PRAISE FOR OFF COURSE ON PURPOSE
“A celebratory memoir about mixing obsession, creative thinking, and hustle to turn passion into a career.”
— Foreword Clarion Reviews
“A memoir that asks the ultimate question: 'What is a person supposed to do with a whole life?’”
— BlueInk Review
“Berry engagingly demystifies the world of professional juggling with detailed scenes and humorous anecdotes.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“A thoughtful, well-crafted meditation on reinvention.”
— Alana M. Kelley, IndieReader
“It’s less about giving you answers and more about showing you what it looks like to figure things out in real time.”
— Kathryn Dare, Los Angeles Book Review
“Many aspire to operate outside of safety nets, but few accounts follow the process of how this can be achieved.”
— D. Donovan, Midwest Book Review
“An expansive and deeply personal memoir that blends coming-of-age storytelling with entrepreneurial grit and an unconventional philosophy on success.”
— Jack Davis, San Francisco Book Review
“Where the book really shines is in its honesty about chasing something unconventional.”
— Kyle Eaton, Manhattan Book Review
“A substantive and thoughtful memoir… a realistic portrayal of success that acknowledges the time, effort, and resilience required to achieve meaningful goals.”
— Scott Olsen, Chicago Book Review
Foreword
What you are holding is one of the most comprehensive books ever written on what it takes to become a professional entertainer. A no-holds-barred account of a life shaped by fun, risk, and purpose. And, as a result of it, a story worth sharing. A story of resilience and unwavering belief, both in ourselves and in each other, the members of the juggling duo Rootberry.
I am truly honored to have shared so much of this adventure with Bill. And while it feels vulnerable to have our private thoughts, conversations, and struggles laid bare in a book this massive, it is precisely those inner workings and struggles that give the story its weight. Without the transparency of what it took to get there, the moments of success would not be nearly as meaningful.
Reliving these experiences through Bill’s words has been a genuine joy for me, and I am excited that you now get to come along for the ride.
May you live the kind of life someone wants to write about.
~ Jonathan Root
Introduction
At nineteen, my mom sat me down and said, "I'm sorry. But you have thirty days to figure out where you're going, because you can't come with me."
It was one of the scariest moments of my life.
My greatest fear was that I would be swallowed by a small, dead-end life — the exact life I had been trying to outrun since I walked out of high school during my senior year. I didn't have money, a car, or a diploma. What I did have was a dream, a team, and the will to do whatever it took to overcome anything the world threw at me.
Now, thirty years later, having visited eighty-five countries, all fifty states, and performed over 7,000 shows, I look back on a life that refused to be small. A life filled with adventure, travel, and the work I chose. A life bigger than anything I could have imagined in the beginning.
Along the way, other artists and performers started asking, “What’s your secret?”
Here's what I believe: it's not a secret, it's a map. And most of the success stories out there don't offer one. They offer a highlight reel — ten things that worked for them, stripped of context, stripped of struggle, presented from the top of the mountain like a postcard that reads: It's great up here. You should come.
But that doesn't help anyone.
If you want to help someone up a mountain, you don't shout instructions from the summit. You climb back down. You stand on the trail next to them and show them how to lace their boots. You walk the hard sections together and tell the truth about what it takes to reach the top.
That is what this book is — a trench-side view of a successful career as an entertainer.
For thirty years, I kept notes. Training regimens, ideas we tried, things that failed spectacularly, things that worked, the moments of doubt, the breakthroughs, and the long, grueling stretches of nothing-happening-yet. I kept it all because I believed that if I ever wrote a book, the value wouldn't be in the victories themselves — but in the honest account of how we navigated the maze and came out the other side.
This is that account. It's the story of building an extraordinary life from scratch, with no money, no roadmap, no safety net, and no guarantee it will work. The good and the bad. The easy and the hard. The disappointments and the victories, and how all of it — woven together — becomes a life.
If the life you've been handed doesn't fit, and you cannot bear the thought of staying where you are, there is a reason this book has found you.
~ Bill Berry
Chapter 1: I’ll Have a Coke
“Oh, he’s so scared he’s shaking,” said the surgical nurse.
I look down at my hand and see that she’s right; it is indeed shaking, but it’s not fear, it’s anticipation.
I’ve had this heart condition since I was eighteen months old, and I’d long accepted that being a sick kid would be my normal for as long as I lived. But a few months ago, during a routine visit with my cardiologist, he suggested I see a specialist.
The specialist thumbed through a stack of manila file folders four inches thick, all stuffed with my old medical records, and after examining the case, recommended a procedure called an ablation. The idea, he explained, was to make an incision in both of the veins by my hips, plus another one in my neck. Then he’d slide long electrodes and a camera through my circulatory system until they reached my heart. Once there, the electrodes would burn away the excess nerve tissue that was causing my irregularities. If everything went well, my heart rate would stabilize. The doctor cautioned, though, that the procedure was no guarantee; it doesn’t always work.
I looked at my mother, who’d been with me through every moment of my years of heart-related torment, and said, “I want it.”
After that, the pieces moved into place quickly. And today, only weeks before my eighteenth birthday, we’d woken early to drive to the surgical center.
The nurses and doctors bustled about the operating room, making their preparations. A man in green scrubs, a mask, and black-rimmed glasses sat down and introduced himself. “Mr. Berry, my name is Dr. Smith, and I’m your anesthesiologist. I’ll be right here monitoring everything the whole time.”
I smiled at him and said, “I’m not gonna fall for that whole count backwards from ten thing, no one ever gets there.”
He chuckled and said, “Ah, so you’re a frequent flyer, already know all my tricks.”
“I’m sure you’ve still got a few up your sleeve,” I said.
He laughed again, then turned his attention to the various syringes laid out on his table.
I feel a cold, wet, trickling sensation down my left arm.
“Oops, my IV is leaking,” I announced.
