For reasons I'll get into later you could have mugged me on my way home today and if you didn't have a severe drug problem and if you maybe had access to the internet, you could have made some serious money. In my backpack were four iPods (one old, three new, all never openned), my nice headphones, and the manuscript for my fiction project.
When I think about dealing with a man-purse snatcher, I always say that I will chase them down--remember, I'm surprisingly fast--and promise them a trip to the ATM if they will give me the worthless stack of papers inside. But today I would have just gone ahead and stabbed someone.
Brendan's Resume
OBJECTIVE: To gain a position at a passionate restaurant; to work with people I respect; to look forward to work each night
QUALIFICATIONS
Worked every day since I was fifteen and somehow each job has helped me become a better waiter. In my hometown I worked on a farm in the summer picking corn, when I could drive I began working in restaurants. It worked out so well for me that I continued waiting tables even when I became a reporter. I can talk to anyone, get anyone to smile, and turn the course of the meal for even the most upset of customers.
EDUCATION 1994-2000
Simsbury High School, originally tracked for vocational studies and culinary arts. But abandoned ship when I decided that I wanted to go to:
2000-2004Kenyon College, Degree in English Literature.
I read a lot of books, basically. But I paid for it all by waiting tables. Sure, it was in Ohio, but I got to wait on alumni like Paul Newman, Jay Cocks (author “Gangs of New York”), and Neil Young when he brought in his daughter for a visit.
2003
Delaware Bartending Certificate
EMPLOYMENT 1996-1998 Busboy, then Waiter, The Charthouse Restaurant, Simsbury, Ct
Fairly basic New England seafood fair. No famous patrons. Fast paced. High turnover. It’s where I first came out of the back of the house and started smiling at people up front. Closed, reopened under new management.
1998-2002 Waiter, Jason House, Simsbury, CT
Started by delivering and reciting the following line frequently: “Hey, you’re not Chinese!” “No, but the food still is!” It got old. But I still get postcards from the family that owned it.
2001-2003 Reporter, The Hartford Courant
Hired to write blurbs about CDs and events, but on my first day the editor needed a story with a young angle for the life section. Then they took a liking to me and I had stories go over the wire to The New York Post, The Washtington Post, and The LA Times.
2004-2004 Waiter, Middle Ground Café, Gambier, Oh
An outpost of culture owned by a New York couple. The makers of the only bagels, sushi, guacamole, burritos, and hummus sandwhiches for one hundred miles in every direction. I worked there only after the following place closed:
2002-2004 Waiter, The Alcove, Mount Vernon, Oh
The finest restaurant in the county since 1911. Beautiful historic building, three stories. I worked prep, catering, and put myself through the end of school as a server.
Today Ben and I met another crazy woman. She seemed nice enough at first. Asked us about things. Ben asked if he knew her from somewhere, turns out he actually did: a sketch writing class. They talked, he mentioned that he seemed advanced, I brought up the fact that Ben is just being modest about being asked by cable television to submit a DVD of material. Ben countered this by saying that the pages I was editting earlier are actually a novel.
"So you're both writers, eh?" I didn't even bother with: I'm sorry no we're both WAITERS, that's a typo.
"Well I feel like this was just meant to be, do you know about the agents conference next week?" She goes on to paint a picture for us of an arena full of literary agents with their hands folded, waiting at desks for the next Dave Eggers to show up and put a manuscript in their totebag.
"You're kidding," I said. "Tell me more." Turns out it's this week. I spent the rest of the meal ignoring her, looking up when responses were required, smiling. Every moment I thought about what I'm editting:
And wished that I hadn't blown my summer with my thumb up other people's asses waiting for them to place their order. Thursday, man. That's not enough time.
"I just have a feeling about this. It's like the way we just ran into each other today, this is meant to be. I asked my clairvoyant about it. She's always right about these things."
We went to the beach and realized a few things. 1) We had to actually sell me to these people and 2) we had to come up with a good fake person for Ben to be and 3) if things didn't go well, I would need a back up fake person to be. Just like the time I got in a fight with my neighbor about the smell of my scooter and told him that I was the author of the book his wife was reading on the beach.
We devised a really good plan that would make all the agents invite me up for roomservice.
Then I got home and got her email:
Hey there! I am so glad we all met today. Some things are just MEANT TO BE!! here is the initial email I received regarding the writers event.
And it's a scam. Not only is it a scam, but it's a lame scam. it scams lame people out of their money by placating their lame dreams, which, while lame, is sad. It's a company that you pay to publish your book, play, whatever. Then you can pay them to advertise your work in The New York Time. The worst part is that their contacts are even scams. "Only previously unheard of authors may be advertised in the NYT."
