Secret-secrets are no fun. Secret-secrets hurt someone. – The Office, “Ben Franklin”
“Actually, I’m pregnant,” she said. I had to do a double take. This woman from work, who I’ve had all of about twenty minutes conversation with during my five months here, was putting this news to me first. Of everyone. In our whole entire office. A few minutes before hand I was explaining to
Steve about how fasting for Yom Kippur works. Then this woman walked into the kitchen and simply stated, “I’m not fasting this year.” Steve, being the in-the-know-person that he is remembered that she had gone to Scotland where a stomach virus had attached itself to her insides. Scotland? Stomach virus? It all seemed a little weird to me. Steve went about his merry way and not a second after the door had closed did she drop this small, almost meaningless spec of information on my ears. Why me? I’m not sure. I didn’t even know she had a husband or was Jewish up until this point. “I just don’t want to tell Steve because then, y’know, the whole place will know within a matter of minutes.” I nodded in agreement. She said there would be a big announcement this coming week, but it still does not answer the question of why she would inform something so private and personal to an almost complete stranger. But there you, now I’m in the know. That was enough to fill me up until breaking the fast later that night.
Hey, man, are those pennies from Heaven? – Passerby on the incident below
“Damn, man, that sucks,” Hipster Shoe Owner dully let hang from his lips with the same post-modern ennui gloss he has over his eyes whenever I see him. Yes, I live above a shoe store. Run by hipsters. Which never has any one in it except other hipsters who never seem to buy anything. Honestly, I have no idea how the place stays open. I wish I lived above the bakery, but that’s slightly adjacent to my building. The bakery is the reason I gathered the past four months coin collection. The coin collection is the reason I had to go outside yesterday. The old Fruity Pebbles cereal bag, which I put the coins in for transportation to CoinStar and ripped seconds later, is the reason Hipster Shoe Owner chimed in with his two cents (seriously, no pun intended). The economy is going down the tubes! So says every single news report in the country. I was the poster boy for the American Recession at that point—an unwashed 23 year old writer in his pajamas and on a bike picking up his seventeen dollars and eighty-two since in nickels and dimes to buy an overpriced sandwich (in all honesty, the bakery is local and grass roots, so I don’t mind forking over a little extra change for the quality…the sandwiches are amazing). But y’know what? I didn’t let the economic climate get me down. I got down on my hands and knees to pick up every last goddamn piece of currency…so, who’s broke now, suckas?
Strange times… — The Black Keys, “Strange Times.”
My mind has been a little bit of a buzz the past few days. I’m not high and I have had one beer and half a glass of wine in the past 72 hours. Very rarely do I feel like I’m on the right path—the right direction to getting to the right path I feel constantly—but this week I saw a glimmer of hope. A director at our theater, who is in charge of selecting plays and molding new ones for the seasons, had a talk with me about next season. Out of nowhere in this little chit-chat conversation I told her, “I want to be your assistant next season.” She looked a little bewildered and then got a smile on her face, “You do, do you?” I nodded. “Have any experience?” I listed my former jobs of coverage writing, which, I realized at that point, tallied at a grand total of three years. Jeez, I didn’t realize the time had added up. “Okay, send me your resume and a writing sample. I’ll see if it’s in the budget for next year. Maybe just part-time.” Hey, I’m getting no time now so part-time sounds like an oasis in the desert at this point. Since then (Tuesday) I’ve been in a state of thinking what to give her and how I should compile everything. Use Doug’s letter of recommendation? Perhaps, but that was specifically for Princeton. Melanie’s! Yes, she even told me to talk to this director! I’ll use Melanie’s and then my coverage on The Food Chain. Perfect! All of these ideas were swirling in my head today as I was driving our beat up POP Tour van out of the Whole Foods parking lot. Without warning, a black 1976 Mustang pulled out in front of me. I was confused because a big Latino guy rolled down his window, making erratic hand gestures. I motioned for them to move ahead, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. I rolled down my window…
Me: Uh…?
Mustang Guy: Homes, for reals, yo…
Me: For reals? What?
Mustang Guy: I own a body shop. I could do a custom job on your ride.
Me: OH!
Mustang Guy: Good work at a good price.
Me: Well, it’s my boss’ car. I’d have to ask.
At this point I shrugged and the guy pulled away. This is the second time I’ve been approached car-to-car, driver-to-driver by a salesman. Strange, yes, but also a good example about the mindset in SoCal. You have to sell yourself because no one is going to do it for you. So Monday, I’ve got to be prepared. I’ve got to walk into this director’s office ready to show her what I got. I’m the diamond in the rough who isn’t going to wait to be discovered. I’m going to dig myself out if that’s what it takes!
