Hardly Precious Stones: How I Almost Worked for Today's Gemstone Collector

After the used book stand I'd been working at went under, I had no idea where to start looking for work. I had few skills, and didn't really know what I wanted to do. I knew I didn't want to sell anything to the public ever again, that was for damn sure. I didn't really have any what you'd call "connections" in Philly?nobody who would be in a position to hook me up with a job?so I started doing what any normal schlub would. I began scouring the want ads in the newspaper. Few things in life are as depressing.

Foolishly, since I was writing for a newspaper at the time (for $35 a week), I thought I'd apply for jobs in publishing. Unfortunately, Philly ain't exactly a hot spot for the publishing industry. There was a company a few blocks away that put out nothing but Bibles, but I didn't think they'd like me any more than I'd like them. There were, however, a few magazines in town. Not terribly interesting magazines, but something. I'd done pieces for a few of them, and figured it was about time they paid me back. Of course, since I had written for them, most wanted nothing to do with me. Then I saw something. Some strange, generic-sounding "Pennsylvania Magazine Company," or some such, was looking for "an editor." The ad didn't go into any more detail than that. They weren't even based in the city?but after a couple weeks of searching in Philly, I was coming to the conclusion that my options there had been pretty much snuffed, and that it was time to look beyond the town limits. I dropped a sketchy resume in the mail and, much to my dismay, was called less than a week later and invited to come in for an interview. The man on the phone was still rather vague about what, exactly, would be expected of me, but I agreed and got directions.

Here's where things got tricky. Getting to the "Pennsylvania Magazine Company" for the interview (and the job, should I get it) required taking a commuter train?the Media/Elwyn line, as I remember?seven or eight stops to a small town named "Blink Hole" or "Sturgeon." Finding the train was no problem, and the trains themselves weren't that bad?except for the stiff-backed, cracked vinyl seats, and the pervasive stench of urine. No, the trouble was, I had no clue where I was going once I got off the train.

No problem, I thought, I'll just grab a cab at the train station. There's sure to be a few cabs at the train station.

Yes, well, that's the sort of conclusion you come to when you've spent the last 20 years in civilization.

I was the only one who stepped off the train at Blink Hole. I walked to the end of the short, rickety wooden platform, down the steps and past the small ticket booth. Then I found myself in a gravel parking lot with room enough, perhaps, for three cars. That was a guess, though, as there were no cars there. And with no cars, no cabs.

I walked to the road, and looked both ways. This wasn't a "street" so much as it was a two-lane highway. No sidewalk, no curb even. Just asphalt cutting through trees. The sky was cloudy, but I was suddenly relieved that it wasn't raining.

Well, then, I thought.

I chose a direction at random (my left) and started walking. Town can't be that big, I thought. I'll find it.

After walking a few hundred perilous yards down an increasingly busy highway, I found a side road that cut off to the right. Down that road, I could see houses. It seemed like a good sign.

Soon enough, I came to discover that I was apparently in some enclave of the wealthy. Large, ornate homes surrounded by thick pine growths. I had the "Pennsylvania Magazine" address in my pocket, and checked it again. Having no idea whether I was getting any closer to my interview or not, I was simply praying that I'd be lucky and happen to come upon the road I was looking for. I was beginning to doubt very much that I wanted this job. How would I make this walk in the winter?

I wandered down curving roads and around cul-de-sacs, knowing that I was going to have to ask directions at some point?and some point soon. I checked my watch. I had arrived early, because I always do?but now I only had 15 minutes left. It would make sense, I suppose, to go up to one of these mighty front doors and knock?but I also figured that would probably lead to my arrest and imprisonment for some reason.

As if to save me the trouble, a police cruiser pulled up quietly beside me. I hadn't seen a single car, a single sign of life, since I stepped off the highway.

The cruiser stopped, and the driver's window rolled down. I suddenly found myself having flashbacks to Macon County Line.

He was a big fellow, this officer, with a beige cowboy hat and dark shades. I am a dead man, I thought, much too calmly.

"Hey there," the officer said. "Can I help you with something?"

"You know," I said, trying to keep my voice from squeaking, "you might just be able to?See...I seem to be a little lost, and I'm supposed to be at a job interview in about 10 minutes."

"Yeah," he said. "I kinda figured. You didn't look much like you belonged here. I've been watching you walk around and around for a while now. And I guess I like to know who's in my town."

