I'm learning so many new things about my self out there in the real world! Like this...
Today at my internship my already torn skirt (it has a small tear on the side, which looks like an intentional modest slit) got caught on the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom and ripped all the way up to my butt.
Luckily, I have a friend in the office and after we batted around a few unsuitable suggestions (paper clip, glue stick, scotch tape, butterfly stickers) we came to the best solution: stapler. I took it into the bathroom and locked myself behind a stall. I sat down on the toilet, skirt in my lap, and began stapling the side seam back together. Very soon though, a flock of women came in and gathered around the sink and in the two stalls on either side of me. Now, if you don't know, staplers happen to have a very distinct sound, and finding myself no longer alone, I grew very self-conscious of the noise I was making. I tried to imagine what several repeated stapler clicks coming from inside a stall might sound like to other people. So I stopped and waited, and when a toilet flushed I rapidly finished the job.
Well, turns out, regular staples aren't meant to hold fabric together. I left my internship in the afternoon, staples still in tact, and got on the subway to go uptown to my other job. I'd forgotten all about my skirt mishap and when I bent over to sit down, the staples relented and the rip burst apart, exposing my entire thigh (covered in tights, thankfully) and releasing a loud rip noise that sounded like a fart. People looked at me. The staples were now noticeable, sticking out and bent, the occasional one pricking my skin. But I had seven more stops to go before I could get off. So I just sat there. I sat quietly, trying to anticipate the motions of the train in effort to keep my body still and prevent any further staple pokes. Soon enough, the people turned away from me and back to their newspapers and video games. All except the guy on the end of the train who was wearing a trash bag. He was still looking at me. And I was OK with that.
What I learned: there is nothing to be ashamed of, I am rather resourceful, and I might have a thing for homeless men.
Nonrelated:
Below, a google earth shot of a friend's parents' house. It's in Iowa and the human-looking image in the grass behind the house is a garden that was intentionally designed to look like a fetus when viewed from above. An homage to Jesus.
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Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
American Beauty
Friend and loyal follower of my blog, Ryan, recently posted a clip from one of my all-time favorite film scenes.
When I was in high school, junior year to be exact, I was able to recite, word-for-word, nearly every line from the film American Beauty. My friends and I would get many laughs during a slow day in the chemistry lab by taking turns acting out the hysterical Carolyn Burnham (“This is a $4,000 sofa, upholstered in Italian silk. It is not just a couch!”), or the cool, recently liberated Lester Burnahm (“It’s just a couch. This isn’t life. This is just stuff. And lately it’s become more important to you than living. Well honey, that’s just nuts.”). It was also this particular role, underscored by his John Doe in Se7en, that beget my long, still withstanding crush on Kevin Spacey.
For some reason, as of recent, discussion of this film has come up amongst my friends and coworkers. Most people I’ve talked to do not like this film. Actually, most despise it. When I ask why, they mostly just roll their eyes and say something like, “Oh that bag. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Yes, that line, and that whole scene in particular, is pretty terrible. But if we all think back to some of the sappy, melodramatic things we said and did when we were sixteen (the age of the character in the film who calls the bag dancing in the breeze 'beautiful'), I’m sure we’d all roll our eyes in response as well. (I, for one, used to pretend to be a stoner, wore hemp necklaces, and scrawled Simon & Garfunkel lyrics all over my school notebook.) American Beauty haters will also note the sappy, dramatic feel of the film—the dark lighting, the slow, emo-like instrumental score, the bright, striking, and contrasting colors, the cliché lines about life, etc. But there is nary a Hollywood film that doesn’t contain these elements . . . (cough) Wes Anderson (cough). These sappy, emotional shots and scenes are the connective tissue that often caters the film to a wider audience, which means more money, which is all Hollywood really cares for anyway. It’s the small subtle elements that the filmmaker sneaks in, the stuff that slips by the general movie-goer, that makes a Hollywood film good. Does American Beauty contain these nuances? To an extent. And I think it’s evident in the acting and the dialogue. If I were to see American Beauty for the first time today, I may feel differently. But when I first saw it, at the tender and impressionable age of fifteen, I thought it was brilliant.
