What a jetsetting life I lead, eh?
The answer unfortunantly is negative.
I am in the library right now, not because I had a hankering for the latest hardcover bestsellers, whatever they may be. No, I am here right now because I still have yet to tell my mom that I quit working at Yes, and I always work on Saturdays from 1-9. So, yes, I lied and am a horrible person. But, right now is really not the time to tell her, it is my cousin's baptism tomorrow and so my grandma and numerous aunts and uncles are staying at my house - and it would just be major trauma with uninvited questions from every single relative asking me about it. Thanks, but I will hold off on ordering that. Bring that back to your kitchen and tell the chef to fucking sit on it.
So, I went to the library. Actually, first I went to Fresh Fields, to buy some Veggie Booty for my aunt, who asked me to pick her some up when I went to work.
And I really am going to tell my mom about Yes - I am just waiting until an opportune time (aka when I actually have a new job.) Okay, so yesterday was Day One in our Adventures in Jobhunting:
I went to my interview at that bobo "market research firm," all the way out in the boonies of Dunn Fucking Loring Virginia. The drive was the first thing that made me hate the possible job. The second thing was the office itself. It was so empty and quiet and no one was in the reception area. I thought about fleeing, right then and there, just saying Fuck You to the world of employment, to our need for money to sustain ourselves, to air-conditioned, flourescent-lit offices that are always a couple degrees too cold. The human factor makes these places all the colder. So, I chickened out on my desire to go run with the animals in some idyllic dream of Natural Man, and walked into another room, looking for people. I found them and frankly, I wished I had not. They wore light kahkis, because it was after Easter, and you know, you can do that now. And they were aliens and I wanted to see them naked and wondered if they had ever been. If they had been born in these dreary clothes and bad haircuts? What do they look like naked? Fucking? Eating? Do these people even shit? They must, everyone does, but there is no way. They handed me the application to fill out and I filled it out, like the good little boy who wants to get paid, and then I was interviewed.
Oh, god. Interviewed is an entirelly inappropriate word. I watched one of those scary women perform a monolgue in a tiny office. That's what it was. It was performance art. What else could these surreal experience have been? That's why there were no people here. That's why her office looked a little to sparse. It was all a weird piece of performance art. She kept on saying The Company. No one in real life says that. I kept on daydreaming during her monologue, realzing that I would never work here, I could never do this, what the fuck am I doing? Why don't I just leave now? Break free - fucking get up and leave - who fucking cares? And, I seriouslly considered just saying I had to go to the bathroom and then running for my car. But, I didn't. And she finished yakking and asked if I had any questions. I said No. But, she somehow mistook that for a question and gave me a way too long answer to a question that I did not even ask. And, then when there was a pause, I stood up and extended my hand to shake hers, and what I really should have done was slapped her upside the head and asked What the fuck is wrong with you? - she shook my hand and told me that they would be in contact with me soon.
Whoo, thank god. And Martin, I'm sorry to possibly degrade and/or pardoy the seriousness and solemnity of your words, but as I was walking out to my car, I sighed, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!"
I drove to Dupont Circle, straight from there, to apply at SoHo Tea and Coffee, a gay coffehouse in that gayest of neighborhoods, and it felt so good to be somewhere normal, to see men walking together, to see hipsters in Dark clothes, and punky high school girls in bright ones. Whereas, The Company was cold and air-conditioned, SoHo was breathable and perfect. They had their doors open to let in the wonderfully t-shirty spring air. I filled out the very short application. The last thing on the application asked me to list three of my qualities. Because I was in a good mood, perhaps too good a mood to be filling out employment applications, I wrote:
-can walk on stilts
-can laugh at even the worst jokes
-can say "peace be with you" in Arabic
And then I talked to one of the managers, and things went real well, and he said that he just had to talk to the owner, and that they would give me a call in a couple of days. And whoo-hoo! I have my fingers crossed so much, because I would love to work there more than any place in the world right now. Even you, you stupid Sarasota New's and Books, which will never hire me, no matter how many good interviews I have with you.
And now, I am about to go check-out and head to Kingstown. I will be checking outAmerican Skin by Don De Grazia, Summer in Baden-Baden by Loenid Tsypkin, and the following DVD's: Midnight Cowboy, Chinatown, and The Big Sleep. I'm not too excited about either of the books, but I have the hardest time finding books that I like. There is a certain type of book that I love, and if anyone has any good recommendations, you should let me know, because I will most likely be back at this library tomorrow. I like books that don't have lots of plot; that don't try to be hip and never ever have "postmodern" written anywhere on the back cover; that deal with notions of America; that are optimistic; that are somewhat sexual; that try to be really transcendant; and funky, if possible. Just good writing, basically. Why do all of these books I pick up and open to read a couple of sentances from have the most god-awful prose - trying to sound meaningful by writing in an ornate manner, but come off as gaudy and silly? I don't have time for examples, right now. I am a boy on the move. But, tomorrow, if I am here, expect a few samples.