Way back in the 20th Century, millions of people used to buy physical media -- books, movies, and music -- at an amazing rate. And as a kid growing up who wanted physical media but couldn't afford the wants, I wished and wished to have all that media at my fingertips. (A motivation, sadly, that still drives me to this day.) So working
at a record store was a childhood dream of mine, and for a few days in the tail end of 1988, I sort of
did it.
For a brief bit of context, after high school, I briefly lived with my uncle in Chesaning -- a small hick-laden burg sprinkled with camo and Confederate battle flags, positioned just outside of Lansing -- in the fall of 1988. I had been accepted to Michigan State University in my senior year, but I neglected to turn in a meal card for the dorms by the posted deadline, which pushed my acceptance from the fall to the winter. In the irrational haze of the age of seventeen, I ignored the fact that I didn't have the money to attend MSU and went ahead with the back-up plan, which was a semester at Lansing Community College before my sojourn into Spartanville. For spare cash, I drove back to Roscommon to DJ some high school dances, but the gas bills were piling up, so it was clear I needed a job around Lansing. And that job -- my second job -- was at Believe In Music in Lansing, MI.
The gig, which was part-time, was to help build and stock a new store opening of the now-defunct BIM chain. After that basic grunt work was complete, I had hoped to move into a full-time job, but instead was not asked to stick around. (I did ring up one customer that I wasn’t supposed to do, which was a brief and fun taste of things to come.) I had planned to balance my BIM job with a dishwasher gig at Mr. Steak in Lansing, MI, but that gig lasted exactly one day; turns out that if you’re allergic to seafood, you shouldn’t be washing dishes with lobster and fish on them. So when both jobs evaporated, it was clear that I couldn't fund my hypothetical Spartan future, and I instead used my stepfather's tuition waiver to attend Kirtland Community College for free until I transferred to Central Michigan University.
I felt so many levels of failure: I was supposed to be a Spartan but couldn't cut it, I was supposed to excel at Lansing Community College but didn't, I finally had a coveted job at a record store only to lose it as fast as I got it, and so on. (I couldn't even wash dishes without turning red and swollen, like a physical stop sign.) But those failures were just what I needed to puncture that particular bubble of erroneous self-belief and passivity that only a sheltered teen can feel and know. And it gave me a taste of a world that I knew I wanted to inhabit, where Public Enemy posters covered the windows and walls, where great and sometimes mysterious music played all day long, where longboxes needed disposing of and where cassettes needed to be tagged and taped. Beware the person who hasn't failed, and be thankful for each and every job, even ones that don't last as long as you think you want them to.
(As a postscript, I got a call from a BIM manager at my house in mid-January, after I'd been at Kirtland for a few weeks, asking if I'd like a full-time position. With deep regret, I had to decline. But I did accept the next full-time offer, which is another story of another job for another time.)
For a brief bit of context, after high school, I briefly lived with my uncle in Chesaning -- a small hick-laden burg sprinkled with camo and Confederate battle flags, positioned just outside of Lansing -- in the fall of 1988. I had been accepted to Michigan State University in my senior year, but I neglected to turn in a meal card for the dorms by the posted deadline, which pushed my acceptance from the fall to the winter. In the irrational haze of the age of seventeen, I ignored the fact that I didn't have the money to attend MSU and went ahead with the back-up plan, which was a semester at Lansing Community College before my sojourn into Spartanville. For spare cash, I drove back to Roscommon to DJ some high school dances, but the gas bills were piling up, so it was clear I needed a job around Lansing. And that job -- my second job -- was at Believe In Music in Lansing, MI.
The gig, which was part-time, was to help build and stock a new store opening of the now-defunct BIM chain. After that basic grunt work was complete, I had hoped to move into a full-time job, but instead was not asked to stick around. (I did ring up one customer that I wasn’t supposed to do, which was a brief and fun taste of things to come.) I had planned to balance my BIM job with a dishwasher gig at Mr. Steak in Lansing, MI, but that gig lasted exactly one day; turns out that if you’re allergic to seafood, you shouldn’t be washing dishes with lobster and fish on them. So when both jobs evaporated, it was clear that I couldn't fund my hypothetical Spartan future, and I instead used my stepfather's tuition waiver to attend Kirtland Community College for free until I transferred to Central Michigan University.
I felt so many levels of failure: I was supposed to be a Spartan but couldn't cut it, I was supposed to excel at Lansing Community College but didn't, I finally had a coveted job at a record store only to lose it as fast as I got it, and so on. (I couldn't even wash dishes without turning red and swollen, like a physical stop sign.) But those failures were just what I needed to puncture that particular bubble of erroneous self-belief and passivity that only a sheltered teen can feel and know. And it gave me a taste of a world that I knew I wanted to inhabit, where Public Enemy posters covered the windows and walls, where great and sometimes mysterious music played all day long, where longboxes needed disposing of and where cassettes needed to be tagged and taped. Beware the person who hasn't failed, and be thankful for each and every job, even ones that don't last as long as you think you want them to.
(As a postscript, I got a call from a BIM manager at my house in mid-January, after I'd been at Kirtland for a few weeks, asking if I'd like a full-time position. With deep regret, I had to decline. But I did accept the next full-time offer, which is another story of another job for another time.)
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