My connection to the film today is more about nostalgia than anything else. I came upon the film the year after it was released. I got home from school, plopped myself down on our living room sofa, and turned on the television to watch a Saved by the Bell rerun, as I always did. Instead of finding Zack and Kelly mid-make out, the television screen filled with the image of a woman. She was suspended from a ceiling and her naked body was masked by her blonde hair and covered in red rose petals. I later learned that the film had been left in the VCR by my mother. She’d seen a copy of it resting in the $5 video bin at the grocery store one afternoon and, remembering that it had recently won Best Picture, bought it as an impulse-purchase. Turns out she had paused it at this precise moment because, after only fifteen minutes, she found Kevin Spacey’s lustful longing for his sixteen-year-old daughter’s best friend “weird”. I though, a teenager myself, was naturally intrigued by the half-dressed woman and immediately pressed play, anxiously awaiting for what I hoped would be a follow-up sex scene. The anticipated romp didn’t come, but I continued watching the film anyway. I’d become transfixed. And I watched it in its entirety.
I’m sure the suburban setting reminded me of my own, as well as the characters, representing people I knew in my own life. There were several girls I went to school with who were just like Angela (Mena Suvari’s character)—slutty and bitchy—and I was usually friends with them for some reason. I could also relate to Angela, wanting to have sex with every boy, but never actually going all the way. And I felt like Jane (Thora Birch) too, trapped in a small town and resenting my parents for everything. And every now and then, my mother was capable of emotional breakdowns tantamount to those displayed by Carolyn Burnham. I truly believed that this film was made for me.
After my first viewing I watched it again later that night, and then I watched it dozens of times more. Soon I had memorized all of the dialogue. I even wrote the last line of the film down in my journal. (Further proof that the actions of teenagers are often melodramatic.) And the name of this very blog was inspired by the film, from the scene below.
I think it’s safe to assume that seeing this movie is part of why I moved out of the suburbs, to a city. Why I live in a third-floor apartment instead of a house on a cul-de-sac. Why I take the subway or ride my bike instead of driving a car. I think it planted a tiny idea in my head, an idea which was to be nurtured over the next few years by liberally minded friends and a withdrawal from Catholicism. I was also convinced that the reason my mother didn’t like the film was not because it was weird, but because it reminded her too much of her own life. Maybe this was another reason why I liked it.
In closing, thank you Lester Burnham & co.! Thank you for nothing short of saving my life. And also for giving me the idea to fake a seizure when I get bored at a party. This will be my goal for 2010.
When I was in high school, junior year to be exact, I was able to recite, word-for-word, nearly every line from the film American Beauty. My friends and I would get many laughs during a slow day in the chemistry lab by taking turns acting out the hysterical Carolyn Burnham (“This is a $4,000 sofa, upholstered in Italian silk. It is not just a couch!”), or the cool, recently liberated Lester Burnahm (“It’s just a couch. This isn’t life. This is just stuff. And lately it’s become more important to you than living. Well honey, that’s just nuts.”). It was also this particular role, underscored by his John Doe in Se7en, that beget my long, still withstanding crush on Kevin Spacey.
