TheBanyanTree: How to ReInvent Your Life in Twelve Weeks of Summer: a work of fiction

[TLW]

Continuing. . .

WEEK THREE.

Yah, so I never got to #3 last week, when I was writing the week up.
This is one of the occupational hazards of writing in bed.  I swear,
I'd be an expert on this by now if I didn't have to take so many naps.

Re three.  Re the Boyfriend Situation.  Re Internet Dating.  During
the past two weeks, I have spent a few lost and painful hours that I
can never, ever recover reading online profiles.  I have gotten no
closer at all to finding a date.  Lest you think I am too picky, let
me share with you a few trenchant samples.

"Divorced four years ago, and now I am ready for marriage.  Am
considering a move to Divorced Arizona or Oregon, California people
are not for me.  I have been in California for 9 years and have not
met a real or honest person yet."

Who writes this stuff?  And who writes back to him?  A "real and
honest" person, ya reckon?  Hey, I like to think I am a real and
honest person, and yet I (also) have not a single smidge of desire to
contact him.  And what's with the typo right in the middle?  Or is
there actually a Divorced Arizona somewhere?

Swinging right over to the opposite extreme, get this:

"After meeting me, you will find yourself in better shape than ever
before in your life.  To you, I will always be the singular
unforgettable event, the only time you took leave of your objectivity.
 Perhaps the most able, worthiest, and greatest ally of your time,
willing to go all the way for the woman he loves.  I want a woman who
can transform me and be a balm to my soul."

Well now, he doesn't want much, does he?  And I'm going way out on a
this spindly cracking limb and I'm gonna guess: self-published poet.
Betcha.

And here:

"I AM FRIENTHY I am person very respet any people for you religion
cultur and couston aprecio the live because is very important for me.
I wish looking for somepeople what undentand or belive in god . I
working hard everyday, but sometime I going at the church because I am
very busy at the week.  I looking for a partner for all the time not
play."

 This gem is the frontrunner in two categories,  1. "English is Not My
First -- or Second -- Language" and 2. "I've Been Doing Shots All
Night and Am Now Completely Wasted and So Think I'll Tackle This
Little Profile Project."

This profile had one of those mysterious silhouettes for a photo.
Sometimes when you click on those, a real photo appears.  When I
clicked on this one, though, there was a Picasso with three noses on
the side of his face.

And, finally, here's my Personal Fave for Catchy Headline of the Week:
"Want to hit a bucket of golf balls?"

 I didn't even get to the profile.  Seriously, is this the guy's best
line? For women?  And, sir, if the woman you approach with this line
says "Sure, Bucko, bring it on," she might not be the sugar and spice
and everything nice heterosexual birdie you're hoping to bogey. I'm
beginning to think all internet guys are sad isolated pasty-faced
nerdy guys with Asperger's Syndrome Exxxtreme?  How's that for
painting with broad strokes?  How's that for painting with a damn
wall-sized roller?

So, okay, I'm rethinking the whole Internet Dating stroke of genius.  Thinger.

But HERE ====> I did make some progress on #1.  Which was: Find a Real
Job.  Or whatever I said.  Get Rejected by Total Strangers for
Employment a Certain Number of Times, how ever many I thought I could
survive two weeks ago.  I decided to ditch the whole e-mailing
resume's game plan and go the old- fashioned route.  Which is how I
found myself standing on the sidewalk in front of my neighborhood
Cap'n Jack's store.  When I was in here last week, snagging my regular
chocolate pudding and two dollar wine (Leavemealonedontbesomeanokay?),
I saw a "Help Wanted" sign.  Part-time, with excellent benefits, is
what it said.

And as I stand there on the sidewalk, letting other Cap'n Jack
groupies move around me on their way into and out of the store, I am
full of perplexity.  Perplexation.  Perplexativinity.  Ambivalence.

Here's the quandary:  suppose I get a job there and discover the
terrible dark underbelly of Cap'n Jack's?  What if there is some
terrible scandal?  I won't be able to shop there anymore.  What, in
the name of all that's holy and healthy, will I eat?  Where will I go
for a conversation when I find that I have been alone for many days,
with only Jasper to talk to, and I must have a human conversation
before I, too, grow three noses on one side of my face?  (At least on
the inside of my head.)  The people who work there seem pretty happy,
but I've had jobs where the people who worked there seemed pretty
happy, and it ended up being because they were being threatened with
terrible consequences if they did not look happy.  I really couldn't
bear to lose my boyfriend-slash-chef, Cap'n Jack.  There's a name for
being disappointed when you achieve your dreams; it's something
simple, but I have a block against remembering it.  (Interesting, no?)
 It's "achievement regret" or "ambition regret." It's a two-word term
and simple, like I said, that I cannot keep in my head, like I said.
I've had this happen more than once, and it makes you feel silly and
wrong and... lost.  If what you planned on making you really, really
complete ends up just another shell game... well, it sucks.  You feel
like a veteran old greyhound (the dog, not the bus), who has just
found out the rabbit was only a fuzzy mechanical thing.  "But...
but... that's what have I been running around in circles so fast for?"