It's written so that the reader will say, "Nah, they won't advertise mine. They'll probably just advertise some of their huge superstars. You know, like the ones we met at the conference." If you don't beleive me about this scam, look up Dangers Of Self Publishing in Google. The third link down is about the dangers of masturbation.
Having done all the complaing I need to for the day, I'm going to self-publish this post right now.
Book Club. What these three books have in common is that I'm completely positive that they will never be made into movies. I know it's unfair to insinuate that movies ruin books--especially since yesterday I walked around my neighborhood with supreme delight having decided that if what I'm writing ever became a movie, I would insist that
this song be used in the trailer.
1) White Noise. Is a commentary on consumerism in our culture, but it was written in 1984 and things have only turned sour since then. Midway through the book there is a disaster that read like a perfect 9/11 commentary. Everyone is glued to their televisions, everyone wants to know what the plan is, everyone gets a strange thrill from it, and everyon likes when they get to be the know it all.
"That's quite an armband you've got there. What does SIMUVAC mean? Sounds important."
"Short for simulated evacuation. A new state program they're still battling over funds for."
"But this evacuation isn't simulated. It's real."
"We know that. But we thought we could use it as a model."
"A form of practice? Are you saying you saw a chance to use the real event in order to rehearse the situation?"
"We took it right into the streets."
"How is it going?" I said.
"The insertion curve isn't as smooth as we would like. There's a probability excess. Plus which we don't have our victims laid out where we'd want them if this was an actual simulation. In other words we're forced to take our victims as we find them. We didn't get a jump on computer traffic. Suddenly it spilled out, three-dimensionally, all over the landscape. You have to make allowances for the fact that everything we see tonight is real. There's a lot of polishing we still have to do. But that's what this exercise is all about."
2) Vernon God Little. Really well written but alas, it's a narrative about a Columbine-like murder. The narrator is the best friend of a kid who kills fifteen of his classmates and then himself.
3) The 9/11 Commission Report. Michael Moore wishes he could point fingers with this credibility. Also, turns out "Let's Roll!" which the president used as a slogan of heroism, was actually closer to "okay..roll it." And rather than being the words of a god fearing team leader, it was just something heard over the intercom as passengers rammed the doors with the cocktail cart. Also:
The problems in the U.S.-Saudi relationship must be confronted, openly.The United States and Saudi Arabia must determine if they can build a relationship that political leaders on both sides are prepared to publicly defend—a relationship about more than oil.It should include a shared interest in greater tolerance and cultural respect,translating into a commitment to fight the violent extremists who foment hatred.
I would vote for anyone who even read that sentence out loud.
So someday in the future it looks like I will shirk my liberal guilt and leave the city and become a car guy again, atleast for a few months. What kind of car defines me as a person?
So when we left off, I needed exact change for the bus and I mind as well add that I really had to pee. The normal way that Urban-Wanna-Be me would take care of this would be to buy an iced coffee somewhere, use the facilities, and read or edit for a while in the establishment.
So I walked into the nicest hotel on Michigan Avenue, which is to say it's the ritziest hotel a travel agent could book for you. Big entry way, marble floors, black people openning doors for you, men--all men--in uniform suits wearing earpieces.
"Hi, I'm supposed to meet my parents here, can you tell me if they've checked in."
"Certainly sir." After spending all of my working hours buttering up people this way, you can imagine how this feels. "I'm not seeing them in the computer. Actually I don't have any reservation under that name."
"Hmm...it's not like them not to make a reservation. Do you even have any opennings for this evening?"
"Yes, actually several." I pretend to talk into my cellphone, which is definately the new Clipboard as far as faking your way into something is concerned.
"They're late, or they haven't called yet. Do you have a hotel bar where I could wait for them?"
"Absolutely." he directs me to the members-only area and when the elevator opens I'm hundreds of feet in the air with business people. These people own property, but they don't live here. They're acquiring things. Businesses and houses and neighborhoods. The conversation on the elevator with the other two guys went like this: I mean, do you know what the guy is worth? Two hundred and Fifty Million. And he won't even spring for a cab.. I end up at a penthouse cafe overlooking the city.
"Hi there, I'm supposed to meet my parents here, but they're a little late. Would it be alright if I just got a coffee and waited for them here?"
