The Rise and Fall of my Reality TV Career

Dear Human Resources Mangaer:

During four years as a tour guide of Savannah, I gave tours for several companies and ensured that my audience received a personalized tour based upon what they wanted to see and hear.

When you're a tour guide in Savannah, you often act as a sort of free agent and help out other companies whenever they have a big group reservation. It's a good way to make a little extra money, and groups are usually more fun, both for the guide and the tourists. But it can be a real drag when the group has no interest whatsoever in the tour and is only there because A) it's part of their trip, or B) they want a pub tour and they're interested in getting hammered and couldn't care less about the history or supernatural residents of the bar.

If it's the latter you're interested in, you need to call Greg Proffit at Creepy Crawl Pub Tour. He's a real character with his New England accent, leather jacket and fedora, looking like a paunchy, inebriated Indiana Jones and talking like one of the guys from Car Talk. He gives a good tour, but he makes no bones that you're there for the booze, and so is he. He actually made up a ghost story about W.G.'s Pub, just to give the owner more business. I've done several tours with Greg over the years with mixed results. The patrons are easy-going, but that can be annoying when I'm trying to educate the audience while they're more interested in getting wasted and talking to each other over you.

I got a call from Greg a few weeks before I left Savannah for Washington D.C. I hadn't given tours in awhile but as it turned out, Greg didn't want me to help him give a tour to a group of dental assistants from Passaic. He had been approached to film a pilot for a reality TV show and he invited me to come along and begin my career as a famous reality star. The details were sketchy, but it seemed like the plot of the show was about Savannah tour guides and their experiences. Not believing in ghosts, I thought I could appeal to the skeptics in the audience and be a straight man, kind of like Winston Zeddemore in Ghostbusters.

I showed up at the restaurant where the pilot was to be filmed. I knew that I was going to be pulled aside for an interview about my own personal experiences, and I knew that food and booze were on the house, and that cameramen would be filming us socializing. It was awkward making conversation with a boom mike bobbing overhead like a guardian fairy, but otherwise it was nothing too exciting. In fact, it was pretty boring. It seemed like none of the other guides knew any more about what they were doing there than me.

So then the producers asked the psychic to start reading people's energies.

The woman took a tour guide's hand while a cameraman intently focused on the action. "Okay.... if you're sensitive to energies, you'll feel this...." Both her hands folded over the tour guide's while the psychic started to chant, "Pulse... pulse..... pulse!... PULSE!!!"

The party only got more awkward for me as all of the tour guides got more and more inebriated and more and more eager to out-do everyone else's stories. Tour guides just love to be the center of attention, so to have seven of them in the same room spelled trouble. I guess all the footage of hot-shots sitting at tables wasn't too exciting, so a director clapped his hands and called out, "Okay! Everyone up! You're all having a good time, you're talking, you're excited about the ceremony tomorrow! Get up! Okay! Roll cameras!" We all stood up and resumed our conversations, only with plastered smiles and more hand gesturing.

Ceremony? What ceremony? I pulled a producer aside, the only person in the room without any loose screws, and asked her what this pilot was really about. She told me that tomorrow was the summer solstice and that a ceremony would be performed at Tybee Island, wherein a sacrifice would be offered to the ocean. "But now, we're just waiting for the wizard to show up."

A wizard? Earlier, I had met a woman who was not a tour guide but was a self-identified wiccan covered with talismans and jewelry. I assumed that the wizard was her male counterpart who would help get the sacrifice going tomorrow. But no! Eventually a wizard did show up, and a wizard he was, decked out in a floor-length gown and a pointy hat, both of which were covered with gold glittery stars. He looked more like Jack Black than Gandalf, and it was obvious that the getup was a costume he had purchased, probably at Party City. Tragically, by then the party had begun to wind down and the tour guides had almost all left when the food and free booze had stopped coming. I signed the release papers and bid a farewell to the wizard, who was a pretty cool guy when you got to know him.

But I never did hear back, and since my opportunity to become a TV star wasn't going to develop, I moved to D.C. as planned. I never did go to the sacrifice.

A Savannah Celebrity!

Dear Human Resources Manager:

As a docent at a historic home in Savannah, I was committed to providing an engaging and interactive learning experience for my audience.

It was a slow day in the historic home, and not too many people had stopped in for tours that day. So imagine my surprise when a chorus of voices emanated from the basement. Our security was far from airtight and I assumed that some wayward tourists had wandered in from the garden and were looking for the ticket booth. I was not prepared for what it was: a bevy of tourists, all with traveler cups,* one with a smoking cigar, being led up the stairs by a very wispy middle-aged man, who was enumerating on the restoration of the staircase. He behaved just as one of us would, except he certainly wasn’t in the employ of the home.