For some reason, as of recent, discussion of this film has come up amongst my friends and coworkers. Most people I’ve talked to do not like this film. Actually, most despise it. When I ask why, they mostly just roll their eyes and say something like, “Oh that bag. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Yes, that line, and that whole scene in particular, is pretty terrible. But if we all think back to some of the sappy, melodramatic things we said and did when we were sixteen (the age of the character in the film who calls the bag dancing in the breeze 'beautiful'), I’m sure we’d all roll our eyes in response as well. (I, for one, used to pretend to be a stoner, wore hemp necklaces, and scrawled Simon & Garfunkel lyrics all over my school notebook.) American Beauty haters will also note the sappy, dramatic feel of the film—the dark lighting, the slow, emo-like instrumental score, the bright, striking, and contrasting colors, the cliché lines about life, etc. But there is nary a Hollywood film that doesn’t contain these elements . . . (cough) Wes Anderson (cough). These sappy, emotional shots and scenes are the connective tissue that often caters the film to a wider audience, which means more money, which is all Hollywood really cares for anyway. It’s the small subtle elements that the filmmaker sneaks in, the stuff that slips by the general movie-goer, that makes a Hollywood film good. Does American Beauty contain these nuances? To an extent. And I think it’s evident in the acting and the dialogue. If I were to see American Beauty for the first time today, I may feel differently. But when I first saw it, at the tender and impressionable age of fifteen, I thought it was brilliant.
My connection to the film today is more about nostalgia than anything else. I came upon the film the year after it was released. I got home from school, plopped myself down on our living room sofa, and turned on the television to watch a Saved by the Bell rerun, as I always did. Instead of finding Zack and Kelly mid-make out, the television screen filled with the image of a woman. She was suspended from a ceiling and her naked body was masked by her blonde hair and covered in red rose petals. I later learned that the film had been left in the VCR by my mother. She’d seen a copy of it resting in the $5 video bin at the grocery store one afternoon and, remembering that it had recently won Best Picture, bought it as an impulse-purchase. Turns out she had paused it at this precise moment because, after only fifteen minutes, she found Kevin Spacey’s lustful longing for his sixteen-year-old daughter’s best friend “weird”. I though, a teenager myself, was naturally intrigued by the half-dressed woman and immediately pressed play, anxiously awaiting for what I hoped would be a follow-up sex scene. The anticipated romp didn’t come, but I continued watching the film anyway. I’d become transfixed. And I watched it in its entirety.
I’m sure the suburban setting reminded me of my own, as well as the characters, representing people I knew in my own life. There were several girls I went to school with who were just like Angela (Mena Suvari’s character)—slutty and bitchy—and I was usually friends with them for some reason. I could also relate to Angela, wanting to have sex with every boy, but never actually going all the way. And I felt like Jane (Thora Birch) too, trapped in a small town and resenting my parents for everything. And every now and then, my mother was capable of emotional breakdowns tantamount to those displayed by Carolyn Burnham. I truly believed that this film was made for me.
After my first viewing I watched it again later that night, and then I watched it dozens of times more. Soon I had memorized all of the dialogue. I even wrote the last line of the film down in my journal. (Further proof that the actions of teenagers are often melodramatic.) And the name of this very blog was inspired by the film, from the scene below.
I think it’s safe to assume that seeing this movie is part of why I moved out of the suburbs, to a city. Why I live in a third-floor apartment instead of a house on a cul-de-sac. Why I take the subway or ride my bike instead of driving a car. I think it planted a tiny idea in my head, an idea which was to be nurtured over the next few years by liberally minded friends and a withdrawal from Catholicism. I was also convinced that the reason my mother didn’t like the film was not because it was weird, but because it reminded her too much of her own life. Maybe this was another reason why I liked it.
In closing, thank you Lester Burnham & co.! Thank you for nothing short of saving my life. And also for giving me the idea to fake a seizure when I get bored at a party. This will be my goal for 2010.
Friday, January 8, 2010
All the unhappiness of man stems from one thing only: that he is incapable of staying quietly in his room.
I am reading The Invention of Solitude by Paul Auster (nonfiction book about father figures: his own, himself, and other dads or dad-like individuals). The above title is a quote by Pascal and is referenced by Auster.
