What Happens to Italy, Stays in Los Angeles

The night I got to Los Angeles, Italy stopped me and asked me for a cigarette. Not the country, the fashion designer.

***

Today, I hopped on a plane to LAX with a dream and a cardigan, and from there, that's pretty much where the similarities between Miley Cyrus' experience and mine stops. I was placed in a middle seat, which is not equipped for a man my size to sit in, and then I became best friends with a young man who sat beside me on the plane. He touched my leg a lot and since Prop 8 was overturned, I'm fairly certain that means that we're married, so that's exciting. After I got off the plane, my friend Kara asked about how the trip went, and I was so delirious from the time difference and the journey and being in the land of Jennifer Lawrence that all I could say was, "He looked like a young Frankie Muniz, and he smelled like dreams."

Los Angeles is the closest thing I've seen to Panem from The Hunger Games. It's full of tall buildings and the city is surrounded by mountains, which absolutely blows my mind because I somehow feel like mountains only belong to the East coast. In short, I'm actually in The Hunger Games. Beyond the skyscrapers and the mountains though, my favorite part of the city is the people. They dress oddly, yet professionally at the same time. Though I feel like at any moment I might have to fight someone to my death, at the same time, I feel like the people of L.A. would be sad that I died. They may be kind of crazy, but the plasticky, tanned people of L.A. stole my heart, and that's probably why when Italy asked me for a cigarette, I didn't think twice about stopping.
She was sitting outside of the only 7-11 I could find in the downtown area, and I was jonesing for a Coke so there was really no avoiding her. She was in a skirt, but that didn't stop her from sitting open legged, with no inhibitions about showing off her lady business to the world. I'm not saying I endorse that kind of behavior, but I do have a certain amount of respect for someone when they say, "You might be able to see my bits and pieces, but that doesn't define me as a person." Anyway, Italy stopped me as I was walking down the sidewalk and said, "Baby, do you have a cigarette?" Anyone who calls me baby, particularly women in the 35-60 age range, automatically get whatever they want from me. I gave her a cigarette, and she said that I looked Irish, which is a nice way of saying, I'm sorry you were born without pigment.
After I spoke back to her, she asked where I was from and what I did, and it was on. I told her that I was in town for an event and that I helped plan it, and that's when she told me about her big plan--or rather, her big comeback. Some background: Italy was once one of the biggest fashion designers in the world. She told me to look her up, but unfortunately when you Google "Italy fashion designer," the results are not very narrowed. Unfortunately, a while back, Italy's luck had changed. At this point in the conversation, I had moved from standing in front of her to leaning against the brick wall beside her to eventually taking a seat next to her on the pavement outside of 7-11. As she was lighting up the second cigarette I gave her, she said, "You want to listen to my story because if you walk away, you'll see me on TV in a year and say to yourself, Goddamn, that bitch knew what she was talking about." Little did she know, I had no intention of walking away. Like that little girl in the AT&T commercials, I wanted more. I wanted more. I want it now.
She told me about her downfall: one night, a gang came to her house and pulled her out of it. They beat her and beat her and then told her she could never go back into her house. So, naturally, when a gang tells you what to do, you do it. She didn't go back into her house. With strict orders from the game, Italy didn't get any of her stuff so she took to the streets. When she returned to check on her house, it had been burned down. With no other leads, she assumed it was the gang. I guess I would have thought it was the gang, too, but I also probably would not have left my house to begin with. That's neither here nor there. Since the initial gang attack, Italy's house was burned down nine more times. Again, I'm unsure how your house gets burned down an additional nine times, but it did.
I pulled out my phone to start taking notes because there was a lot of information being thrown my way, and I was too deep in the game at this point to walk away. Occasionally, Italy would reach into her bag which was full of files and papers, most of the time not pulling anything out... just doing collateral to make sure everything was there, I guess. Except one time she did completely divert away from the story and told me how she was going to sue the subway system for emotional damages, which actually makes a lot of sense. If she's successful, I am probably going to sue my local metro system for emotional damages as well.
I truly felt sympathy for Italy because I hate the idea of anyone getting beaten up for no reason. I hated that she had it all and it was taken away from her so quickly. I hated that her sister lives with Bon Jovi now (oh, I didn't mention that before? Yeah, apparently that's a thing, too) and that she's making no moves to bring Italy  into her Livin on a Prayer life. I hated it all.
But that's when the story took a turn. I'm sitting there on pins and needles (considering that it was the streets of Downtown LA, I might have actually been sitting on a needle. God only knows), waiting for what happens next when Italy says, verbatim, "But it wasn't the gang who burned my house down 9 times. You see, there's a mysterious incinerator under my house, and every couple of months, it sets itself on fire and burns the house down again." Classic pit-of-Hell-plot-device. I was eating it up. It took me back to my preteen days of watching the short-lived soap opera Passions on NBC, when Charity was sent to the fires of Hell conveniently located in someone's basement. At that point, I think Italy realized that she had told me enough, and that I was pretty much hooked, so she launched into her plan.
She asked me if I would help her promote her comeback (duh) where she would walk from LA to Virginia (what?!) where her mother lives, and she wanted to market it in the same style that Oprah publicized her and Gayle's road trip across America (signed, sealed, delivered). All that she wanted was someone to tell her story on Twitter because that's how everyone communicates these days. I really don't know exactly what she needed my help with because it sounded like she had everything planned out. I wanted on board though because by the time the conversation was over, I wondered for a moment myself if this woman might actually end up on television. Because I lack any professional credentials, I gave her my email and Twitter handle (as if she has access to the Internet). I wished her the best, and I almost shook her hand, but I remembered that at one point mid-conversation that she reached up inside of her skirt... and I don't play that game.
It's been almost two weeks now, and I haven't heard from Italy. I imagine she's still out there, hustlin' the streets looking for people to listen to her story whilst stifling her rage toward Bon Jovi. She might be back at her house, if it's burned itself down again that is. Wherever she is, a piece of her is lingering with me, and one day when I turn on the news and see that large woman in her puffy jacket and mini skirt on the television, I can say that I knew Italy back when: in that awkward interim between her first rise to stardom and her second.

