Work Of Fiction

Newcastle Herald

Tuesday December 12, 2000

writes Cheryl McGregor

Your first resume can be tricky, writes Cheryl McGregor.

THE Trekkie stood on one foot, sock still in hand.

`Abseiling!' he said.

`Put it in,' I agreed.

We have been having a lot of conversations like this lately.

The Trekkie is writing his resume.

The trouble is, when you have led only 16 years of absolutely blameless life, there is not a great deal to resume.

A strictly accurate document would say something like, `Born. Went to school. Still there.'

But prospective employers, we both feel, deserve something a little more, well, colourful. After all, if they're taking the time to read it, they deserve a bit of entertainment for their trouble.

Adults can be relied on to produce fascinating resumes.

The applicant has all the fun of turning a year-and-a-half stuffing about on the North Coast chasing waves into `18 months freelancing to broaden theoretical skills with on-the-ground experience in rural and non-metropolitan environments'.

Of course the employer, who has written a few resumes himself, can decode this. But it gives him a bit of pleasure, too. He gets to feel both clever (`Can't fool me!') and superior (`Only took me six months to get all that out of my system').

It's also reassuring that his would-be employee wants the job enough to, um, fudge his experiences, and knows enough business-speak to come up with a reasonably believable whitewash.

But a teenager going for his first casual job doesn't have anything to fudge about.

A further difficulty is the fact that he doesn't actually want the job so much, what he wants is the cash.

You can't tailor a resume to an employer's requirements when you haven't a clue what job you're going to be seeking.

The fast-food people may not want to know about your computer skills. The checkout chain probably couldn't care less about your artistic ability. The service station will yawn about your nachos, even if everyone who's ever tasted them absolutely raves.

But, on the other hand, you never know what may tip the balance. So in goes the abseiling, in the hope that it will present an image of hardy, good-natured, try-anything-once enterprise.

(This totally glosses over my memory of the experience, in which a very small Trekkie swung needlessly about on a very large cliff, with senior Scouts every metre or so to stop him coming to grief.

On the other hand, he's since gone in for rock-climbing, so, what the hell.)

Surprising what he's done with the couple of years he spent assembling and painting plastic armies of High Elves to wipe out battalions of Orcs. Revived as `strategy gaming', it doesn't sound half bad.

I want him to put in something about child-care experience, too. After all, he's so good with his little brothers . . . `Awww, Mu-um!'.

The really astonishing thing, though, is what happens when he asks non-family people for references: neat, clean, tidy, punctual, obedient, reverent, polite, respectful, responsible . . ..

`They've never seen his room,' says Pisces, darkly.

`Did you put in that you failed Scissors in pre-school?' demands Herself.

`You'd better let me check the spelling,' offers Miz. `Remember the time you got a High Distinction in English, and you spelt your name wrong?'

But he doesn't rise to the bait. He's still too busy figuring out where he should apply.

Actually, now I think of it good with kids, okay about scrambling up and down heights, carries loads easily, terrific sense of direction, trained map-reading skills, nimble-fingered with toys, cheery . . ..

Well, surely Somebody's going to retire, eventually. And the Trekkie's always wanted to fly. Say a few years as Apprentice Elf, maybe promotion to Santa's Helper.

For an ambitious young man, the sky's no limit. On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer, on Vixen!