School Dazed!

To supplement my income as an author--and since we'd just had a very expensive year--the time had come to get some sort of part-time job.

But there was a huge, honkin' obstacle. No way would I ever go back to the Big Business world. Also, I had no real desire to work for The Man ever, EVER again. Basically, I wanted a job where I didn't have to interact with people, where I could sleep in, one where I didn't answer to anyone. And one that wouldn't require me to do any work.

I'm still looking for that dream job. (If you guys have any ideas, hit me up; I've already tried writing).

Then, a good friend dropped (what I took as a joke at first) a bomb on me. Via text, he said, "Go get your real estate license so you can become my partner and open up houses for me."

The more we discussed it, my wife and I became convinced it was a really good idea. I could work on my own terms, set my own hours, have plenty of time to write. Sure, I had to deal with people, and put on a happy face (and, maybe if I'm lucky, one of those stylin' gold jackets!), but I could do it. Probably.

Two problems, though: 1) The more I got into it, the more I found out it wasn't really gonna be an easy part-time job; and 2) It meant going back to school.

Gulp.

I hadn't entered a classroom in over 35 years. For that matter (outside of the use of the right side of my brain in writing), I hadn't utilized my brain in years. Even back in the corporate sector, I was on auto-pilot, just going through the motions. I feared that I'd lost my mojo for studying, that my gray matter had devolved into a slushie. Yet I couldn't become a realtor without passing the notorious real estate exam.

I took these fears with me right into the classroom. Glad to see I wasn't the only oldster in the classroom, I found a seat, fairly confident. However, that confidence quickly blew away like an untied balloon. For the first time, I felt like the dumbest guy in the classroom.

This was a crash course in real estate. One thousand new terms were lobbed at us over four days, plus we were expected to be able to do complex math equations. What little brain I had left felt like it would explode. The hot-shot, young whippersnappers ("Get offa my lawn!") rattled off answers as I tried to sink into my seat. I'd also made a huge mistake sitting at the front table where the old guy teaching the class learned my name, kept winking at me, and couldn't keep his tongue in his mouth. For four solid days, he yelled and berated us, doing his best drill instructor routine. And that's exactly what it felt like: boot camp for realtors.

Finally, class ended. It was time to take the real estate exam. So, I studied. Damn, did I study. For four days and three nights, I studied. Or at least made a good effort at it.

Exam day! Nervous, I stumbled into the top-secret testing compound. I was searched, asked to pull my pockets out, pirouette for the bored security woman, poked, prodded, studied, had my picture taken, identified three times, and escorted into a quiet room.

Three hours later, I emerged exhausted and terrified. I hadn't done anything that grueling since my first (and only) prostate exam. The woman handed me several sheets of paper as I looked them over. Finally, near the bottom, in teeny-tiny print (much too teeny-tiny for my beady lil' ol' man eyes), it said "PASSED."

Whew.

Um...now what?

Speaking of crappy corporate jobs--and if you've ever worked in the white collar sector--check out my novel, Corporate Wolf. It's a satire about big business. But, um, you know...with werewolves and murder.