"What a strange book. How did we get a lift then?"
"That's the point, it's out of date now," said Ford, sliding the book back into its cover. "I'm doing the field research for the new revised edition, and one of the things I'll have to do is include a bit about how the Vogons now employ Dentrassi cooks, which gives us a rather useful little loophole."
A pained expression crossed Arthur's face. "But who are the Dentrassis?" he said.
"Great guys," said Ford. "They're the best cooks and the best drink mixers and they don't give a wet slap about anything else. And they'll always help hitchhikers aboard, partly because they like the company, but mostly because it annoys the Vogons. Which is exactly the sort of thing you need to know if you're an impoverished hitchhiker trying to see the marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairian dollars a day. And that's my job. Fun, isn't it?"
Arthur looked lost.
"It's amazing," he said, and frowned at one of the other mattresses.
"Unfortunately, I got stuck on the Earth for rather longer than I intended," said Ford. "I came for a week and got stuck for fifteen years."
Ford Prefect is doing a job--he's a field researcher for the new edition of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. That's sort of like being a contributor to Birnbaum's Guide to Walt Disney World and getting stuck on Space Mountain for three weeks. Ford got a little distracted, it seems.
You know, when I took the job at the outpatient surgery center over 20 years ago, it was supposed to be a temporary gig. I was a graduate student in the MFA program at the university, and I was just trying to earn a little extra income to supplement the stipend I received from the English Department. I never intended to make a career in the healthcare field.
Yet, here I sit, over two decades later, knowing more about surgery and cardiology and CPT and ICD 10 codes than any poet writing today. In fact, I've gotten really good at what I do. Like Ford, I got sidetracked. For a really long time.
I say this now to remind myself that there was a time when working in healthcare was not even on my life radar. I was going to be a writer and college professor. That was the plan. Then my wife and I started a family. Mental illness occurred, with its accompanying complications. Twenty years later, here I sit at my laptop, scraping out a living as a healthcare worker and contingent English professor.
I'm not complaining. This is the life that I have chosen, and I have been, for the most part, very happy. For me, family was more important than academia. Some people might not understand that. Yes, I would love to have a tenured, full-time teaching gig at a university. But, if it's between watching my daughter or son at a dance recital versus delivering a keynote address at Cambridge, I'll be front row center, cheering my kids on.
I'm dealing with change at the moment. The Vogons have shown up and demolished my little planet that I've been living on for the past 20 or so years. It was a planet that I had no intention of living on. It was, simply, supposed to be a rest stop. Now, I must move on, take care of myself and my family, find another starship to hitchhike across the Galaxy on.
Saint Marty has his thumb out.
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