go. My shoes are shined. My resume is printed on inexplicably expensive paper. Hell, I even shaved.
So yes, I’m ready for an interview. Now all I need is that interview.
Times are starting to get desperate. It’s not quite at the point where I’ll pay someone to let me work for them, but I just saw the movie Accepted, which reminded me of the movie Camp Nowhere, which gave me an idea. If a few schmoes can get together and make a fake college, can’t a few of us get together and make a fake law firm?
Think about the possibilities! We get a cool name, like John, Jacob, Jingle, Heimer, ‘ Schmidt, LLP. Or Schnabel, Goldman, Weitz, ‘ Martinez. We throw together a website. We get fancy paper and make ourselves some stationery. We have a cell phone and we all hang out and take turns playing receptionist, clerk and attorney. We serve as each other’s references.
If someone calls us out on it, all we need to do is make an impassioned speech that tugs at heartstrings while violins soar in the background. Then we plant someone in the audience who is adept at building from a slow clap and – voila! No jury in the world would convict us. Nor would the authorities disbar us, because we’re not even barred yet. Booyah!
It would be a terrific summer project, at least giving me something to do — because right now, my summer schedule looks pretty open, and it’s already a month past the Ides of March. Summer starts within 30 days, and all I want is the peace of mind that comes with knowing just what the heck I’m going to be doing before it’s time for happy hour.
You know how people sit at lunch tables during work, talking about all the stuff they could be doing if they had more free time? That won’t be me. This summer, my friends — most of who are in the same boat – will probably be sitting around the couch with me instead, as we wonder what jobs we could be doing instead of watching SportsCenter.
Because there are so many awesome jobs and, if this lawyer thing doesn’t work out, I’m still young enough (not yet 25) to give them a shot. For instance, I always wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to be an astronaut almost as much as I did not want to be an orthodontist. Becoming an orthodontist means you are someone who everyone hates seeing. That and they get to stick their hands in people’s mouths all day, every day. I think I’d prefer to be an astronaut.
But then I visited NASA.com, and, apparently, you can’t be over 6 feet tall. Also, you need to be a rocket scientist/fighter pilot — preferably both.
I guess I’ll have to settle then, for another job. Now, I’m probably under-qualified for most of these, but I can see them being fun and interesting, at least for a little while. These include tightrope walker, shrimp boat captain, bodyguard, lifeguard, nuclear power plant inspector and rodeo clown.
Some of them put the lives of others in my hands, but I can handle that. Like my friend Zach once said, “Occasionally I just look up and smile and hope that no one will ask me a difficult question.”
In a pinch, I can always do a job for which I’m overqualified. Like running the Charles River Bread Co. I look forward to your call, BU Dining Services.
Carlos Maycotte, a first-year student in the School of Law, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].