The nurse lifted the warmed white cotton blankets I was buried in to look, “Oh yeah, we got a geyser.”
This sparked a brief discussion among the assembly, leading to a decision to have a nurse reset my IV.
Interjecting, I asked, “Is it still working, or is it toast?”
Glancing down at it again, the nurse said, “Uhh, it’s still working.”
Looking at her, I said, “I’ve been stuck thousands upon thousands of times, and I was sorta hoping this would be the last one for a while. Any chance you can knock me out and then reset it?”
The nurse pursed her lips, then looked at the anesthesiologist.
He shrugged and looked at the surgeon as if to ask, Is that cool with you?
The surgeon considered this for a moment, then nodded in acquiescence.
The anesthesiologist picked up a syringe full of milky white fluid, inserted it into my IV, and said, “I guess you were right about that count-backward-from-ten thin…”
The world shifted, and I melted into the bottomless nothing of an anesthetic sleep.
* * *
The next thing I remember is a recovery nurse rolling me into a room and telling my mom what a pleasant patient I’d been. Then the surgeon came in to talk to us.
To my mom, he said, “You’ll be pleased to know the surgery was a success.”
Her arms shot up with clenched fists pumping in triumph, and she exclaimed, “Oh my god, this is a dream, thank you, doctor.” Then she looked at me and said, “We’ve been through so much; this is the miracle we’ve prayed for.”
Then, he turned to me and said, “You’re now a normal seventeen-year-old, same as any other.”
Without thinking, I asked, “Does this mean I can even ride roller coasters, or bungee jump, or skydive, and everything else if I want to?”
My mom sighed disapprovingly at this, “Ughhh.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you should wait a little while for everything to heal, but yes, you can do all those things if you really want to, as long as it’s ok with your mom.”
We all laughed at this, and then my mom asked if it was ok to bring me something to eat.
He looked at me and asked, “How do you feel? Do you have any nausea? Would you like to eat something?”
Because of the surgery, I hadn’t eaten anything since the day before, so I immediately rattled off an order: “Colossus Burger from Jack In The Box!”
The doctor’s eyes widened. “I was thinking something more along the lines of Jell-O.”
Disappointment washed across my face, so he continued, “But I suppose it’s ok, as long as you go slowly and make sure your stomach can handle it. I don’t want you to vomit and upset the sutures.”
I felt fine, but I promised to go slowly. Then he left to attend to other patients.
“Okay, so one Colossus Burger,” my mom repeated with a big smile, “Anything else?”
“Yes, please, fries, and a large root beer. NO WAIT! I want a COKE! MOM! I can have a COKE!!”
“That’s right, you can have caffeine now. Alright, and a large Coke.”
I’d only gotten to taste Coca-Cola a couple of times before, and each time, I’d loved it. But because of the caffeine, I’d never been allowed to have it. Wow, I thought, I get to have my first real Coke.
She left to get the food, and I was left alone.
I looked around the room and took in its familiar elements. Next to me was the rolling IV stand with fluids drip drip dripping. Each droplet slowly made its way through the tubes until it flowed into my arm through the IV. Beside me was the beige hospital remote with its array of buttons. I didn’t have to examine it to know that four of them would adjust the bed’s angles and elevations. Next to those buttons would be a nurse call button and a big red emergency call button I could hit if my heart ever stopped. Then there were the ubiquitous sticky tabs, distributed across my chest, each attached by a different-colored wire, all of which led back to the heart monitor. I looked up at the monitor’s small screen and the green line that jumped in response to each of my heartbeats. Next to that was a little number that, at a glance, told anyone my heart rate was chilling at sixty-three beats per minute. Due to the frequency of my visits, I’d watched these heart-monitoring devices evolve over the years, gradually becoming smaller and lighter as technology advanced. I relaxed back and interlaced my fingers over my chest. As I did, a stabbing pain shot through my arm from the IV. The pain triggered a memory from way back in second grade, and like a movie, I watched it in my mind.
* * *
I was seven years old, the year was 1984, and I’d spent more days than I could count in the hospital under observation. So much so, I’d made friends with other kids. One of whom was a little girl who had cancer. And like me, she was always around. One day, as we played, I noticed blood had backed up in the tubing of her IV.
“Yeah,” she said when I pointed it out, “they’ll probably have to give me a new one.”
I felt awful for her. I hated needles; they always hurt so much.
She went to get it fixed, and I headed back to my room.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time I’d ever see her.
A few days later, I asked one of the nurses about my friend. The nurse’s face got tight, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. Then she said, “I’m not allowed to give out any information about patients.”
I didn’t understand. They’d always talked to me about her before when I asked, but now she refused.
As I lay in my hospital bed later that night, I realized she’d probably died from the cancer.
She’d been so quick to smile and so positive. But now she was gone. It didn’t feel fair. It WASN’T fair. But we were sick kids, and maybe that’s just what happens to sick kids. Sick kids like her, and sick kids like me.
In a sort of detached way, I wondered how long it would be before my heart condition did the same and took me. So I set a goal for myself. I would try to live to be twenty-one. That seemed like a good age to live to, and I figured I could live a good life if I made it to twenty-one.
* * *
The movie in my mind fizzled out, and I returned to the present moment.
The weight of the countless hours and days I’d spent in hospitals crashed in on me. I’d long accepted the possibility of dying young, but now, I was cured…
I began to imagine all the things that would be different now.
No more emergency room visits.
No more blood tests.
No more daily medications.
Absentmindedly, I touched my neck with two fingers to feel my pulse, a habit I performed many times each day.
::thump bump:: ::thump bump:: came the familiar beats.
Ah, I thought, and I don’t have to check my pulse all the time; I can just live my life.
Just live my life… What a thought.
And I wondered for the first time, What is a person supposed to do with a whole life?
