The kid walked out of the fog, dressed like an apparition from the cast of Mad Men. He strode toward me, smiling, arm extended, slightly out of breath. I prepared myself for a conversation about my salvation, or failing that, my current life insurance policy.

I was mistaken on both counts.

“Mr. Rowe,” he said, “my name is Patrick Meesey. I hope I’m not interrupting, but I recognized you driving by.”

I looked around. There was no shoulder on the side of the road and no parked car in sight. He must have driven past me, parked a mile or so down the road, and chased me back.
“Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m surprised you recognized me through the fog.”

His handshake was firm. He looked me in the eye.

“I’d recognize you anywhere,” Mr. Rowe. “I’ve been watching you my whole life.”

Patrick then told me that Dirty Jobs was his favorite show and asked if I had any advice for a man in his position.

“Well, that depends,” I said. “What sort of position are you in?”

“I’m nineteen years old, and I’m looking for work. An entry-level job would be fine. Even an internship. One day, I’d like to own my business, but right now, I’m just looking for experience.”

“Smart,” I said. “Where are you headed now, dressed like that? Got a job interview?”

“No, sir. I’ve been knocking on doors all morning, seeing what’s available. I’m starting with real estate companies here in town. I think I could do well in sales because I’m not shy.”

“No kidding,” I said.

Patrick might have blushed, but it was hard to tell in the fog.

“I’m just not sure where to start or what to do.”

“You’re nineteen,” I said. “You’re not supposed to know what to do. You’re just supposed to be willing to do it.”

Patrick smiled and nodded. “I figured you might say something like that.”

Then he noticed the phone in my hand and asked if I was filming one of those Pure Talk commercials.

“This is where you shoot them, right? I see them all over the place.”

“As a matter of fact, I was just about to do that very thing. But given the weather, I’ve been rethinking the copy.”

“Don’t you have a script?” he asked. “Or a boss who tells you what to say?”

“I have lots of bosses, but this one gives me a lot of leeway. I shoot the spots unsupervised, usually while I’m rucking around the neighborhood with fifty pounds on my back.”

“That’s so cool,” said Patrick. “How do I get a job like that?”

I was tempted to tell him the truth.

“Well, Patrick, here’s what you do. Start by selling magazines over the phone. Then sell water purifiers out of your trunk. Then learn to sing, join a national opera company, get your union card, and find an agent. Spend a few years in the home shopping industry and a couple of decades freelancing in entertainment. Make yourself indispensable. When you turn forty, pitch a pilot for a TV show that lets you be yourself. When no one buys it, make it yourself, and then sell it to the Discovery Channel. Crawl through sewers for the next ten years. Embrace the dirt. Laugh in the face of discomfort. Fire your agent and get a good lawyer instead. Add value to every relationship. Under promise. Over deliver. Set up a foundation that awards trade-school scholarships to people with real initiative and a genuine work ethic. Give scholarships to people you think deserve them. Do all that, and eventually someone will pay you to walk into a fog bank with a smart phone and talk about unlimited data for life.”

Of course, I didn’t say any of that. Partly because it doesn’t sound plausible, and partly because no one ever takes the exact same path. But mostly, because a nineteen-year-old willing to cold-call potential employers and chase down a guy he saw on TV doesn’t need a lecture on initiative.

“It’s a long story,” I said, “but if you really want to hear it, I’ll tell you in a Facebook post. Assuming I can share your photo and your quest for gainful employment?”

“That would be awesome!” he said. “Thanks.”

“You got a LinkedIn page?”

“No, just an Instagram. Patrick.Meesey.”

We grabbed a selfie, and Patrick asked, “When do you think the fog will burn off?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I don’t have time to find out. I promised Pure Talk I’d send them an ad this morning.”

“I don’t want to get in your way,” Patrick said, “but could I watch you work?”

“Sure,” I said.

Patrick stepped to the side as I filmed another low-fi ad for my favorite wireless company. The first take was a little too long. The second take was a little too short. The third take was exactly 30 seconds. I’ve attached it, for Patrick’s amusement, and possibly your own.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“Not quite. I’ll text it to Pure Talk. They’ll add some graphics and maybe some music. It’ll be on the air next week.”

Patrick thanked me and asked if mikeroweWORKS was still awarding work ethic scholarships to trade schools. I told him we were and encouraged him to apply for one.

“Nothing wrong with selling real estate,” I said. “In the end, we’re all selling something. But if you really want to run your own business, you might want to swap out that funeral suit for some coveralls and a hard hat. There’s never been a better time to master a skilled trade. And you’ve already passed the work ethic part of the application.”

Patrick said he’d seriously consider applying, and I seriously hope he does. Then, he thanked me, one final time, and walked off into the fog to knock on a few more doors.
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