This is the worst vacation ever/ I’m going to cut open your forehead with a roof shingle
Romantic notions I attach to certain work situations. It’s hard not to look at the librarian, stoically putting away books, and think that must not be too bad. Or the postal worker delivering mail on a sunny afternoon, showing up at your place of employ long enough for you to be envious of that same person disappearing back out of doors and into the afternoon, little glints of sunshine coming down and through the trees. And it gives me hope. There must be something out there that’s worth doing.
It is with this mantra in mind that I tell myself I am going to apply for a job at the Book House today. Here is what is good about this work environment: there are two coffee shops in the immediate vicinity; there is no dress code; there is no small modicum of attractive women going into the hair salon right next door, and some of them must read books, too. Additionally, I imagine, there must be some faction of people within the actual bookstore who may even share in a similar interest set (whatever that means). Which begs the question, who would be an ideal co-worker? Someone like me? Maybe yes and maybe no. I’m the kind of person who is hardly tolerant of other human beings, as has been recently been pointed out to me by my sister. “People like you, you asshole, but you always think everybody sucks,” she admonishes. That’s not entirely true. It’s not that I dislike others as much as it is that I cannot fathom why these people haven’t attended the same cult-deprogramming center that I’ve attended, which has them preening interests that seem to me worthy of laughing out loud. Although it’s hard, in lieu of this same discussion, not to think of Sartre, and his axiom-crusher of a proclamation, “hell is other people.”
Romantic notions I attach to certain work situations. It’s hard not to look at the librarian, stoically putting away books, and think that must not be too bad. Or the postal worker delivering mail on a sunny afternoon, showing up at your place of employ long enough for you to be envious of that same person disappearing back out of doors and into the afternoon, little glints of sunshine coming down and through the trees. And it gives me hope. There must be something out there that’s worth doing.
It is with this mantra in mind that I tell myself I am going to apply for a job at the Book House today. Here is what is good about this work environment: there are two coffee shops in the immediate vicinity; there is no dress code; there is no small modicum of attractive women going into the hair salon right next door, and some of them must read books, too. Additionally, I imagine, there must be some faction of people within the actual bookstore who may even share in a similar interest set (whatever that means). Which begs the question, who would be an ideal co-worker? Someone like me? Maybe yes and maybe no. I’m the kind of person who is hardly tolerant of other human beings, as has been recently been pointed out to me by my sister. “People like you, you asshole, but you always think everybody sucks,” she admonishes. That’s not entirely true. It’s not that I dislike others as much as it is that I cannot fathom why these people haven’t attended the same cult-deprogramming center that I’ve attended, which has them preening interests that seem to me worthy of laughing out loud. Although it’s hard, in lieu of this same discussion, not to think of Sartre, and his axiom-crusher of a proclamation, “hell is other people.”
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I gave myself a sweet haircut today, in anticipation of a potential job interview. It’s a totally haphazard process, and whether the ensuing result has me looking more employable is up for discussion. It does seem to be shorter, however, and so that’s something. Also, I do not iron, and so I put a jacket on over my wrinkled shirt, so that I am, at least to me, thoroughly employable-seeming, which is a nice illusion. When I find myself satisfactory, the smooth veneer of a young go-getter complete, I depart for the bookstore. Somehow, despite the fact that I could be there in minutes, I decide on taking the roundabout way of getting to the bookstore. A recent myspace bulletin has astutely pointed out that there are various ways to Stuyvesant, and why I take the longest way possible from my house is a total mystery. For the effort, I tell myself, despite having a lifesavings of $11.50, that I will reward myself for filling out the application by buying an album that I want, which is sadly tantalizing, but which propels me forward nonetheless.
Arriving to the store, I am almost promptly run over by a passing car. My own passing is something which fills me with horror, more now than ever. I imagine my paltry and wasted life put on display in some obituary somewhere and the thought of that fills me with the kind of legwork that has me dodging the vehicle and hustling to the curb, where I contemplate this some more. A human life, once passed, is measured in the most base and intangible ways. So condensed, it is, once gone, the small type print hammered out onto paper is all that is left. My life "accomplishments” might be meted out in the way of various schools I’ve attended. And that is, incredibly, it. Not exclusive would it be of things that actually mattered: the sweet dance moves I’ve cultivated over the years, a homeless person’s aesthetic, a magnetic hum which attracts women over the age of 40.
Shaking off this train of though, I go inside the store. My romanticized notions of hip bookstore clerk are quickly grounded with the sight of various older-looking woman, who stare at me as I enter. Quickly, I make a b-line for the non-fiction aisle. There are various people looking around the store, who are probably on a lunch break, languidly scanning the science fiction. Occasionally, a worker breezes by to put something away. And I suddenly realize, all at once, that this is the most mundane bookstore of all time. Not even the tinkling of jazz graces the store today, just the occasional customer ignominiously asking for a book he can’t find. And I realize, I cannot work here! This is horrible, which elicits another thought: Initially thinking of filling out the application has quickly segued into some vast rumination about filling out an application, and then that becomes one more layer detached as I think about all of that. It’s like the third tier of unemployability, which seems like it should come with a pretty good insurance plan. But it doesn’t, and even though there’s a record store on the corner, I realize, since I suck so thoroughly and completely, that I won’t be making a purchase today. And probably not tomorrow, either.
Arriving to the store, I am almost promptly run over by a passing car. My own passing is something which fills me with horror, more now than ever. I imagine my paltry and wasted life put on display in some obituary somewhere and the thought of that fills me with the kind of legwork that has me dodging the vehicle and hustling to the curb, where I contemplate this some more. A human life, once passed, is measured in the most base and intangible ways. So condensed, it is, once gone, the small type print hammered out onto paper is all that is left. My life "accomplishments” might be meted out in the way of various schools I’ve attended. And that is, incredibly, it. Not exclusive would it be of things that actually mattered: the sweet dance moves I’ve cultivated over the years, a homeless person’s aesthetic, a magnetic hum which attracts women over the age of 40.
Shaking off this train of though, I go inside the store. My romanticized notions of hip bookstore clerk are quickly grounded with the sight of various older-looking woman, who stare at me as I enter. Quickly, I make a b-line for the non-fiction aisle. There are various people looking around the store, who are probably on a lunch break, languidly scanning the science fiction. Occasionally, a worker breezes by to put something away. And I suddenly realize, all at once, that this is the most mundane bookstore of all time. Not even the tinkling of jazz graces the store today, just the occasional customer ignominiously asking for a book he can’t find. And I realize, I cannot work here! This is horrible, which elicits another thought: Initially thinking of filling out the application has quickly segued into some vast rumination about filling out an application, and then that becomes one more layer detached as I think about all of that. It’s like the third tier of unemployability, which seems like it should come with a pretty good insurance plan. But it doesn’t, and even though there’s a record store on the corner, I realize, since I suck so thoroughly and completely, that I won’t be making a purchase today. And probably not tomorrow, either.
2 comments:
Clearance section FYE
Bobby Joe said...
Don't fear the reaper dude.You've touched more people in your life than you seem to know or give yourself credit for.
As for work...work is work and if you find yourself in a job you absolutly love than you've hit the job market jackpot,so be content to earn your daily bread and don't worry so much about being happy with your job just try to give of an air of happiness at your job so they don't fire you.
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