Monopreme

Jack-of-all-trades, the job title for someone who is decent at everything in general but great at nothing in particular, seemed like a fine thing to be back when we were a wee-one. It sounded like fun. Common sense suggests that possessing a plurality of skills would never leave one at a disadvantage, no matter the task at hand.

Call it intuition, or instinct, or the silent wisdom passed down in the very essence of our being. Just don’t call it foolish, as the playful admonishment for my early career aspirations earned when I first gave the answer to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

It’s an incredibly complicated question that a boy of barely five isn’t meant to get right. Nevertheless, it is a question that demands an answer sooner rather than later. The modern labor market demands specialization, lengthy training, certifications and licensure in addition to several years of experience for even entry-level roles in many fields. Work, we are told, is where you will contribute and accumulate value. Whether or not that value inures to your personal benefit is another question entirely, and mostly irrelevant to your landlord.

Blissfully ignorant of rent, I answered the question with my little heart unhindered by the limitations of economic realities. Like many young boys, I imagine, I wanted to be something heroic. I didn’t want to be rich, or powerful – I wanted to be helpful. I wanted to be a firefighter. I wanted to help scared little kittens stuck in trees. I wanted to rush towards the flames and liberate the helpless from the inevitable and only certainty in life being imposed by accidental disaster.

But I also wanted to be a roller-skater. If that was a job. Certainly, that must be a job. Have you tried roller skates? Only a fool would live in a world with roller skates and not try to roller skate all day, every day. Well, that would make several billion of us fools, plus or minus a couple thousand truly blessed individuals living the dream and roller skating their way to the bank.

Maybe I could be a firefighter, on roller skates! Surely that would make the whole business of making war on flames much more efficient. And fun. It’s not like a firefighter isn’t expected to use a variety of tools to accomplish their feats of daring and courage. Who wouldn’t want to be carried across the smoldering threshold by a hero that glides? A firefighter on roller skates.

But I was hungry when the question of my future career goals was asked. I was hungry for tacos specifically. Who has tacos? Mom? Did I want to be a mom when I grew up? I had once remarked upon noticing my mother plucking some very serious looking hair growth from her upper lip, “Are you becoming a dad too?” So, to my innocent mind it wasn’t impossible, but not my particular inclination. Besides, moms are never as proud of their moustaches as firefighters – and neither have nearly enough taco.

I wanted Taco Tuesday to be every day. Back then I had no idea what to call a taco vendor. Frankly, I’m still not sure what to call the taco truck guy, technically speaking. Cook? Cashier? Truck driver? Taco trucker? El hambre hombre del tacos?

What if the taco truck burst into flames and there was a shortage of firefighters on roller skates to save the day? All because I had let my hungry little mouth make all my decisions instead of my heart and left the kitty’s fate to chance. Not that I’d be the first to fall prey to that aspect of the human condition. As noted long ago “Everyone’s toil is for their mouth, yet their appetite is never satisfied.” (Ecclesiastes 6:7)

Tacos are meaningless. Chasing the wind, as it were, and catching it for only a short time before its inevitable escape from the mouth’s less prosperous cousin. There is no adventure in the land of taco – only a fleeting, flavorful reprieve from the eternal flames. The love for the Taco Man is a capricious thing, only as dependable as your tortillas provider proves to be. Only as constant as the supply of flavor brought to the table by the taco purveyor – and only as good as the last taco served.

I wondered then if they had Taco Tuesday in space. I had heard of astronauts enjoying all kinds of exotic freeze-dried treats like vacuum packed ice cream. I wanted to try NASA’s best Neapolitan at that moment perhaps more than I’ve ever wanted anything. So clearly, I wanted to grow up to be an astronaut. Not the space station bums, or the moon tourist variety, but the deep space, Star Trek kind. I wanted to take bold leaps and first steps and ask the replicator to please make me a plate of tacos.

But sometimes things in space go haywire, and a fire breaks out and burns the replicators. Then there would be no tacos. Because I had chosen not to follow my heart, there would be a shortage of firefighters on the starship. The few firefighters there were on the ship couldn’t get there fast enough, because they forgot their roller skates. And then we would all be stranded. Taco-less. Adrift. Doomed.

That’s why, when I was five, I wanted to be a firefighter, on roller-skates, selling tacos, in space.