Chapter 2: You’re an Adult Now
The next few weeks flew by; I had my eighteenth birthday and got through the Christmas holiday, all without any notable heart issues. It would occasionally beat weirdly, as if it was trying to snap into an episode, but the nerve path it needed to do so had been burned away in surgery, so it couldn’t anymore. In these moments, I’d feel a weird pressure in my chest, and my heart would freeze — an eerie feeling because I’d sit expectantly waiting and wondering if it was going to start again. Then, a few moments would pass, and it’d kick on again.
At first, this was nerve-wracking, but once I began to trust that it would start beating again, it became normal. And this new normal was so much better than the old one had been.
So that was good.
What wasn’t good was the fact that I’d never thought very seriously about preparing for adulthood.
Most particularly in school. I’d always figured, “If I’m not going to grow up, then I’ll never go to college or have to worry about getting a job. So why waste the precious time I have doing schoolwork?”
But now I had a future to worry about, and if I was going to turn things around and try to go to college, I only had the second half of my senior year left to do it. I’d never found school difficult; if anything, it was too easy. My real challenge was staying engaged and not letting myself daydream when the lessons dragged on and on.
* * *
The drive to school was long enough for my mind to wander. And I was lost in a daydream when my mom’s voice interrupted my reverie.
“You’re going to be late.”
Looking at the clock on the dashboard of our old Toyota Corolla Stationwagon, I saw that she was right.
“Can you write me a note to excuse me?” I asked.
My mom considered the request. Then she said, “I’ve been thinking about that. Now that you’re eighteen, I’m gonna let you handle those kinds of things for yourself.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom, if you don't write me a note, I’ll get detention!”
“You’re an adult now, that’s between you and the school.”
“Yes, technically, I'm eighteen, but they won’t recognize that!”
“It’s between YOU and the school.” She reiterated adamantly.
We pulled up to the curb where parents dropped off their kids, and she stopped the car.
I wanted to argue and tell her she was being ridiculous, but I could tell she wasn’t going to change her mind, so I just got out of the car.
She means well, but the “autonomy” she’d just granted me wouldn’t carry any weight with the school.
I walked to the admin building and stood in line behind five other students who were also late.
Flipping open my notebook, I start to write a note to excuse myself.
“Please excuse…” but then I stop because the next word decides everything.
If I write, “Please excuse me,” they’ll know I wrote it myself, give me a detention anyway, and maybe even escalate things because I’d tried to write my own note. But if I write, “Please excuse my son,” I’d be lying, committing forgery, and working the system instead of exercising my legal adult autonomy. I stand frozen, torn, unable to decide the best course of action. I don’t have long to decide, because the line of students ahead of me is shrinking. I weigh every possible option until there’s only one person left ahead of me.
Knowing it’s now or never, I write, “Please excuse my son for being late. Thanks, Sue Berry.” Then I tear it out of the notebook, fold it a few times, and put it in my pocket.
The kid ahead of me collects their detention slip and leaves; now it’s my turn at the window.
The student aide behind the glass doesn’t even look at me as she says, “School ID and note from your parent?”
I hesitate for a moment, then slide my ID through the slot at the bottom of the glass.
“No note?” She asks.
“No note,” I respond.
Without a word, she writes up a detention slip, tears off the pink carbon copy, and hands it to me. I thank her and start the walk to class.
One little lie could have gotten me out of the whole situation, but that’s not who I am. But then again, going to detention to be punished for something I’m no longer required to subject myself to doesn’t sound like me either. I thought about it for the rest of the day, still unsure what to do. And when the final bell of the day rang, I walked towards the designated detention room.
Reaching the fork in the sidewalk, I stop and look to the left. Down that walkway, I see a teacher standing outside his classroom, clipboard in hand. Two students stand before him, patiently waiting as he logs in their student ID numbers. He hands back their IDs, and they go inside. He looks the part of a high school teacher in his beige khakis and long-sleeved button-down shirt. Seeing him standing there, I’m struck by the fact that he, too, is in detention. Was he late to work this week? Is that how they decide which teachers end up with detention duty? Or is this just part of his job? What if he jumped through every scholastic hoop he’d ever been told to jump through, was never late to school, never missed a day of school, and was a model student in every way? Yet, here he is, “pulling detention.” As I consider this, he checks his watch, then, scanning the horizon for any stragglers, he spies me. Motioning towards the door, he mimes the question, “You coming?”
I smile, but shake my head. No, that’s not where I’m supposed to be, is my silent response.
He nods and steps into the classroom, pulling the door shut behind him. I know he’s also locking it to ensure anyone arriving late is denied entry, forcing them into an additional detention as punishment for missing this one. It’s a fancy game, and I’d always played along in the past. But, if I’m truly the autonomous adult my mom has declared me to be, then I don’t have to play anymore.
Taking the right fork, I walk down the sidewalk that leads off campus and head for home.
* * *
The next morning, in my first-period class, the teacher went from desk to desk passing out various papers. When she got to me, she dropped two pink notices in front of me.
“Two detentions,” she said with a tsk-tsk tone of voice.
The defenders of the system, it appears, don’t just let you stop playing the game. And I know I'm supposed to feel chastised, like I’m some sort of troublemaker needing to repent of sin, but I don’t feel bad at all. Their spell has been broken. I’m legally an adult now, and that means I’m free, even if they don’t want to acknowledge it.
At the end of the day, I did what I’d done the day before: I walked straight past detention and went home.
* * *
On the third day, I arrived at class and saw that I’d accrued a third detention.
Predictably, I skipped this one, too.
At this point, I knew they’d never have a genuine conversation with me about it. It’s not like my first-period teacher ever asked why this was happening; she just kept to the playbook.
I’d never heard of anyone refusing to do their detentions before, so I had no idea where this road would lead. Maybe I’ll just keep accruing detentions forever?
