I have spent the better part of four years trying desperately to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Unfortunately, despite all the career fairs and CavLink postings, no one seems to be hiring for what I think is my dream job: being a police detective in the 1950s named Jack Harrell. To be a gruff, quiet man of principle who brings nothing but his own cunning, dry wit and unfiltered cigarettes to a crime scene. He takes a drag while staring down at the body. A young woman found murdered at a drive-in. Maybe the victim of a young lovers’ quarrel?
He takes a moment to analyze the scene. The woman’s locket had been ripped off and tossed aside — the picture inside gone. There were no signs of struggle in her car — she knew her attacker. Looks like somebody had taken Gerd Oswald’s “Crime of Passion” to heart. He’d get the boyfriend’s name from the girl’s parents, but he’d send two officers to pick him up. It was time for Jack to sink into a bourbon at the Spade of Hearts Club.
Jack Harrell learned intuition and a cool demeanor while serving with the Marines at Iwo Jima. He pursues justice at home to find the piece of himself that was lost in the war. I, on the other hand, have got four years at an upper-middle class university, a Media Studies degree, and jeans that won’t stay up no matter how tight my belt is. I’m not exactly hardened.
I want the paperboys on street corners to yell out, “Extra, extra! Read all about it! War hero detective solves crime of the century!” I want to be the extra that everyone reads all about. I want concerned citizens to flip the paperboy a nickel and see a picture of me begrudgingly shaking the mayor’s hand, eschewing fame. To read the article and be regaled with the story of how one lone wolf investigator used nothing but a strong hunch to apprehend the Black Dahlia murderer in the face of a plethora of racial biases that pre-dated the Civil Rights Act of 1964.
But it’s not meant to be. When people ask you what you plan on doing after you graduate, you can’t tell them your fantasy of being the hard-boiled, but kind-hearted, Detective Jack Harrell. Instead, you have to smile and confidently say something like, “Oh, you know — I was thinking of going into marketing. Or maybe consulting.” And as you say it, you feel as fake as Tommy Three Thumbs when Detective Harrell interrogates him down at the station. “You’re a goddamned liar Tommy! You DID drive the getaway car for that heist down on 59th street, and you have absolutely no idea what your next step is after graduation!”
Why won’t everyone just let me be nostalgic for a time I never experienced — a time I romanticize despite its rampant racism and misogyny? Instead, they’d rather tear me down with reminders that I’ll need to start making student loan payments soon. Jack Harrell could have covered his tuition costs with nothing more than the $250 he saved up while working as a soda jerk at Sullivan’s Soda Fountain before being shipped off to the Pacific Theater. The thousands of dollars I’ve saved up while working at a place entirely devoid of old-timey whimsy will hardly make a dent in mine.
At the end of the day, I just want a career that’s rewarding, but still allows me to do some good in the world. To work hard, but still give back to my community. After a hard day of filling out case files, Harrell drives home, stopping by the corner grocery to pick up a pack of Luckies. He catches little Jimmy trying to steal some licorice, but he doesn’t yell at the boy. He sits him down, gives him a stern-but-fair talking to, and Jimmy comes out the better for it.
So as I sit, wondering what good I can do for the young, petty thieves of my future 1950s neighborhood, I realize I’m not even sure what good I can do for myself. What am I going to do after I graduate? Well if my illusions of living as a neo-noir archetype whose glaring personality flaws are forgiven because of his strong belief in justice never come to pass, then I don’t know. Maybe I’ll work for a non-profit or something.
Nick Gibiser is a Humor writer.
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