I read the book on the train today. I rode the J into the city with Owl Licks this afternoon. I on my way to babysit on the UES, he on his way to work at the metal shop at Columbia. There was a chubby gay man in green pants who boarded the subway with us at Gates. He was with an older heterosexual couple who looked to be from the Midwest. I guessed they were his parents, visiting. He was taking pictures of them and himself before the three of them walked to the front of the subway car (we were on the first train car) and stared out the window at the expanding tacks as we pushed toward Manhattan. Owl Licks and I had a hearty laugh somewhere over the East River, wedged between the two lanes of traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. I don't remember what it was that made us laugh, but I think the two of us both needed a serious guffaw and that it didn't matter in the least how it came about. And we were both adamant about carrying the laughter on, all the way across the bridge. Perhaps we had exhausted what we were talking about or maybe we'd become self-conscious and the once earnest laughter had become a nervous continuum of giggles. Either way, I thought that the guy seated across from us probably believed us to be stoned.
I picked up the boy I watch from school and took him in a cab to midtown where he has a tennis lesson. I sat on the sidelines, on a comfortably cushioned wicker bench, and watched as he and three other ten-year-olds were instructed by a lean, tanned young man on the form and footwork of tennis. An older woman, clearly the mother of one of the other boys, walked in towards the end of the lesson and sat down next to me, on a matching wicker chair. At the end, all the boys ran over to the water cooler in front of where we sat and began voraciously chugging. The mother next to me tried to casually start conversation with the attractive, younger tennis instructor. She complimented his ability to keep all the kids respectful and in-check during the lesson. The instructor was standing on the other side of me, leaning against the wall and spinning his racket atop the turf of the court, and I inevitably found myself in the middle of their conversation. I smiled occasionally as they chatted, but had no interest in joining their prattle. He was attractive though. The mother then said something about someone being contrite. I'm not sure who she was referencing but the once talkative instructor suddenly shoved his paper water cup into his mouth, took a long drink, looked at the mother, smiled quickly, said Yes, and looked away, back towards the court where the four boys walked around with slow steps, almost hopping, covering and hiding scattered tennis balls inside fluorescent orange tubes that were taller than themselves. It seemed to me that the instructor didn't know what contrite meant. This might be unfair of me, assuming someone who is good at sports has a poor vocabulary. But his expression looked just like mine does when someone uses a word I don't know. Though, sometimes the proper response is indeed a blank-faced stare followed by a introspective Yes whether or not you know what the other person is talking about.
After the lesson, my boy and I went back to the UES apartment where he lives. He was reading on the couch, waiting for his piano teacher to arrive, while I leafed through the dozens of Christmas card pictures the family had gotten over the holiday season. One was from Justice Clarence Thomas. And his was more like a newsletter than a card. And it wasn't devoted to the children, as most Christmas cards are, but instead to Mr. Thomas himself. It was written in first-person, from the perspective of his wife and filled with lots of colored pictures of Mr. Thomas at Nebraska football games. At one point his wife listed off things that her husband had accomplished during the past year and at the end in parenthesis added, "not to mention being the best husband ever!!"
Another quote from Auster's book:
"Impossible, I realize, to enter another's solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known. A man will say: I am cold. Or else he will say nothing, and we will see him shivering. Either way, we will know that he is cold. But what of the man who says nothing and does not shiver? Where all is intractable, where all is hermetic and evasive, one can do no more than observe. But whether one can make sense of what he observes is another matter entirely."
I read the book on the train today. I rode the J into the city with Owl Licks this afternoon. I on my way to babysit on the UES, he on his way to work at the metal shop at Columbia. There was a chubby gay man in green pants who boarded the subway with us at Gates. He was with an older heterosexual couple who looked to be from the Midwest. I guessed they were his parents, visiting. He was taking pictures of them and himself before the three of them walked to the front of the subway car (we were on the first train car) and stared out the window at the expanding tacks as we pushed toward Manhattan. Owl Licks and I had a hearty laugh somewhere over the East River, wedged between the two lanes of traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. I don't remember what it was that made us laugh, but I think the two of us both needed a serious guffaw and that it didn't matter in the least how it came about. And we were both adamant about carrying the laughter on, all the way across the bridge. Perhaps we had exhausted what we were talking about or maybe we'd become self-conscious and the once earnest laughter had become a nervous continuum of giggles. Either way, I thought that the guy seated across from us probably believed us to be stoned.
