Wednesday, June 9, 2004

I’ve been thinking about why people choose their occupations, gentle reader, and it’s a question I’ve wrestled with for a while. Sometimes you choose out of necessity, as an answer to a conundrum posed by invisible forces and a crappy job market. You take what you can get, and the hours tick by so you can pay rent and feed yourself. Other times, when the economy grows kinder and real introspection is made possible, you pursue something compelling and serve your interests, your people, and maybe your country in the process.

Perhaps all those teachers were right, and within many of us–conceivably all of us–rests the desire to do worthwhile things. I’m not going to schlep around and try to proffer a definition of “worthwhile,” since the definitions no doubt vary as much as ice cream flavors. I do think, however, that one of the symptoms of doing something rewarding is the ability to tell great stories, true and riveting tales that pour out of one’s work.

I’m not talking about a half-baked anecdote about a goddamn water cooler, for the love of Benjy, nor am I talking about a fantastical pirate captain saying, “Yaaargh, I managed to cram pillaging and raping into the same day, all without my day planner.” I’m talking about scouring Europe for that one elusive violin and finding, of all things, a multimillion-dollar Guarneri with f-holes modified by gypsies. I’m talking about sustaining a life-altering shrapnel wound in Fallujah and still having the mettle to return and lead the troops. I’m talking about trekking out to Alaska and running a successful radio program in the frozen tundra. I’m talking about sitting no more than a few feet away from a drug kingpin, having a gun pointed at one’s face, and still choosing to stand by one’s beliefs.

I’m not sure why I’m thinking of a quote by Ben Stein, so I’ll just go with it. “Give thanks for your work,” said Ben Stein once to a packed concert hall. Whether this is a measure of your choice or a prerequisite of your choice, if that makes any sense, I don’t know. But that evening he had garish white sneakers, our attention, and very likely a point.