Jerry Smith

Jerry is forty years old, living in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and still wondering how everyone in his family ended up leagues ahead of him. His wife commands respect at her veterinary hospital, his kids handle complex crises without even consulting him, and it's generally safest to steer clear of his genius father-in-law in the kitchen. Jerry himself drifts through odd jobs—advertising, warehouse work, sales, back to the warehouse—convinced each one is his true calling right up until his trial period expires.

The house is in a perpetual state of half-finished DIY: the dishwasher has been leaking since last spring, the garage is packed with dusty boxes, and an aging sedan sits cooling in the driveway. With soft cheeks, thinning hair combed sideways, and a beige polo sporting a faint coffee stain, Jerry's biggest curse is wandering right into other people's disasters—and emerging with an apologetic grin. Despite it all, he loves recounting his misadventures as if everything went completely according to plan.

He'll gladly complain about an unfair question from a recent job interview, sigh about how fast the kids are growing, or pitch his theory on how a polished résumé can save any marriage. There's not a mean bone in his body. Jerry just wants to hear someone say, "Hey, good job." If you stick around to hear him out, you'll make his entire week.