Or, maybe not, because once I’d skipped that third detention, no more detentions landed on my desk.
A whole week passed without another word, and I wondered if maybe they’d forgotten the whole thing.
Ha! Not a chance.
The following Monday, my first-period teacher dropped a yellow piece of paper on my desk. “Saturday School,” it read in bold letters across the top. Since I had denied them their three hours of detention, they now wanted my entire Saturday.
The slip was dated for the upcoming Saturday, a day I was already scheduled to work at Little Caesars Pizza.
At the start of my senior year, I’d already been trying for months to find a job. But application after application went nowhere, and it felt like no one would ever give me a shot. But then a friend put in a good word with the manager at Little Caesars, and they took a chance on me. Sure, it might only be a pizza job, but I’d worked really hard to get it, so I wasn’t about to call out to go to Saturday School.
So, I didn’t go to Saturday School.
On Monday, my first-period teacher dropped another yellow Saturday school slip on my desk, but now it had two Saturdays in a row marked on it, the additional one being punishment for missing the first.
I didn’t attend either of those, so I got a third Saturday school, which, big surprise, I skipped. After that, things got quiet again for several weeks.
Then, a lady showed up at my first-period class and told me to pack my things. I followed her to the principal’s building and was told to sit in a small room with about ten other kids.
She then announced in a you all know the drill tone that made it clear she thought we’d all been here before, “Welcome to In-School Suspension (ISS). You are allowed to work on classwork, or you can sit quietly and do nothing; that’s it. No talking, no pleasure reading, no snacking, nothing else, period. If you have a question, raise your hand, and I’ll come over to you. Other than that, you’re mine for the day.” Then she sat at her desk with a demeanor that indicated she’d be right there watching us all day.
I’d already done my Civics and English homework, and my other four classes were all electives, mostly theater or stagecraft, so I didn’t have anything immediately pressing to work on. I opted to sit quietly and stare at the wall. However, about fifteen minutes later, a teacher’s aide walked into the room and spoke with our overseer. It must have been something she needed to address, because she got up and left the room. In that brief moment, I calmly gathered my belongings, walked out, and returned to my regular class. The rest of that day was business as usual, but the next morning, the same ISS teacher showed up to my first-period class again and pulled me out a second time. She even threw me a bone, saying, “I know you and I made a deal about yesterday, but now you’ll have to do ISS for two days instead of one.” I nodded my head in acknowledgment. I wasn’t upset with her; she’s just doing her job. Arriving back at the same small classroom, I sat at the same desk I’d had the day before. And, just as the day before, the teacher eventually had to step out of the class. So I excused myself again to return to my normal classes.
Having learned the ISS routine, I knew they’d grab me out of my first-period class, so I started arriving late to school, waiting until after my first class ended, and then showed up to my second class of the day as if it were my normal schedule. This bought me a few more weeks before the administration caught on to what was happening. And that’s when a new lady showed up, this time to my fourth-period class. I assumed I was going back to ISS, but this time, I was taken into the main admin building and told to wait. After twenty minutes, one of the secretaries took me in to see the principal. He was well-liked on campus, always wore a suit, and seemed a reasonable fellow, though I’d never actually spoken to him. His demeanor was neither angry nor disappointed; if anything, he seemed perplexed as he thumbed through my file and the accompanying stack of unattended disciplinary measures.
He spoke first, “I’m not quite sure what to do with you. Other than this,” he motioned to the pile of colorful papers, “your record is unblemished.” He halted to see if I’d defend myself, but I said nothing, so he continued. “I’ve reviewed your case, and though I don't like it, I have no choice but to suspend you for three days." Again, he waited for a response, but all I did was nod my head in understanding, so he continued. “However, if you go home early today, I’m willing to count this as one of the three days, even though the day is half over; that way, you’ll only have to miss two actual days. How does that sound?”
At this, I spoke, “Thank you, sir. I very much appreciate the offer, but with your permission, I would like to start the three days of suspension tomorrow.”
Looking confused, he asked, “Why do you want to start it tomorrow instead of today?”
“My sixth-period class today is drama, and since I’m a senior, I’ve been directing a group of freshmen actors for the past few weeks. My students are scheduled to perform today, and I promised them I’d be there.”
“So you want to be there for them?”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaning back in his chair, he considered my request. Then, shaking his head, he relented, “OK, you can start the suspension tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir. Today is Tuesday, so I will see you all back here on Monday.”
He looked at me for a moment, and his brow furrowed. He must have wondered how a young man who called him sir had gotten into all this trouble to begin with. But he didn’t ask, and I didn’t explain, so he said, “I hope your students do well in their presentation.”
“I’m sure they will,” I said.
With that, we stood up, and he gestured towards the door. I made my way out of his office and back to class, happy to have had the chance to advocate for my students.
Later that day, I watched them perform, and it was wonderful. I was very proud of the work they did. Then I went home, spent my three days off playing hacky sack by the pool in our apartment complex, and come Monday, I was ready to get back to school. It felt good knowing my slate was clean and that I’d be able to go to my first-period class again.
But I ended up running late that day.
Once again, I walked up to the window; once again, I refused to forge a note; and once again, the aide gave me a detention I had no intention of going to. So, the agonizing process started all over again. I racked up the usual three detentions by the end of the week, followed by the three Saturday school notices. But as it neared the in-school suspension phase, they threw a curve. In the middle of lunch break, one of the yard ladies started talking to me. When the bell rang for class, she didn’t dismiss me; she just kept talking. Eventually, all the other kids had gone to their classes, and we were alone on the quad. Then she pointed to my backpack and asked, “Are these all your things? Do you have anything in your locker?”
Thinking for a moment, I said, “Nope, it’s all here.”
“Ok, good,” she said, “Let’s walk.”