*(In Savannah, it is permissible to have an open container of alcohol, so long as it is sipped out of a “traveler,” your typical plastic Solo to-go cup, usually the clear kind.)

“Um…. I’m sorry, the entrance is over here. Did you all want to tour the home?”

The wispy man, apparently the leader of the pack, was just as gay as could be. I’m not trying to be insensitive here, but he truly was a stereotype. He belonged in a Mel Brooks movie. He shifted his drink, pinky up, to his left hand, extended his right hand, palm down, towards me and said, “Hi. I’m Jerry Spence. From The Book.”

Everyone in Savannah knows what ‘The Book’ is: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt. I had read that book several times and had often pointed out the locations on my tours, but I didn’t remember who the hell Jerry Spence was. Berendt had changed a lot of people’s names in his non-fiction expose on Savannah, so maybe I was standing in the presence of the real Luther Driggers or Joe Odom. Seeing my confusion, Mr. Spence clarified: “I’m the hairdresser. I was in ‘The Movie’ too.”

That didn’t help much. I recalled that in Midnight, Joe Odom always had a slew of people lazing around, one of whom was a hairdresser who sat in the kitchen and gave perms to people who toured Odom’s “historic home.” I didn’t remember him being in ‘The Movie,’ but then again, ‘The Movie’ had put me to sleep every time I tried to watch it. His introduction, intended to impress, still didn’t explain why he was traipsing through private property to a bevy of admiring tourists, who probably couldn’t wait to get home and tell all their friends who had led them around Savannah.

“But... What are you doing in here? How’d you get in? Sir, there’s no smoking in here, can you put that out?”

This latter remark was addressed to the man holding a cigar. “Don’t worry, I won’t smoke it. I’m just holding it,” he assured me. That he was, and it was depositing a thin layer of smog upon the 12-foot ceilings. I tried to be as polite as I could as I unhooked the chain blocking the entrance and not-so-subtlety herded them out the door. They eventually took the hint and went down the front steps, hanging onto every word spoken by their tour guide, “Jerry Thpence, from ‘The Book.’” They headed east on Harris street, probably to stop into Pinkie Master’s to refill their travelers.

Back to Civilization

Dear Human Resources Manager:

Recently I completed a 10 week-long summer camp program where I lived on-camp with groups of up to 24 girls in a primitive camping environment.

Working 130 hours a week means that there is little to no free time in one's schedule for things like resting, bathing, and of course, looking for jobs (for the record, a week is 168 hours long). True, a considerable portion of that 130 hours was spent sleeping, but as far as I'm concerned you're still working when a child wakes you up at 3 am, or when the walkie-talking starts buzzing about "robins" and "Tarzans," code words for camp hazards (Nicknames, secret locations, code words... I feel like I spent the summer as an undercover agent).

While I did spend many of my nights off at the local Panera bread company, consuming French Onion Soup along with the free wireless as I searched for jobs, I was unable to send off the three-a-week application goal I had set a year ago. Yet, surprisingly, I was able to find an opportunity. Or rather, opportunity found me. Strangely enough it wasn't a resume or a well-written cover letter which brought about my upcoming working environment, but a Facebook post, composed when I was feeling especially downtrodden after yet another "Thank you for your interest in our company. However...," form letter.

Which is more important: Friends, family, or the future?

Since it was clear that I wasn't going to have a job waiting for me after I left camp, I was struggling with three options: should I move back to Savannah, back where I started, where there are few opportunities but lots of friends, in a city I love; should I go back home to Missouri where my family was, along with the newest member, my newborn nephew Alan; or should I stay in Washington D.C., where I had the greatest odds of finding a job, despite a year's worth of trying and failing and not making any friends?

As fortune would have it, my woe-is-me Facebook post caught the attention of a friend-of-a-friend, who was just preparing to open an art gallery in Savannah. After a short reply and a long telephone conversation, I'm proud to know that I have a place to work, in a city which boasts history, beauty, and the greatest concentration in any American city of people who give a damn about me. And while Mr. Beast is absolutely going to be a very rewarding place to contribute my skills, it is a new business and I am going to have to find a side job if I want to do things like eat and pay rent. Of one of these I have been exempt for the past 15 months, I'll leave it to you to determine which.