I picked up the boy I watch from school and took him in a cab to midtown where he has a tennis lesson. I sat on the sidelines, on a comfortably cushioned wicker bench, and watched as he and three other ten-year-olds were instructed by a lean, tanned young man on the form and footwork of tennis. An older woman, clearly the mother of one of the other boys, walked in towards the end of the lesson and sat down next to me, on a matching wicker chair. At the end, all the boys ran over to the water cooler in front of where we sat and began voraciously chugging. The mother next to me tried to casually start conversation with the attractive, younger tennis instructor. She complimented his ability to keep all the kids respectful and in-check during the lesson. The instructor was standing on the other side of me, leaning against the wall and spinning his racket atop the turf of the court, and I inevitably found myself in the middle of their conversation. I smiled occasionally as they chatted, but had no interest in joining their prattle. He was attractive though. The mother then said something about someone being contrite. I'm not sure who she was referencing but the once talkative instructor suddenly shoved his paper water cup into his mouth, took a long drink, looked at the mother, smiled quickly, said Yes, and looked away, back towards the court where the four boys walked around with slow steps, almost hopping, covering and hiding scattered tennis balls inside fluorescent orange tubes that were taller than themselves. It seemed to me that the instructor didn't know what contrite meant. This might be unfair of me, assuming someone who is good at sports has a poor vocabulary. But his expression looked just like mine does when someone uses a word I don't know. Though, sometimes the proper response is indeed a blank-faced stare followed by a introspective Yes whether or not you know what the other person is talking about.
After the lesson, my boy and I went back to the UES apartment where he lives. He was reading on the couch, waiting for his piano teacher to arrive, while I leafed through the dozens of Christmas card pictures the family had gotten over the holiday season. One was from Justice Clarence Thomas. And his was more like a newsletter than a card. And it wasn't devoted to the children, as most Christmas cards are, but instead to Mr. Thomas himself. It was written in first-person, from the perspective of his wife and filled with lots of colored pictures of Mr. Thomas at Nebraska football games. At one point his wife listed off things that her husband had accomplished during the past year and at the end in parenthesis added, "not to mention being the best husband ever!!"
Another quote from Auster's book:
"Impossible, I realize, to enter another's solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known. A man will say: I am cold. Or else he will say nothing, and we will see him shivering. Either way, we will know that he is cold. But what of the man who says nothing and does not shiver? Where all is intractable, where all is hermetic and evasive, one can do no more than observe. But whether one can make sense of what he observes is another matter entirely."
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Intern 4 Eva
After eight months of applying for fifty+ jobs and interviewing for nearly twenty, I've decided to take a break. Starting in January I will be interning, for the fifth time, at a lovely literary book publisher. I've become exhausted and my mind grows restless with every passing day of unemployment, so I must do something to revolt! And by something I mean work thirty hours a week for free. Again.
This morning I ate cranberry toast with butter and soft-boiled eggs. My roommate brought the food home from the restaurant he works at in Manhattan. Another roommate had bought grapefruit juice, which I had a tiny sip of and remembered that I just don't like grapefruit juice. It's too tangy, too high of an acidity. I always do this though. Retaste something I know that I do not like. But taste buds change, people change, we all change. Why just this week the weather changed. And while I used to hate olives as a child, they are now a favorite treat of mine.
With this new internship comes a whole new season of rationing my life. No more meals out, no more movies, and lots of staying home and eating pasta with just butter and olive oil for a sauce. I must also again pack lunches to take to work and I need to purchase a state-of-the-art traveling coffee mug. The kind that I won't have to worry about leaking in my bag, even if it tips upside-down on the subway.
I have a good feeling about this internship though. That this will be the one where I will meet the future Mr. Maine.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Anne was not the girl for us
This morning I awoke with foggy vision, as usual, and went to grab for my eyeglasses, also as usual. But the glasses were not on my nightstand where they ought to be. So I spent almost a half hour ransacking my bedroom with blurred sight to find them pushed into the corner of my room, underneath my bed. The cat is to blame. Needless to say, she won't be getting fed for the rest of the week. Happy Thanksgiving, Mexico!