So we walked, and as we did, we talked about general life things, how long she’d been with the school, etc., and it was all pleasant enough, but I couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t taking me towards the admin buildings as I’d expected; instead, we were headed out towards the football fields at the edge of campus.
Eventually, we arrived at the last big chain-link gate separating the campus from the real world beyond the fence. That’s where we stopped and stood, just talking. We must have stood there for fifteen or twenty more minutes before it dawned on me what was happening.
Without any preamble, I said, “This is my last day here, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t a question.
She looked at me and said, “You're gonna be ok.”
I looked back at her and said, “Yeah, I never really fit in here. I’m ready to be out there.”
She nodded but didn't say anything.
“So, this is it.”
Again, she nodded but said nothing.
I looked at her again and said, “Just to be crystal clear, I don’t have to come back tomorrow?”
With a little smile, she said, “Like I said, you’re gonna be ok.”
Her answer spoke volumes, and I understood. They couldn’t tame me, but I wasn’t problematic, so they had no grounds to expel me either. And I was never going to fit into the program the way they needed me to.
So they got together and quietly created a plan that would work for me.
A plan that set me free.
Smiling at her, I said, “Thank you, Sue, for everything. You take care of yourself.”
Her eyebrows raised, surprised that I’d called her by name, something none of the students ever did, but then she smiled and nodded.
I turned and walked down the asphalt drive that led to the street, made the turn towards home, and left high school behind forever.
Chapter 3: The First Morning
The next morning, instead of waking to the blaring of an alarm clock and scrambling to get to school, I woke naturally to the sound of birds chirping outside. It was the first time I’d ever woken up on a school day without the oppressive feeling that I had to go somewhere and do something I didn’t want to do. I lay a little longer, enjoying the feeling of just being. Looking across the room, I saw a ray of morning sunlight peeking through a crack in the blinds. The ethereal beam of energy animated tiny particles of dust as they floated in the air. These particles would race in and out of the beam’s trajectory, becoming visible for brief moments before exiting back into the shadows. I thought how similar that is to life, how we flutter about in the light for the briefest of moments before passing back into the darkness.
Reaching into the mini fridge beside my bed that doubled as a nightstand, I opened the door and took out a cold jug of Ocean Spray cranberry juice. Popping the cap, I took three big swallows, then returned it to the fridge. There’s something about cranberry juice; it goes straight to the brain and dissolves the fog of slumber. Standing, I walked to my bedroom window, pulled up the blinds, slid open the east-facing window, and leaned out its screenless frame. The warm morning sun shone on my face, and a cool breeze tossed my hair. I closed my eyes to soak it all in.
Suddenly, I felt something unfamiliar. Something warm, fresh, and expectant, something so like happiness, I had to believe it was happiness. I searched my memories, wondering if I’d ever felt anything like this before, but couldn’t think of a time. Opening my eyes again, I saw two sparrows fly across my neighbor’s backyard. They were so light, so free, with no one telling them what to do.
I wanted to be like that, but how?
I watched them from my second-story vantage, unhurried, enjoying their aeronautical dance. Then a thought came to me: From this day forward, I can do anything I want, be anything I want, go anywhere I want, I am free!
And then I knew it for sure; this was happiness.
Leaning back in, I closed the window.
Looking around my bedroom, I saw something I’d never noticed before. It was a disorganized mess, a child’s room, but today I am no longer a child, so I’m not going to live like one. I immediately set to cleaning. I washed my dirty clothes and bedding, threw away everything I didn’t need, and after pilfering some hangers from my mom’s room, hung all my clothes in the closet, something I’d never done before. Literally every item I owned passed under my now scrutinous eye. By noon, I’d evaluated and sorted every item I owned right down to the last paper clip. Then I pulled all the furniture away from the wall and used the crevice tool on the vacuum, another thing I’d never done before, to deep clean every inch of my space. And for once, it wasn’t because anyone told me to do it. I was accountable to myself now, and there would be no shortcuts from this day forward.
It was a small step towards taking control of my life, this conquering of the bedroom. But intuitively, I knew that to become lord over one’s domain, you must begin somewhere.
Now, what’s next?
Oh yes—decisions.
Should I graduate from high school? Go to college? Or skip college altogether?
Back when I started eleventh grade, I was offered the opportunity to join a program for students behind on credits. The idea was that we’d take college-level courses at the community college to catch up. These courses were free; all you had to do was buy your books. And because the college credits were of higher value than regular high school credits, you could knock out two of the required high school credits by earning just one college credit.
It was meant to catch me up, but I’d seen it as a way to accelerate my escape from school and graduate early, so I applied and was accepted. Before my senior year had even started, I’d already taken and passed a number of these college courses.
So even though I’d been escorted off campus and wouldn’t be able to finish the twelfth grade, I already had enough credits to graduate from high school. All I had to do was pick up the phone, call the college, transfer the credits, and graduate. Not on time, but ahead of time — and with credits to spare.
I grabbed my corded phone, opened my little black address book, and found the number. I started to dial, but then I stopped myself.
Do I really want to go to college?
One of the reasons I’d felt so ebullient this morning was because I was done with school, done with meaningless lists of tasks that were supposed to prepare us for life but never seemed to.
Plus, if I go, I’ll need to come up with a bunch of money for tuition, just to trudge through more classes.
Say I get through that and end up with a bachelor’s or even a master’s degree, what then? I want to start my own business. I’ve wanted that since I was a kid watching my dad run his own business out of our garage. How will taking on college debt help me do that?
I closed the address book and sat for a moment to organize my thoughts. I knew this was a crossroads, and that the decision I make today will impact me for the rest of my life.
I can’t get this wrong, I thought.
Having long been an avid reader, a book I’d read recently came to mind. It was about the tech giants and entrepreneurs of the day: people like Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, who had both dropped out of college in order to chase their dreams and do things differently.
They didn’t wait for permission to start living; they were doers, and when the time came, they set aside the distractions to get to work.
