Drove to Yonkers today to pick up a couple of garage door openers. The place I went was located across the street from an enormous cemetary. It was on one of those industrial roads, with pawn shops and cement companies and key shops and the like. I walked in, and the place was, to cite Hall & Oates, “as worn as the toothbrush hanging in the stand.” Drab, depressing, dank, dark. The man who helped me had pale skin, walked with a grunt, sorta shuffled along, uninspired.
He told me he’d worked there for 25 years. Twenty-five years. Said he was OK with the job, but that it was far from inspiring. He hooked people up with garage doors. And more garage doors. And more. Hard to get too excited, he noted.
I thought about him, and felt sad. People should love their jobs, as I love mine. But most of the time, for one reason or another, it’s just not possible. Whether a person makes $20,000 or $2 million, the idea of working for the weekend is a horrible one to me. My weekdays and my weekends all morph together. I relish writing and reporting. I relish being with my wife and kids. I relish it all, to be honest, and while I have down moments and even down stretches, I consider myself to be as lucky and blessed as any person in America.