So, do not despair, small portion of people who are currently reading, my new course in life will not deprive you of this magnificent blog! I'm still on the hunt, and this new development has put the wind back in my sails. I am absolutely thrilled to go back to the Hostess City of the South, and I'm sure I'll be spending my time doing just as many Odd Jobs as I've ever done.

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda

Dear Human Resources Manager,
Currently I am an Arts and Crafts Specialist, where I teach basic and advanced art projects to campers aged 8 to 17.

As I weaved around a tiny gravel road located on the top of a mountain in Nowheresville, I wondered if I was ready for the job I was taking. Now, a week later, I am still apprehensive, but I am looking forward to meeting my girls and teaching them how to make cool, practical stuff with everyday, boring things.

For security reasons, I cannot say exactly where I am, but I can say that this is a very unique working environment. First of all, everyone is expected to have a camp nickname. I read in the information brochure that nicknames were given, but what I didn't know was that I would be taking on a totally new identification. When I got out of my car and was greeted by the rest of the staff, they all asked me if I had chosen a nickname. I had assumed that a nickname was given, but I wanted to take the opportunity to name myself, rather than be stuck with a moniker like "Zits" or "Squishy."

I tried playing on alternate versions of my own name: Grixie... Pixie? Oh, there's already a Pixie. Ellie... Ellie-fant... Jelly... Jelly Belly.... Um.... I also mentally ran through the X-Men roster. Rogue? Storm? I like starting fires, should I be Pyro? I also started thinking about some of my favorite book characters, and since I had just finished reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" for the millionth time, I decided to be called Scout. So now, all of my co-workers know me only as Scout, and it is my decision if I would like to reveal my true identity to any of them.

One of the main drawbacks of living way up here is the total lack of modern conveniences, like Wi-Fi, cell phone reception, electricity, flush toilets, and mirrors. My only access to any of those comforts is through a 30-minute drive into the nearest town. I am at the moment sitting in a too-cold Barnes and Noble cafe, sipping a very cold beverage which I only purchased so that I wouldn't feel guilty about taking up a table for an hour while I look for jobs. My job search has dramatically slackened during the past week, but I am determined to send off at least one application a week. The prospect of making follow-up calls from a Panera Bread Company is uncomfortable, but the prospect of ending yet another odd job and staring over the vast canyon of unemployment is unendurable.

I am freezing, so I'm going to wrap up my little rant now. I would like to leave you with one story: the latrines out here are called a "Biffy": Bathrooms In Forest For You, and they boast the combined fragrances of toothpaste and shit, as one would expect from a chemical toilet. One follows the tightrope walker's credo of Don't Look Down when using them, and it is disconcerting to have a moment's silence between the disposal and the impact. But the ceiling is a small splendor. The roof is made of particle board, and little flakes protrude from the ceiling from where the nails are driven through. At night, hordes of moths congregate around the lightbulbs, and their folded wings match the shape and color of the wood. When you come in and close the door, the moths flutter in a way that suggests that pieces of the roof are coming to life and are flying away.

Gotta start somewhere

Welcome to Ellie's Odd Jobs: a blog about swallowing your pride, keeping your faith, making the most of a college degree, and making the best of a bad situation.

About a year ago, I finished my coursework requirements for an MA in Art History (thank you, thank you), and moved to Washington D.C. in the starry-eyed hopes of carving out a living for myself in the arts. Since then, I have applied for 98 jobs (insert record-scratching sound here) in at least three countries, to no avail, and am constantly fighting off cynicism and bitterness. (I am also fighting the urge to deliver a swift crack in the nose to the next person who asks, "Have you looked at the Smithsonian?")

I know that I am not the only twenty-something out there in this position, that my lack of employment is due to the vague, oppressing burden of The Economy and not to a lack of drive, education, experience, or passion. Still, until that perfect job comes along, we all have to eat, and that's where the "odd jobs" come in.

Sometimes you just have to put your education on the back burner and take a job which doesn't utilize your qualifications or your gray matter. I have spent many years in the employ of some very strange jobs, and I have learned to put the right "spin" on cover letter to make it shine. For example:

• The job: Wearing a costume, carrying a candle-lit lantern, and telling ghost stories to superstitious tourists.
• The resume: Over four years' experience in historic interpretation and interpersonal communication.

No one can squeeze the blood from a stone like me!

This blog is my attempt to share my stories and look on the bright side of a wholly unfunny situation (unemployment with a Master's degree) not only so that I can laugh at myself, but also in the hopes that someone who is in the same boat as me will recognize my situation and laugh along with me.