Big John Hudson ambled through the front door of Sarah’s Diner, gently tossed his ball cap down onto the round oak table, and calmly said, “I need a new job.”

“You can’t have mine,” snorted Tommy Jones, the senior member of the congregation of breakfast patrons. “I’ve been retired for nearly 20 years and it’s almost working for me.”

John was looking for a career change. His current occupation was in the medical supply service industry. Home delivery of adult diapers to aging Baby Boomers was a fairly easy job, but lately, Big John had begun to worry about job security.

“What happens when we run out of Baby Boomers?” he asked, as he took his seat. Even though his thoughts were consumed with worry for this dwindling natural resource, he still took the time to nod his appreciation as Sarah filled his cup with hot, liquid caffeine.

“Something in there made sense, but I don’t know what,” mumbled Harrison Winkle. He took another sip of his coffee and actually thought for a second about what Big John had just said. This was unusual, because Harry (and everyone else at the table) rarely listened to what John was saying, let alone, take a moment to think about it.

“Job security,” John continued. “I’m not getting any younger and I want a career that is going to last. The days of getting a job at a factory right out of high school, working there all of your life, and hoping you live long enough to retire, are over. I can’t deliver adult diapers the rest of my life — you Baby Boomers aren’t going to last forever.”

At just 30 years of age, several decades younger than all of the other members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club, John was struggling with the impending mortality of his fellow diners — and its direct negative economic impact on him.

“Then, I wouldn’t get into the buggy whip business,” quipped Jimmy. “Not much of a market anymore, except in Shipshewana and Mackinac Island.”

“How about working as an elevator operator?” suggested Tommy, extolling the merits of a career position requiring the skillset for pulling a lever that closed a gate, and another that controlled a cable that would haul a box full of people from one floor to another. “You could probably do that.”

“Milkman,” offered Firewalker. “You get to drive around all day and still get plenty of exercise walking to and from people’s porches. If there are no milkman openings, because that’s a pretty sweet gig, you could try being a service station attendant — pumping gas, washing windows, checking the oil. Easy money.”

“I’d look into being a Fuller Brush salesman,” proposed Mort. “Put your gift of gab to good use. Or sell Yellow Pages advertising for the phone book.” In his mid-50s, Mort was the youngest of the Baby Boomers at the table. Big John’s comment about Boomer longevity hit him like a load of bricks falling onto steel toed boots — it didn’t hurt, but he sure felt something. “However,” he cautioned, “I think I’d stay away from becoming a taxi driver. Self-driving cars will bring that to an end.”

“There’s no future in becoming a NASCAR driver, either,” Harry snorted. “Restrictor plates and remote controls are going to take over that sport. Mark my words”

“You can forget about getting a job publishing maps at Rand-McNally,” mused Firewalker. “Even my refrigerator has a NAV system, in case I forget where my recliner is.”

“Likewise for working in a fast food joint,” Harry opined. “At $15 an hour, those jobs are out the window. How about the guy that rides in the caboose on freight trains — what does he do?”

“Mailman.” Arnold Tobin jumped in with a suggestion of his own. “As long as the federal government has its hand in it, those jobs aren’t going anywhere.”

Big John considered the wise counsel of the more seasoned members of the Circular Congregation Breakfast Club and sighed, “Maybe I should start looking into the retirement thing. That seems to be the ultimate dream job.”

“Or politician,” added Arnold.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.