help wanted

I have such an inflated sense of my work ethic that every time I see a Help Wanted sign, I think the establishment wants me. They don’t want help, they want Holly. The sign makes me consider quitting my job so I can go work at Runza/Scooters/Bag N Save and revolutionize their company. With me as their employee, they will become a Fortune 500 company virtually overnight.

Drive-thru? I could kill it on the headset. I could get serving times down to 12 seconds, as long as the customers have their hands out the car window with their credit cards ready.

Coffee shop? I will create six new drinks which will get everyone to come from Starbucks over to our place. And only our alcoholic customers will recognize the secret ingredient in my drinks is Kahlua.

Grocery store? I’ll sell alcohol without carding anyone.

Everytime I see one of those yellow signs, I want to grab it, slap it onto the counter and say, “I hear you loud and clear. Where’s my apron?” For some reason, this feeling only strikes me with the signs. Newspaper ads, online job postings, they do nothing for me. Something about the desperation of the sign lures me.

Or maybe it’s because receptionist and data entry jobs never have signs. I don’t want to be anyone’s bitch, I want to run the show. I want to show everyone what they’re missing. I quickly tire of not being recognized.

While putting up the Help Wanted sign, I can imagine the owner dreaming of an employee like me to come in with a perfectly spelled résumé. No business owner dreams of a person in dirty jeans coming in and asking for an application and a pen while stealing a pack of gum. But until I can be cloned, they will have to do.