I had another interview last week. After which, I was given an editorial assignment: a 400 page manuscript to read and write a reader's report on. I did this magnificently -- I even missed a good friend's going away gathering to spend an entire evening crafting the report. It was top-notch. And the editor thought so too, calling it "excellent". She said she'd be back in touch with me soon (this was on Thursday). I'm hoping to hear something today or tomorrow.
But in the past, other people who interviewed me have used similar terms that induce a sense of hope, but I later realized that it was a false sense of hope, as they didn't hire me. I've been told that my ideas were "fantastic" only to get a call a few days later saying, "we've decided to go with another candidate." What, I wonder, did they call the other candidate's ideas? Remarkable? Absolutely amazing? Scrumtralescent?
I had another interview last week. After which, I was given an editorial assignment: a 400 page manuscript to read and write a reader's report on. I did this magnificently -- I even missed a good friend's going away gathering to spend an entire evening crafting the report. It was top-notch. And the editor thought so too, calling it "excellent". She said she'd be back in touch with me soon (this was on Thursday). I'm hoping to hear something today or tomorrow.
But in the past, other people who interviewed me have used similar terms that induce a sense of hope, but I later realized that it was a false sense of hope, as they didn't hire me. I've been told that my ideas were "fantastic" only to get a call a few days later saying, "we've decided to go with another candidate." What, I wonder, did they call the other candidate's ideas? Remarkable? Absolutely amazing? Scrumtralescent?
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Some things I cannot change
Just two weeks ago I had the most self-assured positive feeling after leaving an interview. As I walked through the doors of the office building and onto the street I knew that the interview had gone splendidly on my part. And I was right, because that same day I got called back for a second interview. It was a good day for my wayward, jobless soul.
What was it that allowed for me to triumph so? It could simply have been a natural chemistry and shared inclination of interest between myself and the two women who interviewed me. It could have been the rejuvenated energy I felt, having just recovered from an exhaustive, debilitating cold. Or it may very well have been the extra jolt of self-accomplishment I felt that only glows around those who have just been mugged and punched in the face, the experience I happened to encounter only a mere twelve hours before this interview. (Note: If you know my mother, father, brother, or sister-in-law, please do not tell them of this. I have decided to keep it from them in the hope that my mother will continue to be able to get a full night's sleep.)
Let me set it up with a preface first. I've lived in the same apartment in Brooklyn for the last two and a half years and have not had a single brush with violence or crime. There have been some crazy car crashes on the street three floors below, and a very long time ago a man bumbled about the area with a thin razor blade in his fist, which he used to cut his face as he screamed about how he wanted to die. While the latter initially frightened me beyond belief, it also terrified everyone else in my neighborhood who witnessed it, and they called the police and attempted to wrest the blade out of the man's hand. My neighbors' responses comforted me, and led me to believe that things of this sort were not of regular occurrence.
So last Tuesday night I was in Tribeca and I said goodbye to my friends, who were getting in a cab after watching our film play at the Big Apple Film Festival, and headed to the subway alone. I rode home, getting off the train at Gates just before 9:30pm, and began walking the two blocks to my apartment. I had my hand clutched on my purse strap, as I always do, and first awkwardly jumbled through a small group of teenage boys who made some lewd remarks in my honor. I dismissed them and continued on, past a young woman about my own age who was out walking her tiny dog. I'd seen her several times before in the neighborhood. I kept up my stride and next noticed a young man on one of those small BMX bikes, making small circles in the street a few feet to my right. He jumped his bike over the curb and onto the sidewalk, which worried me a bit, but I wanted to act like I didn't notice him, so I kept on a straight path at my regular pace. The man then rode his bike directly into me, cornering me against the wall of my very own apartment building. He jut his arm out on one side of my body, firmly and at the level of my neck. So with his bike and his arm on either side of me, I found myself trapped.