And that’s what I want: to be rewarded for being industrious and hard working, to make my own way. How cool would it be if I did it too, and not just as college dropouts like them, but as a high school dropout?
Yes, that sounded perfect.
Then, if one day I’m a successful millionaire, they can say, “That’s Bill Berry, he’s successful, and he didn’t even finish high school.”
But then, words my mom had repeated time and time again echoed in my head: If you don’t go to college, you won’t be able to get a decent job.
I admitted that she could have a point there. I’d started job hunting right after I turned sixteen, but the efforts had been largely fruitless until I got the job at Little Caesars Pizza. And while it did give me something to write in the work experience section of a job application, I knew it wouldn’t make me more desirable to higher-paying employers.
So, maybe she’s right. If I don’t go to college, maybe I won’t have any prospects.
I’ve always wanted to do “my own thing,” but I don’t even know what my thing is, and now I have to choose a path, whether I know the way or not.
It felt hopeless, and I didn’t know what to do, but then the voice in my head spoke, and it offered a choice:
“If you don’t go to college, you’ll be responsible for yourself all the rest of your days. You’ll have to make your own way every day and create your own destiny. There will never be rest, no safety net, and you’ll never be able to take your foot off the gas, but you’ll be in charge of yourself. Do you accept these terms?”
Without a second’s hesitation, the answer exploded in my mind: “Yes! One thousand times, yes!”
I waited for the voice to answer, but it said nothing. There was nothing else to say.
I couldn’t explain it, but I knew that this moment had changed everything.
Destiny had knocked, and I had answered.
Now I just have to go figure it out.
So, what next? I wondered to myself.
If I fix my truck, I’ll have greater mobility, and that would give me more options. But to do that, I’ll need to make more money.
So tomorrow, I’m going job hunting.
Chapter 4: Job Hunting
I remembered my mom once saying, “When you don’t have a job, job hunting becomes your job.” And while technically I had a job, Little Caesars was only part-time, and I needed more work.
So the next morning, I woke up, showered, and put on my nicest clothes: old jeans and a new-ish black XXL Quicksilver t-shirt that anyone with a lick of fashion sense would have known was three sizes too big for me. Then, knowing I’d be doing a lot of walking, I put on my generic skate shoes. They smelled of flour, oil, and spoiled grease after wearing them at Little Caesars, but they were the only ones I had.
Loading my pockets with keys, two pens, and my wallet, I let myself out the front door of our little two-bedroom apartment. The place wasn’t much to look at, and in a notoriously bad neighborhood, but I knew my mom was working hard to provide for us. And of the four places we’d lived since the divorce, this was the first where I’d had a room of my own. At all the others, I’d slept on the living room sofa. So despite its shortcomings, it felt plush.
I made my way to the alleyway behind our unit, passing the carport where my truck sat collecting cobwebs. The beat-up Dodge Ram 50 pickup with peeling brown paint had been a 17th birthday present from my dad.
I’d gotten to drive it for a few months before its transmission blew out. Then I towed it home, hoping to get it fixed. I even called a repair guy to come by and give a quote, but I couldn’t come up with the $1,600 he was asking for, so it’s been sitting there ever since.
Periodically, my mom would ask, “When are you gonna get your truck fixed?”
And I’d say, “I’m working on saving up for it.”
“Okay,” she’d say, unconvinced.
I was trying to save, but never seemed to get any closer. The money disappeared faster than I could make it, a problem I had plenty of time to think about as I walked for miles beneath the California sun. Downtown Escondido sat several miles away, so I set off for Valley Parkway, the east–west spine of the city where many businesses were clustered. If I was going to find work, it felt like the best place to start.
I reached a busy corner where cars were backed up waiting for the red light to change. Having arrived, I suddenly felt very self-conscious and exposed. I’d imagined myself proudly walking from business to business collecting application after application like a boss, but now that I was here, standing on the blistering sidewalk in front of all these people, I began to doubt my plan and myself.
I was scared.
I stopped and stood awkwardly, looking around, not sure what to do. Two of the intersection’s corners had gas stations, and the other had a fast-food place.
Hmm, which of these places would I like to work at? I thought to myself. And just as quickly came the answer: none of them.
That was the truth of it; I didn’t want to work at any of them. But I need a job, and all of them could potentially be a job, so I guess all of them?
I walked into the closest gas station and saw a long line at the register. Okay, new problem: do I cut to the front and just ask for an application, or do I wait in line and then ask? As I considered this, another person came up behind me, and I got nervous, so I pretended to shop to kill time. Maybe, if I’m patient, the line will die down, I thought. Minutes passed, but no matter how long I waited, more people kept coming in. I figured that if I waited much longer, the cashier would get suspicious and think I was trying to steal something, and I definitely wouldn’t get hired if he thought I was a thief. So I grabbed a small bag of peanuts with a big sticker that read $0.99 and got in line. When I got to the front, the attendant quickly rang me up and said, “That will be $1.06.”
I handed him the $20 bill I had, and he gave me back $18.94 in change.
I was on the verge of chickening out, but then, trying to make it seem like an afterthought, I asked, “Could I get an application?”
The attendant didn’t even look at me. “We’re all out. Next!” already motioning the next customer forward.
I walked out of the store feeling completely deflated. Not only had I failed to get an application, but I’d also spent money I didn’t have on peanuts I didn’t want. That $20 is all I have, and the $18.94 left over has to cover lunch and last me the rest of the day.
At this rate, I’ll be broke before I get ten applications, I thought.
I walked to the other gas station to try again. This station was much nicer, and there were two cashiers, so the line wasn’t backed up. I asked if I could get an application, and the lady behind the counter pulled out a pad of them, the kind that have gum along one edge so the pages can be torn out. Then, she peeled one off and said, “Here ya go.”
I thanked her and walked out.
