Sweetie, How Fast Do You Type?

The most important thing I brought to New York was my resume. I spent a semester drafting it, re-writing it, asking friends to read it, and then proofing it over, and over, and over.

Laser printers were a recent, blessed phenomenon in 1989 so I was able to print out copies on deluxe letterhead for free in Bowling Green's journalism lab.

My resumes had to be absolutely perfect. They were the keys to unlock my dream job in New York City.

Once there, I pulled out a copy from The World's Heaviest Briefcase at every job interview, proudly pointing out my accomplishments and my GPA. Until I met Hope, a seasoned recruiter at one of the many personnel agencies I visited.

"So you typed these, right?" she asked.

I nodded as she took a drag off of her cigarette and turned her tight charcoal curls to blow smoke at the closed window.

"Uh, well, I wrote them. On a keyboard...so yes, I typed them."

"Good. How fast do you type?"

"Well, I'm a writer, so...

"You don't understand, Sweetie. How fast do you type?"

On cue, the receptionist appeared with my results from another typing test at yet another personnel office in town.

"61, not bad. Look, Brett from Ohio. I hear you. You're a writer, and you want a career in PR. But the best way to get there is to start as a secretary. You won't do it for long, but you gotta pay your dues. Capiche?"

I nodded again, but my shoulders sagged. I thought I had already paid my dues with two internships -- three if you included promotions director at WBGU-FM.

"Hon, I want to help you get out of the Y." Then her smoker's voice softened to a mother's tone.

"So what we've got to do is a new version of your resume." She was already marking it up with a red pen. Everyone's an editor.

"See where you have 'wrote?' You're going to replace it with 'typed.'"

Now I openly scowled. "But Hope, that's not what I..."

"You've got to show you can be someone's assistant first. That's your foot in the door."

How am I going to look at someone in an interview and say, "Why yes, I typed that 24-page magazine. Took me all semester!"

I sighed. "OK. I'll do it. Worth a try."

There you go! There's that Midwestern spirit! Can you do it now?"

I shook my head yes. I did as I was told. Here's the end result, Wite-Out and all.

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l i t t l e b r e t t , BIG CITY

When I left college in 1989, I was a virgin with corn-fed drive and a terrifying secret. It could disappoint or disgust my family and friends. It could even kill me. But I couldn’t hide from it anymore. With "The World's Heaviest Briefcase," I escaped on a midnight train from Lima, Ohio to the YMCA on West 34th Street in Manhattan. Being gay had to be easier in New York, even though I was arriving with no home or job. Right away, a hooker chased me in Times Square, and perverts watched me shower at the Y. I filled payphones with quarters each day, desperately seeking work. Ultimately, I was confronted by my biggest fear when dating my first man – a member of AIDS activist group ACT UP. Could I really survive in one of the hardest cities in the world? Or would I fail and return to Ohio, back in the closet to find a wife and a lawn to mow. l i t t l e b r e t t , BIG CITY celebrates finding your own place in the world. Here I recall and sal

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Little Brett, Big City

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