“Actually, I’m pregnant,” she said. I had to do a double take. This woman from work, who I’ve had all of about twenty minutes conversation with during my five months here, was putting this news to me first. Of everyone. In our whole entire office. A few minutes before hand I was explaining to
Steve about how fasting for Yom Kippur works. Then this woman walked into the kitchen and simply stated, “I’m not fasting this year.” Steve, being the in-the-know-person that he is remembered that she had gone to Scotland where a stomach virus had attached itself to her insides. Scotland? Stomach virus? It all seemed a little weird to me. Steve went about his merry way and not a second after the door had closed did she drop this small, almost meaningless spec of information on my ears. Why me? I’m not sure. I didn’t even know she had a husband or was Jewish up until this point. “I just don’t want to tell Steve because then, y’know, the whole place will know within a matter of minutes.” I nodded in agreement. She said there would be a big announcement this coming week, but it still does not answer the question of why she would inform something so private and personal to an almost complete stranger. But there you, now I’m in the know. That was enough to fill me up until breaking the fast later that night.Hey, man, are those pennies from Heaven? – Passerby on the incident below
“Damn, man, that sucks,” Hipster Shoe Owner dully let hang from his lips with the same post-modern ennui gloss he has over his eyes whenever I see him. Yes, I live above a shoe store. Run by hipsters. Which never has any one in it except other hipsters who never seem to buy anything. Honestly, I have no idea how the place stays open. I wish I lived above the bakery, but that’s slightly adjacent to my building. The bakery is the reason I gathered the past four months coin collection. The coin collection is the reason I had to go outside yesterday. The old Fruity Pebbles cereal bag, which I put the coins in for transportation to CoinStar and ripped seconds later, is the reason Hipster Shoe Owner chimed in with his two cents (seriously, no pun intended). The economy is going down the tubes! So says every single news report in the country. I was the poster boy for the American Recession at that point—an unwashed 23 year old writer in his pajamas and on a bike picking up his seventeen dollars and eighty-two since in nickels and dimes to buy an overpriced sandwich (in all honesty, the bakery is local and grass roots, so I don’t mind forking over a little extra change for the quality…the sandwiches are amazing). But y’know what? I didn’t let the economic climate get me down. I got down on my hands and knees to pick up every last goddamn piece of currency…so, who’s broke now, suckas?
Strange times… — The Black Keys, “Strange Times.”
My mind has been a little bit of a buzz the past few days. I’m not high and I have had one beer and half a glass of wine in the past 72 hours. Very rarely do I feel like I’m on the right path—the right direction to getting to the right path I feel constantly—but this week I saw a glimmer of hope. A director at our theater, who is in charge of selecting plays and molding new ones for the seasons, had a talk with me about next season. Out of nowhere in this little chit-chat conversation I told her, “I want to be your assistant next season.” She looked a little bewildered and then got a smile on her face, “You do, do you?” I nodded. “Have any experience?” I listed my former jobs of coverage writing, which, I realized at that point, tallied at a grand total of three years. Jeez, I didn’t realize the time had added up. “Okay, send me your resume and a writing sample. I’ll see if it’s in the budget for next year. Maybe just part-time.” Hey, I’m getting no time now so part-time sounds like an oasis in the desert at this point. Since then (Tuesday) I’ve been in a state of thinking what to give her and how I should compile everything. Use Doug’s letter of recommendation? Perhaps, but that was specifically for Princeton. Melanie’s! Yes, she even told me to talk to this director! I’ll use Melanie’s and then my coverage on The Food Chain. Perfect! All of these ideas were swirling in my head today as I was driving our beat up POP Tour van out of the Whole Foods parking lot. Without warning, a black 1976 Mustang pulled out in front of me. I was confused because a big Latino guy rolled down his window, making erratic hand gestures. I motioned for them to move ahead, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. I rolled down my window…
Me: Uh…?
Mustang Guy: Homes, for reals, yo…
Me: For reals? What?
Mustang Guy: I own a body shop. I could do a custom job on your ride.
Me: OH!
Mustang Guy: Good work at a good price.
Me: Well, it’s my boss’ car. I’d have to ask.
At this point I shrugged and the guy pulled away. This is the second time I’ve been approached car-to-car, driver-to-driver by a salesman. Strange, yes, but also a good example about the mindset in SoCal. You have to sell yourself because no one is going to do it for you. So Monday, I’ve got to be prepared. I’ve got to walk into this director’s office ready to show her what I got. I’m the diamond in the rough who isn’t going to wait to be discovered. I’m going to dig myself out if that’s what it takes!
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