cosas

I was a great hostess. The job requirements were as follows: college-aged, polite, pretty. I learned I fit the last requirement during my interview with the owner and his wife: she told me so, and asked him, “Isn’t she pretty?” He nodded assent. During training she used my personal style (knee length skirts, a rotating rainbow of flats) as an example of proper hostess attire.

To excel, one needed to be organized, efficient, and detail-obsessed. I was, I did, I am. After a few months, I asked to serve. They said no. I asked again. And again. Eventually, they gave in. I wore a laughably oversized pumpkin-hued Oxford shirt tucked into tight black pants, a bistro apron, and a jaunty little ponytail. I worked breakfast and lunch shifts, fighting the urge to micromanage the other hostesses’ performances from the floor.

I was not a great server. I was passable, with a vaguely charming reserved demeanor well-suited to fine dining. I was even good when charged with a small section. But with eight full tables, I’d get flustered. I tried different bits of wisdom imparted to me by more seasoned colleagues, but never excelled.

Tony was a cook, third in command and most prone to unsettling leering and “mamacita”-ing. I limited my kitchen time based on certain outfits (short skirts, high heels, both). A quick appearance got me a vegetarian alternative to family meal; free food and pride are not well-acquainted. Tony received frequent heated phone calls from both his esposa and his real mamacita; sometimes the former called while the latter sat in front of me, waiting. I’d transfer the call to the kitchen and hear screaming before he switched lines. Sometimes, he made fun of Guillermo (a fellow cook) for not cheating on his wife when presented with the opportunity.

His brother Andreas was a dishwasher. He had a cleft palate and spoke not a word of English. We didn’t speak in Spanish, either. Once, he gave me a burned CD. I thanked him profusely and called my friend to speculate about the surely incredible mix soon to grace my ears. At home, my computer recognized it not as a lovingly crafted mix, but a commercially produced collection of the worst possible American hits of the 80s and 90s. The Spanish title roughly translated to “Fun Hits of the Millenium!” Neither of us spoke of the CD again.

He was undeterred. After a Valentine’s Day lunch shift, there were flowers (roses!) and candy (Ferrero Rocher!) on the hood of my car. “What the fuck?” I asked my Jeep, and turned around to see Andreas. Never mind how he knew which car was mine. He asked me to be his novia. When I stammered, “I, I uh, I can’t, because I just, well,” he asked if I already had a novio. “Yeah. I do.” I did not have a novio. A flirtation of sorts with the 6’5” weekend food runner, sure, but not a novio. I’m a terrible liar. There was absolutely nothing good about this situation. But he accepted my excuse. We said goodbye, and I thanked him for the gesture. I may have offered to return his gifts. I felt terrible, in spite of knowing I’d done nothing wrong. I got in my car, screamed expletives or general wails or both, stripped off that godforsaken orange shirt, ate too many of the chocolates, and cried. I don’t even like hazelnuts.

I’m really interested to see what my life will be like once I have a “real” “normal” job.

Yesterday I set up my fourth and fifth first interviews in a two week span. Logically, one may think at least one or two will lead to second interviews and offers. Hopefully, one would be correct.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the past year or two putting things off until this part of my life came together. “How can I be confident meeting anyone new if I can’t tell them what I do with a straight face?” Then I was an intern. That helped, really! But weeks were sixty hours long. Days off did not exist. “After this,” I’d say.

Then it ended in June, and I was back where I began. I did tangible, little things to make myself feel better. And by better, I mean to take away the guilt from not applying for jobs during all my waking hours. I read more books. I listened to more new music. I baked more cupcakes. I got tan and lost fifteen pounds. I broke vegetarianism. I developed some new friendships as best as I could. I did not take photos. I did not continue decorating my apartment. I did not get a bike nor learn how to knit. These, the things I will do then.

I will get a job. It will be a fresh start. Someone who’s changed my life a bit during the past six months is moving away. This too will be a fresh start. I can’t wait to see what that means.

three weeks’ notice

“You’re tan,” he noted. I sat there on the train platform bench, looked up, followed his eye down to my outstretched legs. I was.

“Yeah. I am this year.”

“I just noticed.” I had actually pointed out my pronounced bathing suit tan line a month ago. I remembered this shortly afterward, as the F creaked along, far above 9th Street. A month ago: my birthday eve was a month ago.

At my block, I went home, he went home. I went back out and walked. I walked to 9th Street, to 7th, Prospect, 5th Avenues, to 23rd Street, back to my street, smoking approximately three dollars worth of cigarettes, occasionally gasping air to fight back this lump in my throat, occasionally failing.

And so I realized things. If we spend only two hours in each other’s company, it does not mean I am boring. Or it does. But here I am, and I’d done the same thing with a friend the night before. Heart wasn’t in it. Would rather be alone. Selfish to think he lacks this right. Could’ve called another friend. Continued the night. Didn’t want to. Heart wouldn’t be in it.

There we were, and he was or wasn’t bored for two hours, but in his company I’m happy in a way I want all the time. Maybe it’s a compliment to him. More likely it’s a problem of mine.

If you would like to hear the moral of this tale, I will tell you: don’t make friends with people who are going to move away within months, and especially, above all else, don’t let them make you inexplicably happy.