That’s one, I thought. If I can get one, I can get twenty.
With this one victory under my belt, I gained a little confidence. Walking business to business, I collected job applications as if that were my job. I walked into every store imaginable, from retail stores like Levi Strauss to office buildings with company names I’d never heard of, fast food joints, and supermarkets. I was willing to try anything.
By noon, I’d collected twenty-two job applications.
Then, knowing they had sit-down dining, I walked to Round Table Pizza. I ordered a drink and a slice of pizza, and as I paid, I asked them for a job application. Once I had my food, I grabbed a booth near the back and filled out all twenty-three paper applications, including the one they’d just given me. It was tedious, but I didn’t have much to write in the “previous employment” section, so it went pretty quickly.
I got up to retrace my steps, and as I passed the register, I turned in the application to the manager and asked when I could come in for an interview. He said they’d look it over and call me if they were interested. I thanked him, then went back to all twenty-two of the other places I’d gotten applications from and turned them in. At each place, I asked to see the manager or inquired as to when I could return for an interview. Most answered the same: we’ll call you if we're interested. But two places seemed interested.
The manager at the Levi’s store said she’d look it over and call me.
The other was a blank-faced office building that did lord only knows what. But what I do know is that when I handed my application to the receptionist, she said that new employees start at $16 an hour. And for $16 an hour, I don’t need to know what they do; I’m interested!
I got interview callbacks from both, but Levi’s was a no-go. I clicked with the manager, and I felt good about the interview. But later, I heard from a friend that she’d hired someone she knew, so I didn’t really have a chance.
The interview at the office building was harder to gauge.
The interviewer asked a lot of questions, and it felt like it was going okay, but I couldn’t really get the gist of it. And it’s not like I could admit that I didn’t know what they did or what the job was, so I answered all her questions vaguely, hoping something would stick.
Then she asked, “What would you say is your favorite subject in school?”
With no hesitation, I said, “Theater and Psychology.”
At this, she visibly perked up, so I talked more about that and how, as a teenager, I’d lived up on a mountain far away from any of my friends and, having little else to do, read an entire bookshelf’s worth of my mom’s self-help books. These books were interesting to me and covered topics like relationships and healthy communication.
The interviewer ate this up and asked when I could start. Not wanting to seem desperate, I told her the following Monday would be great, and she gave me paperwork to fill out.
I walked out of that interview feeling like I could fly.
Now I had my job at Little Caesars, where I’d worked my way up from $4.10 an hour when I’d started to $5.25 an hour as assistant manager.
And, I had this new job that paid $16 an hour.
I didn’t have a clue what I’d be doing, but they thought I’d be a good fit.
The following Monday, I showed up on time and was directed to the third floor. Once there, a fast-moving man in a black three-piece suit said, “Follow me,” and took off down a hallway. I fell in behind him and was led to a large open room with high ceilings. Before us stood a call center with 30+ people seated in cubicles; some were dressed nicely, but most wore casual pants and T-shirts. One guy in particular looked like he might be homeless, with long scraggly hair and a black Metallica “Ride the Lightning” t-shirt. Of course, this was who the manager walked me over to introduce me to. Metallica guy glared over the top of his glasses, then instructed me to “Find a chair, sit down, and buckle up.”
Doing as I was told, I returned with a chair and sat.
He looked me straight in the face and said very seriously, “Now I’m gonna show you how this is done.” Putting on his headset and typing a few keys on the keyboard, he waited for something I couldn’t hear to happen in the headset.
In a new voice that could’ve melted concrete, he said, “Good morning, could I speak with Holly, please?” He paused for a moment before saying, “Yes, this is Tom, and I’m calling in regards to a survey you filled out; it says here you suffer from chronic neck and back pain.” There was another pause as he waited for the person on the other end to give confirmation, then he continued. “Well, I'm calling because it’s our understanding that YOU’RE AN ABSOLUTE FUCKING BITCH!!!” he screamed before slamming the headset down on the table.
I flew back in my chair, completely taken aback by his outburst.
He looked at me with his big, crazy eyes, then, spreading his hands wide like he was about to tell me how big a fish he’d caught, he whispered in his sweet-sounding voice, “Sometimes they hang up. But that’s all there is to it.” He turned back to the screen, which listed all the lady’s information. With the mouse, he clicked a box that said “hung up”, then clicked the next name on the list and started the process over.
I sat there for the next hour as he made call after call.
It was numbing. I started to imagine that his salt-and-pepper chin stubble was growing a little more with each rejection. Which is what I came to understand was our job: getting rejected. We’d call about some survey these poor people filled out so long ago; most of them claimed they didn’t even remember having done it. Probably one of those giveaway drawings you often see people signing up for at malls or fairs, the ones that promise you a chance to win a brand new car or cruise vacation.
I’d always heard those give-aways were just information-gathering ploys so that data peddlers could sell people’s information to telemarketers and solicitors. Nothing I was seeing here dispelled that notion.
Tom cut into my thoughts: “When we actually get someone to set an appointment, our in-the-field sales reps will meet with the customer and try to sell them a crazy expensive bed with all kinds of bells and whistles, buttons that make it go up and down, woowoo.”
Looking around the very bed-less office, I asked. “Where are the beds?”
Tom looked around as if he was seeing the space for the first time and said, “I don’t know, they must keep them in a warehouse somewhere.”
“So, do we get to go on a field trip and see one, or do they bring one in so we can all try it?”
“Nope, not likely. I've been here for three years, and I’ve never seen one,” he said.
“Not even in a picture?” I asked
“Not even in a picture,” he answered soberly. But what do you need to see it for? You’ve seen a bed before. Just set the appointment and call out; that’s all there is to it.”
Right then, the man in the black suit stood up and shouted, “Everybody UP!”