Give me your money, he said.
No. I retorted, surprising myself for refusing.
The man now looks wildly around to see if anyone is coming. I also look around and find the street suddenly vacant. The several people who I'd just encountered must have simultaneously rounded corners and stepped inside doors.
Give me your money, he said again.
No. Let me get it out. You don't need my whole purse. This is what I said, though I didn't move to reach for my wallet.
I'm going to punch you in the face.
I let out another feeble, No.
Then, wham. He punched me on the left side of my jaw, during which I saw a bright white light and fell so hard to the ground that I tore my stockings and my knee began to bleed. My arm went limp and the man easily slid my bags off my body and pedaled down the dark and (still) abandoned street on his bike.
I stood up, not even bothering (let alone thinking) to pick up the stocking cap that had fallen off my head and onto the dusty, leaf-scattered sidewalk, and reached into my pocket. I still had my keys, i-pod, and cell phone hidden in the depths of my coat. (Thank God for winter weather.) I called 911.
The cops came and we drove around trying to find this asshole. We didn't.
All my mugger got that was of any value to him was $26, a recently purchased monthly Metro card, and eight cigarettes. Everything else I lost was only an inconvenience to me (ID, some make-up, my Moleskine notebook that I'd been writing thoughts down in for the past year, my ATM cards, etc.) He also left me with a blue and yellow bruise on the side of my chin, at the point of contact where his knuckles collided with my face. The other side of my jaw was also terribly sore for a week. And the brand new stockings I was wearing now had more runs than a lactose intolerant kid who's just devoured an entire wheel of soft cheese.
I told the twelve year-old I babysit for about this incident, admitting my fear that the mugger may return and try to break into my apartment, as he now had my ID with my address. She responded by saying, "But he knows that you're poor now. So why would he bother?" (She's amazing, by the way.)
So, unhappy ending -- I didn't get the job, despite all the shitiness that preceded the interview. I deserved it and should have gotten it. But I have another interview on Tuesday for a different job.
The woman who owns the new book store in Ft. Greene came into my restaurant tonight and we were talking about young recent grads and their pursuit of entry-level professional work. She put the pursuit in blunt, relatable terms that tickled my fancy and lifted my spirits. She said, to get a job in New York you have to hustle. And that's what I'm doing and will continue to do: hustle. Hustle just like a hooker. A fucking classy hooker.
What was it that allowed for me to triumph so? It could simply have been a natural chemistry and shared inclination of interest between myself and the two women who interviewed me. It could have been the rejuvenated energy I felt, having just recovered from an exhaustive, debilitating cold. Or it may very well have been the extra jolt of self-accomplishment I felt that only glows around those who have just been mugged and punched in the face, the experience I happened to encounter only a mere twelve hours before this interview. (Note: If you know my mother, father, brother, or sister-in-law, please do not tell them of this. I have decided to keep it from them in the hope that my mother will continue to be able to get a full night's sleep.)
Let me set it up with a preface first. I've lived in the same apartment in Brooklyn for the last two and a half years and have not had a single brush with violence or crime. There have been some crazy car crashes on the street three floors below, and a very long time ago a man bumbled about the area with a thin razor blade in his fist, which he used to cut his face as he screamed about how he wanted to die. While the latter initially frightened me beyond belief, it also terrified everyone else in my neighborhood who witnessed it, and they called the police and attempted to wrest the blade out of the man's hand. My neighbors' responses comforted me, and led me to believe that things of this sort were not of regular occurrence.
