I got my first job in journalism by luck. It was just days after college graduation, and I was sitting in the kitchen of my parents’ house, looking through the local paper, wondering what I was going to do with my life. In the back of the paper was an ad. The paper was looking for a reporter/editor. I had graduated with a degree in journalism. This, I thought, is meant to be.

I made a call to the number and found out that the job was open and the office was literally in walking distance from the house. I made an appointment for that afternoon, pulled together some of my lousy college newspaper clips, my resume, and put on a suit. Pulling up to the front of the building, the top down on my ’70 convertible VW Bug and the Dead cranking out of a cassette player, I was strangely calm and sure of myself.

I met Pat, the editor of a group of local newspapers that served the communities around my town. Due to those local papers, and Pat’s confidence in me, I was able to get a job working for a newspaper and achieve a dream I had since I could remember. She told me the job paid $2.75, and I was fine with that. When my check came that week, I was thrilled because it was $275.00. In other words, I had jumped on the gig—despite the mistakenly paltry fee I heard at my job interview—to follow a dream.

I did not have to go to another job interview for a few years. I had zero practice, and quickly found out how much I sucked at trying to get myself employed when sitting across the desk from a possible employer. I’m sure if those early interviews were on video, they would be too cringe-worthy to view. Fidgety, nervous energy hidden behind false confidence and zero accomplishments were the basic themes. But I was hungry and wanted a shot. Pat gave me one, and I always think of my first boss with nothing but fondness and smiles. Subsequent meetings with prospective employers did not always go as well.

I think of these things when I speak to young people who now sit across the desk from me. Just weeks before, they were dressed exclusively in T-shirts and shorts. Now, the suit has taken their place. The collar looks uncomfortable and the tie out of place. A young face with eager eyes searching for some good news, only weeks removed from the college classroom, a keg party or something more fun than answering questions about ambition, goals, ideas and work ethic.

The situation is compounded in 2009 by the job market that has been gutted in the economic collapse that is defining this part of the 21st century. One day, these kids can say they remembered when there were no jobs to find. Interviews were just silly formalities conducted by companies as an exercise: a grueling process made even harder by the fierce competition that exists for very few jobs, especially in journalism.
When I look at these kids, I see my own face 20 years ago and want to get into their heads to ask them what the rush is. But that is selfish. I wanted to get my career on track, too. But it goes by so fast, and there is no way to warn them.

I do recall pulling away from the curb after that first job interview, and knowing I had a job in my chosen field. The stupidity of my college career was justified in one fell swoop when I was offered the job on my way out the door. I pressed play and Jerry’s guitar came forth again, echoing under the elevated train overpass that created a reverb chamber. Time to start life.

Follow DryMartino on Twitter at twitter.com/drymartino.