It Don't Matter If You're Black or White

I ran down to the bank in Chinatown so that I could grab my rent money for the month... nineteen days overdue, but what can you do? Living in DC has made me nearly blind, as people are nothing more than obstacles on the sidewalk that I'm trying to dodge while getting to my destination as quickly as possible. I rounded corner, passing under the Chinatown gate, and I always take a minute to look up at it: it's design is so ornate and colorful--nothing like the rest of the city. About a block down, I walked into the BB&T, wiping my face of the 99 degree sweat from outside.
As I stood in line, I was texting my roommate, begging him and his friend to come have lunch with me because no one came into work today, and then it happened. This man turned around and asked me, "What's it like to walk into the bank and not be profiled?" I looked up and there he stood, an African-American, about my height and approximately 300 pounds. I knew what he said, but I wanted to make sure. "Excuse me?" So, he repeated the question, and I couldn't come up with any kind of answer. I felt my stomach drop to my shoes. I looked to the teller ahead for some kind of answer, and she just shook her head at me. She, too, was African American. I looked around, and there wasn't a single other white person in the entire bank; it was as if the public statement of white America had suddenly been laid on my shoulders. As someone in the public relations industry, I assumed that I would be able to handle such a feat, but instead, I broke the most important rule of the trade. I had nothing to say, so I just stared.
He decided to continue without me, "I walk into this bank, and they act like I'm going to rob the place. Last week, I brought a 6,000 check in here, and they looked at me like I had stolen it. They act like they're scared of me." I glanced at the bank teller as she closed her eyes, "It's not right, man." I looked at him and felt my mouth drying out. The television in the corner was reporting on the Trayvon Martin case when I responded, "I agree. It's not right. I hope that one day we live in a world where it's not this way." He stared at me like what I had said was not enough, like there should be something else more qualifying in my words. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I know what racism looks like. I've seen women back home in Tennessee clutch their purses as a suited black man walks into a restaurant. I get it; I know that it's real. But for me, it's not how I live my life. I never thought he was going to rob the bank. I barely even noticed he was standing there. Before I proceeded to the next teller, I looked at him and said, "I'm so sorry," but I wasn't sure what for. Apologizing for the racism of white people when it didn't seem clear that there had been any racism exacted? Apologizing for privilege I never asked for?
And the privilege is complicated because it only carries over until something else takes precedence. Today, I'm wearing a bright purple polo, with matching Chuck Taylors. My voice opened up to the teller to reveal the slightly high-pitch tone that didn't quite fully mature through puberty. My usual demeanor, enthusiastic, is ever present, and on days like this: with the matching outfits and the voice and the demeanor, it's easy to assume the stereotype--he's a homosexual. It's a common assumption I've dealt with my whole life, and one that has, at times, had an effect on the way I was treated. But Abu at BB&T didn't seem to take offense, nor did he seem to offer support or condolences. He simply gave me my rent money, and I left on my way. But this morning, when I stopped to grab a pack of cigarettes, I walked up the counter smiling, and the cashier looked me up and down and pursed her lips together. Afterward, she barely made eye contact. Could I assume what she was thinking? Sure. Will I ever know for certain? No.
I turned on my computer once I had gotten back to my office, and Facebook was pulled up. A friend had posted an article entitled, "What Should Trayvon Martin Have Done?" And my retort to that would be, "what should any of us do?" It's complicated and complex and nearly depressing if you think about it too much. I had this unconscious flow of emotion as this man asked me about my privilege at the bank. It automatically began with guilt, though I had done nothing wrong. I wanted to offer some kind of resolution or apology, without proper evidence that an infraction had been committed. And then it turned to nervousness, similar to when an entire class gets in trouble for one student's actions. I know that there's wrong in the world, but it was me who was having to provide an answer for it. And then, it turned to a confusing mixture of sadness and anger. The anger stems from the fact that someone can look at me and see exactly what he or she wants to see; in this case, a tall, white man. It was assumed from those three identifiers that I had never been profiled. Not for my socioeconomic status or religion or sexuality. It was assumed that I was living the white man's fantasy. But the sadness is even worse because it's the startling realization that the progress we're making toward equality is incredibly slow. We spend so much of our time comparing our circumstances to one another that we get lost in the semantics. We fail to recognize that not a single one of us should take importance over the other.
I wish I had an answer for that man, because other than his painfully abrupt sociological discourse in line at the bank, he seemed like a very nice guy. I wish I had an answer for the Trayvon Martin case, a nauseatingly complex case full of details we've overlooked in pursuit of some kind of racial reasoning. I wish that we didn't judge people based on their race or gender or sexuality or religion or anything else. There's a lot of things I wish for the world because I believe we would better for it. Instead, I just do what I can. As I entered my building, I could feel someone behind me, so I walked in first, held the door for him or her, and closed my eyes. Why? Because it shouldn't matter who you were doing it for; it's a person, and that's reason enough.