Oh, I am a dead man for sure.

"Yeah, I can understand that," I told him. I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket. "So if you might be able to tell me how to get to this address?" I showed him?"I'll be on my way."

He looked at the address, then back at me. "Hop in," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Hop in the car?I'll give you a lift. It ain't that far away."

I shrugged and breathed a quiet sigh of relief before walking around the front of the car and climbing in the passenger side. It was a bad habit I'd had for years now?hopping into strangers' cars. But I hadn't been murdered yet.

"So," he said, as the car began to move, "what kinda job you applying for?'

"Ummm," I replied, "I'm?I'm not really sure. But things were pretty tight back in Philly, so I thought I'd try up here."

"Uh-huh," he said, a little suspiciously. "Philly, huh?" even more suspiciously. He didn't say anything else.

Fortunately, it was just a few minutes later that he pointed out the building to me?a four-story glass cube, sitting in the middle of an enormous gravel parking lot. The officer stopped the car before entering the lot.

"I'm gonna let you out here," he said. "It prob'ly wouldn't look too good?your getting out of a police car to go to a job interview."

He had a point.

I shook the officer's hand and thanked him?I never learned his name?and got out of the car. After I thanked him again, but before I closed the door, he stopped me.

"Oh?one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"When you get out, just follow that road there," he pointed to a road that terminated at the parking lot. "It'll take you right back out to the highway. When you hit that, take a left, and you'll find the train station."

"Thanks, officer."

"No problem," he said. "And good luck with the interview."

I closed the door and walked to the building, which seemed completely out of place here, given what I'd seen of the town thus far. I stepped through the smoked glass doors, and found "Pennsylvania Magazine Co." on the directory. Took the elevator up to the third floor, knocked on the only door that was up there, waited a second, then let myself in.

The waiting room was small, and empty, furnished only with two small chairs. On the walls were framed blowups of magazine covers?presumably from magazines that the Pennsylvania Magazine Co. put out. As I scanned the titles, my heart sank.

Before I had a chance to flee, however, a door opened and a tall, thin, bearded fellow in his early 30s said hello.

"Jim?"

"Yeah." My shoes were dirty, my clothes were rumpled, and I was sweating bad. I stood and shook his hand.

"Follow me."

He led me through the door and down a short hallway. The place was unusually quiet. I neither saw nor heard anybody else.

"How was the trip?" he asked.

"Oh, it was something."

He stopped at a dark wooden door, turned the handle and stepped inside. The office was cluttered with books and magazines and newspapers. On his desk, I saw my resume and cover letter, along with a short stack of other peoples'. Most striking, however, was the wall-sized poster of Clint Eastwood (as the Outlaw Josey Wales) that hung behind his desk.

"So, you like the Clint Eastwood?" I asked, by way of making conversation.

He smiled. "Not everybody recognizes him."

That struck me as odd?but then again, I had to remember where I was.

"So," he began in earnest, "what do you know about gemstones?"

Aw, Jesus. That was one of the magazine covers I saw in the lobby?Today's Gemstone Collector. Shit shit shit.

"Ummm... Not much, to be honest. In fact, nothing at all," I admitted.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled again. "That's okay. Neither do I."

He then went on to explain that, as the editor-in-chief, he didn't need to know anything about what these people were talking about?just get it down, see that it makes sense and make it look pretty. My job, as assistant editor, would involve handling all the grunt work.

"You would also be going to several gemstone conventions every year, talking to dealers, that sort of thing."

"Uh-huh." I couldn't even fake tepid enthusiasm.

About 20 minutes into the interview, though neither of us said as much, I think we both came to the conclusion that I would rather be gummed to death by aging bears than edit a gemstone collectors' magazine, so we changed the subject and talked about movies instead.

He was a nice fellow, who freely admitted that the magazine was boring as hell, that he hated it there and would probably be abandoning his editor-in-chief position before too long.

Shortly thereafter, I wished him luck, shook his hand and headed out. There was a dog in the parking lot as I left the building, who followed me over to the road the policeman had pointed out, then stopped again as I kept walking.

The officer hadn't lied, which was a relief. The road intersected the highway after about a 10-minute walk. Fifteen minutes later, I was at the train station again, having not been hit by a single car.

Two days later, I received a very cordial letter from the editor of the gemstone magazine, explaining that he had chosen someone else for the job, and I was relieved.

Two months later, I took a job as a bill collector.