A Narrow Escape from Career Hell

Barry Maher
Mon, 16 Mar 2026 14:56:56 -0700
Opinion

I hit 30 in the vanguard of the "don't trust anyone over 30" generation. When a somewhat younger compatriot discovered my age, he absolved me with, "But you're a young thinking 30." Meaning with no sign of any real career, I clearly hadn't sold out. Theoretically, I was a writer. But my stuff had been in maybe a hundred different publications and, in order to eat, I'd had just about that many different short-term jobs.

Obviously, writing wasn't a real career. But I wasn't a career fan. Most careers required getting up much too early in the morning and devoting yourself to something that really didn't need doing. Something which, quite likely, the world would be better off without. My major contribution to the social fabric was not doing any number of those useless, counterproductive jobs. What a guy!

After graduating, I swear to God, Whopper College, I'd just had the distinction of being — briefly — the worst Burger King Manager in the storied history of Burger King Managers. Then somebody pulled a gun on me from the other side of the counter and told me to fill a take-out bag with the money in the safe. I put in a few stacks of small bills and left the rest in the safe, which he couldn't see. He grabbed the bag, then, triumphantly, emphatically, he shoved his gun down into his pants, clearly hurting himself and limped out of there. Obviously, this was someone even worse at careers than I was.
Updated: Mon Mar 16, 2026

I hit 30 in the vanguard of the "don't trust anyone over 30" generation. When a somewhat younger compatriot discovered my age, he absolved me with, "But you're a young thinking 30." Meaning with no sign of any real career, I clearly hadn't sold out. Theoretically, I was a writer. But my stuff had been in maybe a hundred different publications and, in order to eat, I'd had just about that many different short-term jobs.

Obviously, writing wasn't a real career. But I wasn't a career fan. Most careers required getting up much too early in the morning and devoting yourself to something that really didn't need doing. Something which, quite likely, the world would be better off without. My major contribution to the social fabric was not doing any number of those useless, counterproductive jobs. What a guy!

After graduating, I swear to God, Whopper College, I'd just had the distinction of being — briefly — the worst Burger King Manager in the storied history of Burger King Managers. Then somebody pulled a gun on me from the other side of the counter and told me to fill a take-out bag with the money in the safe. I put in a few stacks of small bills and left the rest in the safe, which he couldn't see. He grabbed the bag, then, triumphantly, emphatically, he shoved his gun down into his pants, clearly hurting himself and limped out of there. Obviously, this was someone even worse at careers than I was.

The greater good notwithstanding, right about then was when I realized I needed a more permanent solution to the money problem. My parents had procreated to excess, so inheriting was out. Robbery seemed dangerous — and potentially painful. Marrying a rich woman would require a new wardrobe and probably plastic surgery, neither of which I could afford.

So I did what every English, Sociology and History major of my generation did sooner or later. I applied to law school. Not to the local night school, so I could work during the day and support myself. That would almost make sense. I applied to Harvard Law.

I took the LSAT. Since my entire high school education had been about taking such tests, I aced it. I might not know squat, but I test really well. I had Notre Dame send Harvard my college transcript. (Again, I test well.) Harvard had tried to recruit me out of high school. I was as good as in. Loans were available. Then Harvard asked for an essay explaining what I'd been doing in the eight years since college.

Well?

I had an excellent resume. It was sure-fire. It was verifiable. It would get me into Harvard Law. Unfortunately, it was also fictitious. And the application carefully explained that if it was ever discovered — ever, in perpetuity, discovered — that I'd lied on my application, my extremely expensive Harvard Law Degree would be revoked. Lying would leave me at the mercy of anyone who discovered the reality. The truth, however, would leave me at a huge — obviously unfair — disadvantage.

A couple of my writing credits were mildly impressive. (Funeral Service Insider and the like, maybe not so much.) And I'd managed a political campaign. (He actually finished third in a two-candidate race. Don't ask.) Also, occasionally, when I was in the mood, I'd run my own business. ("Honest hustle" is more accurate). I stretched those few months of activity until they appeared to cover the eight-year gap. Every word of the essay was entirely true, in the sense that none of it could be disproven.

The bastards wait-listed me! After perhaps the most creative work of fiction since Ulysses.

Saving me about $200,000 in today's money. Relieving me of actually having to work as a freaking lawyer to pay it all back. All in all, a narrow escape. A touch less flakey and I might still be spending bleak days trapped in some law firm, rather than gleefully doing whatever the hell it is I actually do.