Helped Wanted

Mr. Cobb sat at the breakfast table drinking his coffee and smoking a Pall Mall Gold. Mrs. Cobb sat across from him reading the Help Wanted ads.

“Here’s one,” she said. “Own your own business. Owner forced to sell because of relocation. Turnkey operation.”

“What the hell do I know about raising turkeys?” Mr. Cobb answered.

“Not turkey, you idiot. Turnkey. It means it’s all set up for you, ready to go.”

“Smelly birds. You remember my friend, Ralph from Cortlandt, New York? Well, his brother-in-law owned a turkey farm upstate. Dirtiest, smelliest animals you ever want to see. I swear to Christ that you’ll never eat turkey again after seeing a turkey farm.”

“Don’t you listen?”

“I don’t want to have to be getting up at 4 in the AM to feed the damn turkeys! Let me see that paper.”

Mrs. Cobb shook her head and handed him the paper.

“Here’s one,” Mr. Cobb said. “Marketing specialist. Now let me ask you something. When you send me to the market, don’t I always get what you ask for? Jeez, some guys forget to bring the damn list with them. Other ones buy stuff that ain’t even on the list. Take Phil Green. His wife is always yelling at him because he s’sposed to be on a diet and he’s always trying to sneak Mallomars or Haagen Daaz into the house when he thinks she ain’t looking. And he forgets to buy food for dinner. He’s no marketing specialist.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what they mean,” Mrs. Cobb said.

“What who means?”

“A marketing specialist is not someone who knows how to shop in a supermarket. I think it has something to do with sales.”

“Then why don’t they just say that? Jeez! This job hunting stuff is for the birds, the turkeys, whatever!” He took another puff of his cigarette and turned the page. “Here’s a good one. TV specialist. International beauty products company seeks highly motivated TV specialist for negotiating and booking models for photo shoots… Let me ask you, who’s a bigger lover of TV than me? And, don’t you always tell me what a great negotiator I am when we go to Englishtown Flea Market? Didn’t I make a bundle on those fishing poles I bought and then resold because the numnuts who sold them to me didn’t know how valuable the reels were? And booking the models? They pay somebody to do that? Just sign me up! But I don’t like them too skinny.”

Mrs. Cobb sighed, got up and shuffled into the living room. Mr. Cobb put out his cigarette, got up, went to the Frigidaire and got himself a Pabst Blue Ribbon. He sat back down, flipped open the can, leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Well, I would say this day is already a success and it’s only 10 o’clock in the morning,” he said to no one in particular.