Where've all the Good Ones Gone?

What ever happened to giving an honest day's work for an honest day's pay? The more I think about the changes that have taken place in the job pool over the past several years, the more I wonder if my own recollection of working for someone else is simply skewed in some way. Did I act like many of the employees that I interview out there today? Something tells me that I don't think so.

While interviewing potential applicants for a job opening at my motorcycle dealership's parts counter a couple of years ago, I was astonished by the pile of applications before me. If the problems were left alone to the sections that detailed work history with perhaps hard-to-remember dates, or sections that dealt with medical history perhaps, I could deal with the information that I was seeing there. However, when rather hideous mistakes were obvious throughout the applications, I grew concerned for the well-being of our future society. With one application in particular, I noticed that the handwriting was very neat. Obviously the showing of someone who took great time in filling out the form and wanted to make an impression. I browsed through the application and noted a couple of misspellings - forgiveable things such as street names (Chouteau spelled as Showtoe). As the mistakes appeared in the addresses of the people listed as "reference", I could likely have forgiven them. However, as I looked at the front of the form for the name of the individual, I stopped short of placing it in the "possible" pile. The place of residence was listed as Burban, Missoura. I looked twice at the name, thinking that they couldn't possibly have misspelled their city of residence and must be referring to a town other than the nearby "Bourbon, Missouri". Never mind the state's name being spelled phonetically from the incorrect, yet common pronunciation. I followed the line to the zip code and, sure enough, it matched that of Bourbon. In a last hope of allowing some benefit of the doubt, I looked at the time of residence for the applicant. It turns out that they were a life-long resident of Burban. Apparently the town's school needed to work a little harder on that one.

Some of the other applicants finding residency in the "Rejected" pile included the man who was applying for a "Party" position. (It wasn't just that of course, he'd dropped out of highschool in 1989 and listed "Unemployment" as the only former employer). Probably not a candidate for employee of the month. One man answered the "ever been convicted of a felony" question with "only twice". A female applicant wrote "can remove my bra without taking off my shirt" in the "Special skills" section. Though interesting, I couldn't see that as a helpful talent in looking up motorcycle parts. Perhaps I'm wrong. As I worked my way through the stack, I noticed that the Reject pile on my left was growing steadily, while the Possible pile to my right was nonexistent. I wondered if maybe I wasn't being a slight bit too picky.

The next kid seemed acceptable. The handwriting was attrocious, but then, if we're judged solely on that I'd have never found my first job. The boy had no work experience, but liked to tinker with motorcycles and I thought I'd interview him. At least that put something in the possible pile. When I called him later to set an appointment, the young man corrected me on the pronunciation of his last name. It wasn't Smith, as I had read it from the application, but Barnhardt. He laughed. "I was pretty stoned when I filled that out and I was with my buddy Brian Smith. I must have written his name by accident, haha." I silently moved the paper from right to left as I informed him that I'd made a mistake in calling.

Of the three people I finally interviewed that day, one (I affectionately thought of him as "Iron Head") showed up to the meeting with at least twenty-pounds of pierced jewelry hanging from his face. I actually had to take a moment to stare and the only thought that crossed my mind was that he must never fly anywhere. I pictured him standing in a TSA screening line at the airport, removing all of the 50 or more pieces from his eyebrows and placing them in the gray-colored tray for X-ray. I had to stifle a laugh.

Of the remaining two, one offered that they had an active warrant for their arrest during the interview and wanted to know if they would have immediate vacation time ... in case something came up. Seriously, I can't make this stuff up. Again I could only stare, though this time it was past the person's eyes to the vast blankness that lay within their skull.

The final kid was clean cut and polite. I was instantly thankful that I had actually found someone who said that they wanted to "work their way forward in a progressive company" and referred to me as "sir". (Ass-kissing can get you a long way in this world). Being the last and only hope, I immediately offered the boy a job and was thrilled when he reported to work early the next day in a pressed shirt and with the overwhelming kindness of Eddie Haskell. Finally! I thought, someone who isn't a tattooed, pierced, vulgar person and they actually are coming to work for me! How lucky can I get? I felt as though I had just won the new employee lottery!

A month later, I sifted through the receipts again and watched the security camera footage for the umpteenth time as though something might change. Sure enough, right there on my screen I could plainly see the dapper, well-dressed young man of whom I was so proud, stealing money from the cash register.

Lucky me, indeed.