"Definately." The language of sevitude, I've learned, is entirely adverbial. "Just a coffee? Cappucino?" It begins to sprinkle and all of the witches start to shrink, which leaves all the good tables underneath the umbrellas. I sit down and enjoy my fancy-ass drink and nibble on the almonds and cashews that the nice woman keeps bringing me. All around me people are discussing Italy, their dislike of, and I quote, Smelly public transportation, the great deals they got at Neiman Marcus, etc. I edit my project until it gets dark.
On the way out, I watch as a tireless bartended busses the dishes left behind by the countless customers. I realize that an hour before I was in his shoes and I know that they are uncomfortable, and unsupportive. "Hey thanks alot," I say as I bring my coffee cup and nut dish to the bar.
"Oh, thank you. Have a great day." And then I stole probably the nicest roll of toilet paper I've ever seen, get change from the valet, and take my smelly bus home.
Sometimes when I'm bored or when I've had a bad day or a bad week, I like to pretend I'm on vacation. Today after work, I didn't have exact change for the bus, so I decided to walk to get my iPod fixed on Michigan Avenue. On the way I walked by the new Millenium Park, which, although I should think it is lame and a waste of money considering how impossible it is to travel on noncontiguous busses and trains, is really something great. It's a digital waterfall for kids to play in and a giant silver jelly bean.
It made me happy to see the kids play in the water. When we were kids, my mother used to bring my brother and I to Boston with her for Christian Scientist events, and I remember watching all the other kids play in a big fountain in downtown. I don't remember ever playing in it myself, but then again, I was a complete pussy when I was a kid.
Then I saw a sign: "Take The Shopping Trolley!" I sat on a planter in one of those antisceptic/nature-bandaid sidewalk spots in downtown and read White Noise by Don Delillo. I sat with other tourists and waited for a crappy bus to approach. The Shopping Trolley has different rules than the bus. You can talk to people. You can ask them where they're from, what they're doing. I learned, for example, that for $8/person a person can bring their whole family to Chicago from Grand Rapids Michigan and ride the Amtrak.
I'm going to say that it's gas prices or something else that will make me sound in touch, but every day the busses and trains and trolleys and bikelanes and scooter seats in my city get fuller. And everyday the transit comes less frequently.
And this is how America works: just when I've finally organized my music, just when I've learned how to orient my life in such a way that I can recharge my iPod periodically--now that I don't have a car to do so in--they came out with a new iPod, with a 12 hour battery. Goddamit. My two week run on the cutting edge is over.
Excerpt from the project that I work on every day, and for which I need to get up at eight in the morning:
“And just how the hell do you think you’re going to drive anywhere?”
“In my car.” I said, as if they forgot about it.
“The box?” my father said, interjecting for the first time. “I thought we raised you to have a little common sense.” “The box” was the name for my then fifteen year old automobile. It was not squared in any way, but rather the moniker was my family’s way of referring to the car in public. It was short for The Shit Box.
My brother had given it to me for my seventeenth birthday and it was a champion of teenage machinery. He was at that time at his third garage and becoming quite a skilled mechanic, a trade he no doubt fine-tuned by destroying this appliance. I considered it his early work. But once in my possession, it provided endless opportunities to learn about minor auto repair, roadside maintenance, and the art of parking on a hill in case of later battery trouble. You can always tell a car like mine because of the greasy black fingerprints on the hazard lights switch. Mostly light blue—with, ok, some rust—it had a stereo installed into the dashboard which was easily half its resale value. Parents of women I attempted to get acquainted with often seemed a bit reserved about letting their daughters get in the car. It was no van with a mattress in the back or nothing. But when I first met Sherry's dad, he took a lap around the car and mumbled something to her mom about a tetnus shot.
As of yesterday at three in the afternoon, the real-life stereo of the real life car that inspired the one above was stolen. They smashed in my passenger side window. But the problem is that even I couldn't uninstall the stereo cause the screws are stripped. So instead they tore up the whole dashface.
The joke should be on them since they ripped up the glove box looking for the faceplate. I have the faceplate. But really, what the hell am I going to do with a faceplate? Sell it to the pawnshop that ends up with my stereo?
Today is very important. It's my day off (morning off) and I need to get some more work done. But I'm also sick, so I barely have to talk myself into sleep in.
If you call in the next ten minutes you'll be my hero. (I have no idea what this timestamp will be, but it's about seven minutes til eight in Chicago, according to my computer).
Today at the DMV, I realized while I was in line that I didn't have enough money to pay for my license. Two dollars short. I called my roommate who was nearby and we eventually worked out that he would go to the ATM and I would pay him back $21.25 (with service fee). Cautiously--for lack of auto insurance--I drove home, coughing from a lung infection that will be there until my white blood cells take care of it. Not only do I not have health insurance, but no one who looks like me that I know has health insurance, so I can't even scam my way out of this infection. On the way to work my train pass ran out and I had to buy a $2 card for a $1.75 trip, which was the last two dollars I had. Chicago is on vacation, so I only made $8 tonight, plus $20 in wages. Meaning that I only have enough to pay my roommate back and take the train to work in the morning.
