The summer following graduation, as the majority of my friends made plans to secure their futures, I sat in my bedroom smoking pot.

Everything had followed a carefully executed plan up until that point. I did my work in high school, knowing that it would provide me with an opportunity to attend a prominent college. After being accepted at Skidmore, I continued to place academic achievement on a pedestal, assuming that it would result in instantaneous real world success. My perception could not have been more distorted.

As the summer came to an end, I elected to move back to my college town. The prospect of moving to a city filled with new faces was appealing, but I wasn't ready for it yet. Returning to Saratoga Springs was a safe choice; the town was familiar and my girlfriend was still at Skidmore. I had everything planned out. I would spend two years in Saratoga Springs and wait until she graduated. Then, a mutual decision would be made as to whether or not we were going to continue our relationship elsewhere. I was safe for two years.

My immediate employment options were limited. I applied for several open positions at small newspapers, but was denied an opportunity due to lack of experience. Possessing the ability to write a cognitive analysis of meaning in memoir and fiction served me well in psychology class, but did absolutely nothing for me in the job market. I felt useless. The job market seemed to be fashioned for those who had specific skills -- engineers, accountants, cooks, etc. I realized that I had no idea what I wanted to be doing, and that I wasn't exceptionally good at anything.

I was forced to take a job as a Direct Care Supervisor at a group home for mentally retarded and emotionally disturbed adolescents. I didn't have an overwhelming desire to work with a population that I knew nothing about. I had no choice. It was the end of October and I needed the money.

I had to drive forty miles to get to work. I remember getting out my car and seeing three confused female faces staring at me. I was surprised at how normal they looked. For some reason, I had convinced myself that everyone would be horribly deformed -- almost beast-like. Once inside, I was stung by the overpowering odor of urine. The house was an institution; the walls were white and bare, the floor similar to what one might find in a hospital. As I walked through the living room and up the short ramp into the kitchen, I met my boss Melissa. She introduced me to Steve. He struggled to spit out his name. I really couldn't understand what he said so I just shook his hand and smiled. As I pulled away, I felt something wet on my hand. It was drool. Steve had a substantial wad hanging from his oversized lower lip.

Melissa brought me into the office and gave me a binder labeled Plans of Protective Oversight. Reading through the binder was both difficult and extremely interesting. I learned about the specific disorders debilitating the eight residents. Everyone in the house had mental retardation. Many residents had multiple diagnoses including: post-traumatic stress disorder, seizure disorder, clinical depression, schizophrenia, and autism.

After I finished reading the binder, my boss informed that it was time for showers. I followed her into the bathroom and she handed me a pair of gloves: personal care was part of the job. I watched in horror as she undressed Steve. Once in the shower, Melissa helped him wash his hair and body. After a few moments, the experience seemed to be ending. Steve stepped out of the shower and Melissa handed him a towel. As Steve reached for the towel, he dropped. Melissa grabbed him before his head smacked against the floor. She let him down slowly. His body started to convulse. This continued for almost a minute. His face was blue. He went still and yelled, "Fuckin' bitch!" Melissa told me that he just had a seizure.

When I arrived home that night, I wanted to cry. After eight hours of work, I was ready to quit. I didn't think I could handle the job. I called my parents and told them about my day. I complained about personal care. My father showed no sympathy. He said, "Someday that might be you."

Most of the kids I worked with suffered from mild or moderate mental retardation. Laura had profound mental retardation. She didn't speak and had difficulty walking. She was twenty-four years old, but looked fifteen. Her days were spent crawling around, picking up pillows and shoes and tossing them throughout the house. I rarely had to shower Laura. My coworkers knew it made me extremely uncomfortable and were remarkably understanding. One day, I had to do it; my coworker refused to shower her.

When I took off her diaper and looked inside I nearly threw up. My reward: a heavy load of loose stool. Since I had never wiped anyone's ass except my own, I decided that it was not the time to start. Using my college education, I made a logical decision: the water pressure would wash the shit stuck in her ass down the drain. Ten seconds passed before I acknowledged my supreme idiocy. The drain didn't seem to be working properly. Laura was on her belly swimming in a tub that was about to overflow with shit water. I screamed for my coworker. He appeared, looked at me with revulsion, and left. I turned off the water and helped her out of the tub. The solution was obvious, but that didn't make it any easier. I brought her to another bathroom and took a deep breath: it was time to wipe some ass.

I'm not sure if it's normal to experience satisfaction after wiping someone else's ass, but that's what I felt. I certainly didn't enjoy doing it, but when I was done, I knew that I could endure everything I encountered in the future.

As time progressed, my relationship with shit became less intimate and going to work became less painful. The amount of pleasure that the residents received from simple activities and possessions astounded me. Opening the door for a staff member was a great accomplishment. Wal-Mart was a magical land where all that was wonderful existed. A Mylar balloon with a picture of Barney on it was priceless.

While I became close to many of the residents, the relationship with my girlfriend deteriorated. Threats of breaking up were thrown out like wedding rings at Larry King's house. It was my fault. I didn't put in the necessary effort to sustain the relationship. I expected her to come and visit me at my apartment every night, yet I refused to go to her house and visit her. I avoided hanging out with her friends. It wasn't that I didn't want to see her. I felt like a relic -- the kid who graduated but would never leave college.

Then, it just ended. We were having what seemed to be a typical argument. She called me an "asshole". I responded by screaming, "You're just another weak woman for staying with an asshole like me for this long!" It was a low blow, something that couldn't have been farther from the truth. I will regret saying what I did for the rest of my life. It was over.

The security plan that seemed so simple in September was destroyed. In every respect, I considered myself to be a complete failure. It was the middle of January and I found myself completely alone, working a job that was far from ideal. My friends were hundreds of miles away. I didn't eat for over a week. Leaving my apartment was a dreadful experience; I couldn't walk down the street without thinking that everyone was secretly talking about me. My sullen nights were spent in my apartment, drinking away the pain.

Immediately following the break up, I was more miserable than ever at work. I moped around feeling sorry for myself. This went on for a week or two before my outlook experienced a radical transformation. Paranoia and despair still plagued me in my apartment, but suddenly they did not exist at work; the population that I was working with did not judge me. Work became the release I desperately needed. I danced to "Who Let the Dogs Out" with the residents. I joined Steve regularly in his rendition of: "If you're happy and you know it, slap your ass." Watching Scooby-Doo every day at three became part of my routine. Somehow, the job I didn't want became the thing that saved me when I was at the lowest point in my life; it was all I had.

At the end of May, I left my job and returned to my parents' house. There were too many memories associated with Saratoga Springs for me to stay. Saying goodbye on my last day of work was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I remember going to say goodnight to one of the residents. He asked me, "Why are you leaving? Everyone always leaves." I froze. All I could say was, "I'll miss all of you."

A few weeks after quitting, I was watching the Mike Tyson fight with my father. I asked him if life was easier for him at fifty-three than at twenty-three. I wanted to know if the routine of a regular job and a wife eliminated the uncertainty that one experiences when they are out of college and unemployed. He just laughed and responded, "Keith, it never gets any easier, but that's not necessarily a bad thing."