I know there's a case to be made that all of Life is like this --
Love, Sex, Children, Money,  (camping, prom, trips to Mexico, hybrid
cars ... stop me any time)  Everything is bound to disappoint us on
some level.  But this term is for something that was in your top,
like, two Life Goals.  And is usually hard to achieve.  And you work
and work and finally you get where you (thought you) wanted to be and
you are not happy at all.  Anyway.  Then you get Greyhound Gut.

So I'm standing on the sidewalk, and I'd already talked myself into
the job and out of the job a dozen times.  This is (one of the major)
down sides to being a writer -- I play out all the possible scenarios
until I am so sick of the whole situation, I go home and take a pill
and go to bed.  Which is when my Inner Therapist steps in.  "Tess.
Honey.  Really.  (sigh)  We've talked about  this before.  What is the
worst that could happen?"

Answer:  You mean, besides a scandal, a dark underbelly, and
ambition-regret or whatever it is -- any and all of which would
prohibit my buying food there ever again and thus starving to death in
the middle of an urban oasis?  (An urban carnival, really, but Los
Angeles is in the middle of a desert...)

Inner Therapist:  "Still.  Sometimes you just have to do something and
have it fail miserably so you can get to Plan B.  Right?  Geez and
crackers, Tess, give it a rest.  Just walk in there and ask for an
application.  Take it home and think about it there."

You may not believe this, but I've never walked into a place and asked
for an application.  And the first time you do anything is scary -
walking, sex, childbirth.  Even if you done things that seem like
they'd be even harder - being born, oral sex, head-on collisions.  I
had to practice my sentence all the whole way over there.  I stood
outside, by the carved pelicans, for a good long time and practiced
asking for an application several times before I went in.  I mentioned
the stores are all modelled after ships, right?  Well, boats.  Okay,
we'll split the difference.  Seaworthy vessels.

I went in and strode right up to the Poop Deck.That's what they call
the Manager's Desk.  There's an arty handpainted sign there that says
"Poop Deck."  Cap'n Jack's hires real unemployed artists to
hand-letter their signs -- which is another thing I really like about
the place.  I wonder if they know that "Poop Deck" is seriously funny
to the rest of us?  We'd hope so, right?

 I had to stand on my tip toes to peek over the wooden railing.  A guy
who looked like he should be in seventh grade geography class looked
up.  He's one of those people that is still looking gawky even in his
thirties.  I think it's the ears.  Or the haircut.  The ears sticking
out of the haircut.

And honestly, the sailor hat did nothing for him, either.  I mean, honestly.

"Ahoy!" he called out, in a particularly jovial way.  (I mean,
honestly.)  "How can I help you?"

Ahoy.  Oy.  Ahoy.  I dunno if I can work here, after all.

"Hi.  I saw where you are taking applications?  Could I pick one up?"
Hear how casual I tried to sound?  Also hear that boom-boom-boom of my
heart?

"Monday through Friday, nine a.m. to noon," he said.

I paused.  It was Wednesday morning.  About eleven.  What was I
supposed to do now?

"Yes."  I nodded.  Brilliant, he?  Right on top of this conversation, I am.

"Come back then," he said.

I hesitated.  Do I point out his error?  Is this my potential boss, here?

 I have a real problem with authority figures.  I really do.  I fear
and despise them.  I could probably actually be one by now, on some
level, somewhere, but I hate them so much, I refuse to become one.  In
fact, I have worked so hard sometimes not to become a
grownup/authority figure that I made a complete fool of myself.  It's
a wonder I don't crouch behind parked cars and shoot spitwads at
passing policemen.  I don't do that, I swear.  At least, not anymore.

"Um.  Isn't it before noon now?"  I pointed ever so subtly to the wall
clock.  Pressing my point, perhaps unwisely, I pointed to the "Now
Hiring" sign in the window.  "That's why I'm here."

He squinted at the clock as if it had just appeared on the wall, then
shrugged.  "Oh.  Right.  I guess you're right.  Okay." He bent down
and began to search many shelves and cubbyholes for an application.
This went on for some time.  Um.  Is this a tight ship or what?
Jughead opened drawers and closed drawers, then disappeared into a
closet, then came out and ran through the whole gambit again.  Okay.
Maybe they had moved the applications?  Or used them all up?

"Ah.  Here ya go," he held a form up triumphantly, picked through a
row of binders till he found a clipboard, and pulled out a pen.

"Could I maybe take it home and fill it out and bring it back?"

"No.  Sorry.  You have to fill it out here."

"Oh.  Well.  Do I have to be done by noon?"  It was a lengthy
application.  The first question asked me where I went to elementary
school, for God's sake.  I flipped through it, three pages with tiny
type.  Five references needed, with their contact info.  Holy moly.
Ive seen college applications that were simpler.

"Naw.  Here, I'll take you in back where you can sit down."

(to be continued)