Clipboard Concealment

I was between jobs–a phrase that sounds fancier than it feels, like calling a mud puddle a seasonal pond. My days had the rhythm of a scratched-up record–wake up, brush teeth, tie on the good boots, and march out with my clipboard like some wandering census taker of disappointment.

This clipboard, mind you, was not ordinary. It had character.

Dings on the corners, a crack on the side from when I slipped on black ice, a deep stain where a pen once exploded like it had given up, and another where I blocked the projectile of a spitting llama. I used it to fill out applications and collected scribbled notes like who I’d talked to, what they’d said, and what they hadn’t.

It gave me an air of preparedness. Confidence, even. Like I was somebody going somewhere. Turns out I was only going in circles.

Now, in a small town, your business ain’t yours alone. It’s more like shared property, like the church lawn or the gossip around Aunt Madge’s Thursday evening quilting circle.

So it didn’t surprise me much when I walked into radio station KCRE–and Jerry Yarberry, the station manager, was waiting with his half-empty mug and a raised eyebrow. Jerry looked like someone had wrapped a scarecrow in polyester and taught it sarcasm.

His office smelled like old records and pipe tobacco, though he hadn’t smoked since ’67. He waved me in with a kind of reluctant amusement–like he’d just invited a raccoon into his kitchen and was curious what I might do–and offered me a cup of coffee and a seat.

“So, you’re still carrying that clipboard,” he said.

I nodded. “Gives me purpose.”

He leaned back in his chair, which groaned like it had opinions.

“Tom,” he said, not unkindly, “that clipboard is starting to look like armor you put on so folks don’t see the bruises underneath.”

I blinked. “It’s just for applications.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, setting his mug down with finality. “It’s a shield. And it’s starting to whisper things about you, you don’t want whispered–like maybe you’re afraid you have nothing to offer.”

That stung. The truth often does. It sits in your stomach like cold beans and waits for the gas to kick in.

He smiled then, softening. “I’m not saying you’re not worth a damn. I’m saying you don’t have to look like you’re trying to prove you are. Put the clipboard down so folks finally see the person holding it.”

I ended that day without a job but with both hands, free. It felt strange, like walking barefoot after a long winter in boots. Vulnerable, but honest.

A week later, I landed a gig at Bistrin’s Clothing store. Barry said he liked how I looked him in the eye. I thought about telling him the clipboard but decided some things are better left unsaid.

Still, I kept the clipboard. It’s on my book now, next to a tangle of extension cords and a box marked “papers.” Now and then, I think about Jerry and the brotherly way he pointed out I was using a slab of particle board to hold up my self-worth.

Sometimes advice sounds feels like someone’s poking holes in your pride when they’re just trying to let the light in.