Small Alaskan town, 1986–final year of high school. Subject has been sitting in front of the Apple IIe for nearly an hour: Some 45 minutes of answering questions, and another ten waiting for the state-of-the-art machine to digest the data.
     I have just completed my first career aptitude test–computerized, no less. That makes it especially omniscient, like the ubiquitous answer machine of the original Star Trek (“Computer! What do I want to do with my life?”). I don’t know what to be–I am eager for Computer to tell me. I mean, of course I have dreams of riches, of adventure, but I don’t know what comes next. I have great ambition and determination–there is a poster of a Lamborghini Countach on my bedroom wall to prove it.
     The questions have been answered with all my earnest heart. I have taken it at least as seriously as the SAT. The SAT, after all, is just another hokey, made-up exam. But this career test stuff … now this is where the odyssey really begins. My mind wanders, mulling over the glorious possibilities: famous mountain climber, rock star, corporate big-wig. The floppy drive whirrs, considering where this C+ student can do the least harm.
     The light of hope burns bright, as the green-on-black screen glows to life. The future is coming into focus …
     You should be: an Artificial Inseminator
     -or-
     a Tree Surgeon.
     Well, career aptitude testing is not an exact science. Therefore, the researchers always hedge their bet with a couple of options (actually, it is exact –but we flakey subjects keep screwing it up. Better to allow us some illusion of control).
     Now the reigns were firmly in my hand. Still, I couldn’t help being a little disappointed with my choices. I had hoped for something more like: Undercover Vice Cop in a Major Florida City -or- Don Johnson’s Stunt Double.
     The guidance counselor read the report, coughed, slowly removed his glasses, coughed again, and sized me up. Thank goodness–a man who could sense my obvious potential. My white sport coat and moussed-back hair told him that I cared about making a good impression; my white sockless loafers said that I was determined. Only the most determined individuals can wear sockless loafers in the Alaskan winter. He offered some helpful advice, like, “even if you don’t get into your first-choice school, it’s not the end of the world” and, “Four-eyes can’t be Top Guns.” He encouraged me to stand for something, lest I fall for anything, and cautioned that I should take control of my life, or somebody else would. I thanked him for his time, and asked if he could please mail my diploma, as I would regrettably be unable to attend the graduation ceremony.
     Fast forward a decade-and-a-half or so: I went to college, dropped out, got a job. Went to another college, dropped out, got another job. Had a few more jobs, and a few more college classes here and there. Along the way, I realized my boyhood dream of earning a commercial helicopter pilot license. The requirements can be met in about eight months, maybe six with good weather. It took me over four years of sporadic training due to the extravagant cost. Still, it was fun–and sort of resembled the adventurous life I’d hoped for. My career, however, was spectacularly mediocre, and ended with me flying a desk and telephone, hawking the services of more qualifed ex-military pilots. Back to school time … again.
     Fortunately, the career aptitude testing folks have been hard at work perfecting their craft over the last 17 years, while I was out squandering my precious time on this planet. Never mind that old test. It was archaic nonsense–like sailing off the edge of a flat world, or mapping the heavens with Earth at the center. Now the career researchers have fast computers, and good science. They are PhD’s, and they are here to help.
     So here I am in the Learning Center, with career aptitude test version 17.0. I take my time. I am thoughtful, sincere, reflective–yet not too much: it doesn’t work right if you try to outwit the test makers. I finish in 20 minutes, well after most of my Life and Career Planning classmates. Fools–don’t they know they are gambling with destiny?
     No waiting this time. My marching orders arrive the instant I click “done”:
     You should be: Cook, Pastry
     -or-
     Cook, Frozen Dessert.
     Mm, mm, good. Who else wants a second helping?