Well, the money's run out. My life of letters and lentils a shambles of sorts, though good work was done and many lessons learned. I drove out to Mountain View with a more humble sort of resume and applied at an Irish Pub downtown there. Not that I mind working, but the writing is a wire in the blood, and every day that passes, passes and is lost without it. I will hold true. After dropping off my resume and getting the manager's name for tomorrow's call back, I headed North to Redwood City, god help me, to apply at a Mexican place there.
What I found caused me to gawp like a stunned carp. My destination was a Chili's on 'riods. A small army of red-shirted servers swarmed across a restaurant larger than many a parking garage bringing frozen margaritas to families with too much money and too little taste. It was a place of power for the Enemy.
So I walked on and found a strange cafe in an old theater that houses also an antique shop with roughly thirty beers on tap where three waitresses waiting for the dinner rush chatted and cheered me up and gave me recommendations of places to apply. (Universe, you're sending me mixed messages these days and I don't know what to make of it all.) On my way back to the car I stopped dead in my tracks outside of a closed-down auto parts store, held my head and laughed to tears.
See, when I have to write something deplorable, like a resume, I usually include some kind of harmless private joke or two-- a little bit of sugar to make the medicine go down. So in my Qualifications section, after shamefacedly referring to my 'extensive wine and beer knowledge' (vomit) and other necessary bullshit, I added 'Protestant work ethic,' and chuckled. The joke is not that I'm a lazy fuck, but that I rather loathe that phrase and the history behind it, and self-identify rather strongly with my Irish Catholic heritage. (Just a few days ago I was at a bar in Oakland calling anyone with laugh-lines a noble Celt and accusing the somber faces of Englishness...)
And didn't I just drop that resume off at a fucking Irish pub called Stephen's Green? I still can't believe it. I hope it's an ice-breaker when I call tomorrow.
Then given over to a profound sadness on the drive back. Dwight Yoakam's keeping me together though. Thanks, Dwight, and here's to you.
Maybe I'll break hearts too.