I'm sick of being broke, but I would never want any other job and I don't want to have to move to Canada just so I can afford to have a lung infection and go back to work. Also, a sick-day would be fucking awesome.
There's a lot of things I've been meaning to tell you, but I lost my notebook and now I can't remember how to spell any of those things. If you're in the Chicago area, be on the lookout for a small black notebook. Then start your own website where you just keep posting the things I've written down in my notebook. Then give me the address. Seriously, it'll save me alot of time.
Last week, I asked if you wouldn't mind calling me and making sure I get up in the morning. The only person to try it was a nice girl from Texas who called in the night and forgot about me in the morning.
But yesterday, Ben came in and started scratching around on the turntables until I woke up. Then we went to breakfast and got shitloads of work done. So if you could call Ben everymorning at about eight, that would be great. Try beatboxing a little bit so he'll want to come upstairs and put on The Fat Boys.
The mysteries of life have been slowly unfolding to me in the past few weeks. Among them:
Why have children when you could have furniture?
Why do people get married and why to people think they get married.
I have long imagined myself aging childless and with alternating company. If you asked me about it I would probably say something about the world being overpopulated or about my inability to discipline or of how I really "just married to my work."
If you asked my brother about it he would probably tell you that a kitchen mishap had rendered me both infertile and impotent. And I can't decide which I'd rather have members of my consider me: a selfish asshole with great furniture or a eunuch.
My new life in Chicago is full of surprisingly (for me) compassion moments. The bar was packed on sunday night. I didn't stop making drinks, even for a second, from 12:30 to 4:00 in the morning. It's a hip hop club, I don't know if we've been through this. And it's too-loud at all times. You have to order by yelling directly into my ear canal.
"How much is a bottle of water?" a bouncer asks me.
"You can just have it, you work here."
"It's not for me. It's for an ole lady."
I look over to the crowd of dudes waving their hands in the air, as if they don't care, and see an eighty year old man. He's the only other white person in the bar and his silver hair makes him stand out even more. I gave him the bottle for free because it's easy to be nice with somone elses money. And I thought about him all night. ABout how when he was my age, he met a girl, probably this girl, and decided that he really wanted to sleep with her. But somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that someday she's get old. And he'd get tired. And one of them would get sick, and the other would have to do things for the other.
He probably fought in a war somewhere, but I know that the scariest thing he did that week was teeter into my bar and recon a bottle of water for the girl he met when he was my age.
Posts like this are mostly meant for me to read when I'm old and can't remember how I ended up that way.
To celebrate the fourth, we went grocery shopping. There was about two and a half hours of golden life where Dave, Ben, and I sat on the deck drinking High Life with limes and eating nachos in the sun. Then my boss called to have me come in early to the bar. That was 6:00 PM and I'm just getting home now. Justyna and I did very well. About $200 each for only really working from midnight to 3:40. I've perfected my bartender-stare. The lesson everyone with experience told me is that when you're behind the bar, you're in charge. That's a little totalitarian for me, but when forty people were trying to get my attention tonight, I decided whom I would like to patronize.
I got a couple of "Yo, yo!" guys who thought that aggressive would work on me. At one point I ignored a guy for ten minutes while I made other drinks and then when I came to him said, "Hey, did you call me 'butthead' before?"
"What?"
"Before, when you were trying to get my attention. Did you say, 'Hey butthead' and actually think that would make me wanna bring you a drink?"
"Nah, man, I said, 'Hey buddy.' I mean, I knew you were busy. I used to bartended back in school." Somehow I was bound to offend the only other person in the bar with a degree.
I mention all of this so that when I'm old I can remember it. Last summer, when I lived on the beach with Amanda, my home friends came down and brought this one asshole with them that no one likes. I swear he took five days off of my already failing relationship just by staying with us and being a dick. I was thinking about this today when she called today during work. It caught me so off guard (even though she and I have done alot of really great things together) that I answered, "Hey, uhm, this is Brendan. Did you mean to call me?"
This morning I woke up to the sound of the telephone ring. On the other end, a person who cares about me asked what the hell I was doing in bed, and whether I thought I could write in my sleep. In which case, she submitted, then I was surely talented.
I'd like to think that I write everday, but you know what would be great? Is if every now and then someone checked in. Even a total stranger.
