Comics. Classifieds. Obituaries.

“Comics. Classifieds. Obituaries.”
That was the first sentence of a short story I once submitted for a writing contest. The rules of the contest were that you had to write a story inspired by a random Gedney black and white photo that they published in the school newspaper. The photo was from the special archives of the library and featured a man and woman sitting at a breakfast table with a newspaper being shared between them. I wondered if their newspaper had the same contest. The Borgesian logic must have given me vertigo. Needless to say I did not win with my entry.
The character I invented had a daily routine. She’d always start with the comics and avoid the front page as much as possible. The news depressed her too much, and at least the cartoons’ primary colors could candy-coat the harshness of a black and white, binary world.
After getting her daily dose of Doonesbury and Dagwood, she’d head straight for the classifieds. She’d read the job openings like they were “choose your own adventure” books, or short episodes of Quantum Leap. Each description sparked her imagination about exciting new opportunities with skills she would magically discover that she had. She’d highlight the ads, but never do anything about it. The adventure complete in the act of circling.
Finally, she’d read the obituaries at the end of her routine. “And though I know it’s a bit morbid to start the day with the obituaries, they always make me happy. It’s like a little ritual. A kaddish or something. I dunno. I guess I do it hoping that someday, somebody will do the same for me.”

With that same telescoping logic labrynth; of art imitating life imitating art…; I guess I have adopted some of this character’s attributes recently. I have a daily routine with the classifieds. I search them, reading through the job descriptions, and letting my mind wander as I imagine the possibilities: Being a Waiter in a tux on Capitol Hill, serving Republicans their Cobb Salads, then ratting on them to the Washington Post when they leave a mere 12% tip. I’d be known as the “Woodward-Waiter”… A Hotel Bell Boy who gets paid under the table every 3rd Wednesday to reserve the 3rd floor suite for secret meetings between an elite group of ambassadors, or lovers… A Costumed Mascot of Uncle Sam, hired by H&R Block to wave to commuters with fistfuls of cash as a reminder of the 2 things you can always count on in life: taxes and traffic.