There’s a dank, musty smell emanating from the depths of the boys locker room at Eagle Crest High School. It’s the sort of puckered nose twinge of horror that basements with rotting vermin and half-chewed armchairs evoke. It was also the place I had to spend my weekdays.

I thought becoming a gym teacher was going to be an easy gig. None of the parent teacher meetings— I mean, what are you going to ask about if you’re a parent? “Why doesn’t my kid have an A?” It’s because they won’t dress down and refused to run the mile. No hard science there. No effort, no pass. Say your sorrys and give yourself over to the demonic creature that is the summer school P.E. instructor.

Late twenties and spiraling towards mediocrity, I thought a semi-permanent job that held the guise of a career would have been the ticket for me to rocket back up into relevancy amongst the go-getters. Spoiler—- it has not. That is unless you believe driving a 1994 Ford Escort wagon that’s the color of neon blue alien blood strikes desire. For heavens sake, the driver side door doesn’t even unlock from the inside. You have to roll the window down and open it from the outside. Nothing says “I’m really loving my life” like rolling that window down during a torrential rain storm and getting soaked before you step outside.

So now I’m debating the merits of signing up to become a home inspector. If' fate has already decided I’ll be sequestered to the shitholes of fading Americana towns, I might as well get paid a little extra for it. My daily Spaghet fund could use some cushioning after a blowout weekend in Reno left me heartbroken and itchy in places you don’t mention in polite company. Maybe I should inspect my own life before making a go at the homes. I’m sure I’d find I’m due for renovations.