After the little outburst on Friday, September 28, 1985, I had a weekend to think about it.
I didn’t. I did the whole homecoming thing. I told everyone that I thought would care about the plans (which amounted to maybe 15 people).
But now it was Monday, October 1. It was back to work.
I set to things with a resolution I’d gotten out of the habit of, during the past five months. I gave notice at my various jobs. I figured out what kind of money I had. I got my car – a very beat-up ’73 Malibu that was, in retrospect, not even roadworthy – ready for the drive. I called my friends in the Cities, arranging couches to crash on.
And I went to the library to look at the Sunday Star/Tribune’s want ads, looking for anything an English major with a putative talent for writing could do – and came away feeling just a tad depressed.
I needed a resume.
Now, my obscure little college wasn’t much on career counseling – a sore spot among a lot of graduates of the day. The college was, to be fair, trying to stay solvent (it came within 24 hours of closing the following year). But they had just hired a woman to help out in that department – a woman who had had an executive job at a small clothing-store chain in Fargo, and so knew the world of business. She worked like ten hours a week, out of a little office in the back of the cafeteria.
I made an appointment for Wednesday to get a resume whipped into shape.