So last Tuesday night I was in Tribeca and I said goodbye to my friends, who were getting in a cab after watching our film play at the Big Apple Film Festival, and headed to the subway alone. I rode home, getting off the train at Gates just before 9:30pm, and began walking the two blocks to my apartment. I had my hand clutched on my purse strap, as I always do, and first awkwardly jumbled through a small group of teenage boys who made some lewd remarks in my honor. I dismissed them and continued on, past a young woman about my own age who was out walking her tiny dog. I'd seen her several times before in the neighborhood. I kept up my stride and next noticed a young man on one of those small BMX bikes, making small circles in the street a few feet to my right. He jumped his bike over the curb and onto the sidewalk, which worried me a bit, but I wanted to act like I didn't notice him, so I kept on a straight path at my regular pace. The man then rode his bike directly into me, cornering me against the wall of my very own apartment building. He jut his arm out on one side of my body, firmly and at the level of my neck. So with his bike and his arm on either side of me, I found myself trapped.
Give me your money, he said.
No. I retorted, surprising myself for refusing.
The man now looks wildly around to see if anyone is coming. I also look around and find the street suddenly vacant. The several people who I'd just encountered must have simultaneously rounded corners and stepped inside doors.
Give me your money, he said again.
No. Let me get it out. You don't need my whole purse. This is what I said, though I didn't move to reach for my wallet.
I'm going to punch you in the face.
I let out another feeble, No.
Then, wham. He punched me on the left side of my jaw, during which I saw a bright white light and fell so hard to the ground that I tore my stockings and my knee began to bleed. My arm went limp and the man easily slid my bags off my body and pedaled down the dark and (still) abandoned street on his bike.
I stood up, not even bothering (let alone thinking) to pick up the stocking cap that had fallen off my head and onto the dusty, leaf-scattered sidewalk, and reached into my pocket. I still had my keys, i-pod, and cell phone hidden in the depths of my coat. (Thank God for winter weather.) I called 911.
The cops came and we drove around trying to find this asshole. We didn't.
All my mugger got that was of any value to him was $26, a recently purchased monthly Metro card, and eight cigarettes. Everything else I lost was only an inconvenience to me (ID, some make-up, my Moleskine notebook that I'd been writing thoughts down in for the past year, my ATM cards, etc.) He also left me with a blue and yellow bruise on the side of my chin, at the point of contact where his knuckles collided with my face. The other side of my jaw was also terribly sore for a week. And the brand new stockings I was wearing now had more runs than a lactose intolerant kid who's just devoured an entire wheel of soft cheese.
I told the twelve year-old I babysit for about this incident, admitting my fear that the mugger may return and try to break into my apartment, as he now had my ID with my address. She responded by saying, "But he knows that you're poor now. So why would he bother?" (She's amazing, by the way.)
So, unhappy ending -- I didn't get the job, despite all the shitiness that preceded the interview. I deserved it and should have gotten it. But I have another interview on Tuesday for a different job.
The woman who owns the new book store in Ft. Greene came into my restaurant tonight and we were talking about young recent grads and their pursuit of entry-level professional work. She put the pursuit in blunt, relatable terms that tickled my fancy and lifted my spirits. She said, to get a job in New York you have to hustle. And that's what I'm doing and will continue to do: hustle. Hustle just like a hooker. A fucking classy hooker.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Everybody Loves A Winner
About two weeks ago I went on five interviews for two different positions -- both were for positions I would find enjoyable and I was more than qualified for them.
Now, more than fourteen days later, I still have no word from either publishing house. I've contacted both. One company has flat out refused to respond to the two emails I sent them. The other possible employer told me I would be contacted sometime next week (that would be this week, as we spoke last week). But just yesterday, their website re-listed the position for which I was being considered. That cannot be a good sign.
On the bright side, our short film has been getting some press and online views. Also, it was accepted into the Big Apple Film Festival, where it will be screened next month.
Now, more than fourteen days later, I still have no word from either publishing house. I've contacted both. One company has flat out refused to respond to the two emails I sent them. The other possible employer told me I would be contacted sometime next week (that would be this week, as we spoke last week). But just yesterday, their website re-listed the position for which I was being considered. That cannot be a good sign.
On the bright side, our short film has been getting some press and online views. Also, it was accepted into the Big Apple Film Festival, where it will be screened next month.
Obvious Child from Gillian Robespierre on Vimeo.
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