On cue, everyone in the room stood up. Tom whispered to me, “Now we all have to stand until we close a sale; it’s supposed to make us more energetic or some strategic salesy bullshit, whatever. Hopefully, we’ll get a decent list and close some of these fuckers.” We stood for the next thirty minutes, during which a handful of the other reps loudly called out, “Sale!” Each time this happened, the black-suited man would run over and take over the phone call. He’d confirm the appointment and ensure the person on the other end of the line had sufficient credit to finance the product, if they decided to buy. If everything checked out, the rep was allowed to sit down. After this happened a few more times, Tom said, “Closing the appointment is only the first step; the field rep still has to make the sale for you to get the bonus. One month, I made over 30 appointments, but only a couple went all the way. It sucks to do that much work and get nothing.”
From what I’d seen so far, I couldn’t imagine anyone making any bonus money. Turning to Tom, I asked skeptically, “Does anyone do well at this?”
“Oh yeah, see that lady?” he pointed to a woman wearing oversized glasses, a food-stained grey Minnie Mouse shirt, and grey sweatpants with elastic ankle cuffs. “That’s Bridgett. She’s the number one rep every month. You could learn a lot from her.”
I watched her for a minute, but couldn’t see anything that stood out more than anyone else. “Why’s she so good?”
“Man, she gets on the phone with these old people, and in two minutes, it’s like they’ve known each other for years. She’ll be talking about dogs with them one minute and cancer treatments the next. One time, she closed a lady whose husband had died two days before; she’s a pitbull.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” I said.
“Why not?” Tom asked flatly
“Because… That just seems wrong.”
“The only thing wrong in this office is turning in an empty booking sheet.”
“But I don’t have stories or know about cancer treatments; how am I supposed to sell this thing?”
Tom looked at me for a second, then, nodding his head towards the computer screen, he launched another call. When the person answered, he said in a collegic-sounding voice, “Hi there, is this Mrs. Goldmann? It is, oh, wonderful, my name’s Neil Goldmann.” He pauses. “Oh, I’m sure it’s no relation, but you never know. If we go back far enough, I guess we’re all related.” Then he let out a laugh so fake I couldn’t believe it. Turning to me with an exaggerated look of self-importance, he motioned to his chest with one hand in a gesture of false modesty. Then he silently mouthed the words, She’s eating out of my hand.
Eventually, the call neared its conclusion, but Tom still hadn’t closed the deal; I couldn’t actually hear her, but imagined her saying, “Well, let me talk to my husband about it. Can you call us back tomorrow?”
Tom didn't flinch. “Mrs. Goldmann, I understand that completely; after twenty-three years of marriage, you know that communication with your husband is key to a happy relationship. But I just have to tell you that the consultation with one of our reps is normally $250, but if you make the appointment today, we’re waiving that fee. Think how happy Mr. Goldmann will be when he finds out you’ve saved him $250. And the beauty of it is, there’s no obligation to buy, so if you ultimately decide not to make an investment into healthier sleep for you and your husband, the entire service and evaluation is free — won’t cost you a dime. I can promise you that, Goldmann to Goldmann.” He goes silent for a few moments, then, clenching his fist hard, he whips his elbow downwards in a victorious motion. Then he says, “Mrs. Goldmann, you are not going to regret this. I sleep on mine every night, and it’s a dream. Let me put you on hold for one second while I grab my manager and have him authorize your free consultation; you just hold on one minute.” Clicking mute on the headset, he stood up and shouted, “Sale.” The suit guy came running. Once he’d confirmed things, he high-fived Tom and went off to put a checkmark next to Tom’s name on a big whiteboard.
Tom put the headset back on and said, “Alright, we’re on the board, let’s get another one!”
“Are we just supposed to lie to them?”
Looking wounded, Tom tilted his head back and said, “Nah man, you just gotta make the sale.”
Without realizing it, I cracked my knuckles.
I sat with Tom the rest of that day and was told that tomorrow I’d be at my own terminal. I asked Tom what I should do, and he said, “Just follow the script. You'll be fine.”
The next day, I tried my best, but no one was interested in the bed I wanted them to buy, the bed I couldn’t even describe because I’d never seen one. One lady asked me what sizes it came in and what the price differences were. I didn’t know; I’d been told absolutely nothing about the product. I finally started describing it as being like a hospital bed, but for your home. Well, that description certainly didn’t go over well with the older folks. The best thing I could say about my second day is that no one cursed me out.
On the third day, I finally completed a full sheet of leads. I didn’t make any sales, but I felt a small sense of accomplishment just for getting through one. I got up from my desk and told the manager. He looked surprised, then, typing a few keystrokes on his computer, he said, “I just assigned you a new list.”
I went back to my desk.
I started with the first of the 500 new names, but no one on this list was interested in setting appointments either. I went home that night thinking the job might not be for me. As I plopped down on the sofa, I became aware that my hands hurt. But I couldn’t figure out why? I started thinking back over my day to see if something would come to mind, and as soon as I thought about sitting at my call center desk, I absentmindedly cracked my knuckles, which hurt. It hit me. After each phone rejection, I was unknowingly cracking my knuckles. And after three days of it, my hands were swollen and in pain. My first thought was that I needed to go to the store and find one of those little foam stress balls that are usually printed to look like tiny planet Earths, just to keep my hands busy. But that thought was immediately followed by, Why the heck do I want a job that causes me that much stress? Everything about it sucks; this isn't for me.
So, the next day, I no-showed my telemarketing shift. I didn’t quit; I just stopped showing up. I was done. I waited two weeks before going back in to pick up my check, and when I did, I timed it so I could sneak in midafternoon when I thought no one from the call center would see me. The payroll lady barely looked up as she handed over an envelope with my name on it. I’d only worked there three days, but when I opened the envelope, I’d made as much as I usually did in two weeks at Caesars.
I liked the money, and I needed to make more money, but doing something else. I have to find something else.