One Year Out

Last night, I went on a date that I, honestly, had invested way too much in before it even happened. We had been talking via text for about three days, and--if I can be candid--I thought this was going to be one that I took home to the parents. Essentially, I was Ginnifer Goodwin in He's Just Not That Into You, and it played out exactly how the movie title reads: not. that. into. you. After the date, we had a brief discussion about how I wasn't relationship material, and then I came home and drank a bottle of wine... because that's how you handle rejection. I had never done this on a date before... putting that much pressure on a first meeting. I blame my recent trip home, where I met all my friends from home who are either married, engaged, or about to be engaged: going to Tennessee is essentially the equivalent of visiting a group of 16 year old traditional Indian girls... everyone is getting married off. But, as I was consuming my entire bottle of 3.99 wine on a Saturday night, I thought to myself, What is your life? Look at your decisions. And then I was hungover for work, and that's never cool.

It's been 14 months since I graduated undergrad, 13 months since I started this blog, 11 months since I moved to Washington D.C., and 12 minutes since I last ate an entire sleeve of Oreos. Not to be cliche, but time goes by incredibly fast. I'm not saying that I feel like the past year has aged me immensely, but I will say that I saw a guy in front of me at 7-11 the other day with a pint of Ben and Jerry's "Strawberry Shortcake" and a Coke Zero and thought to myself, "Damn. That looks like a good night. I wonder if he'd want to be friends." The past year has been exhausting, and I had a ton of people tell me that it would be the hardest year of my life that I've faced thus far, and it was.
But there's a caveat to that--it absolutely was the most trying 365 days I've faced in my life, and in the same breath, it was also the most amazing days that I've ever seen. I suppose in comparison to a lot of people I went to school with, the journey that I've taken has been a little bit different. I decided to move to a new place with new people, and with all of that being said--it hasn't gone half bad. On the outside, it looks pretty good, and by most standards, I'm doing okay for a 23 year old: good job, decent friends, solid school record... but below the surface, there's all these questions and issues that you can't know about--the things that we just don't talk about.
But this is not a place where we keep secrets: we established that a year ago. This is a place I come to share with the rest of the world all the things that make us nervous and scared and a little embarrassed. In public relations, we're told about the value of the infographic: a way of conveying data to people that makes them more receptive to actually taking it in. So after I found out that I would be alone at home tonight because my roommates had actual dates, I started an infographic at work. Even I need a picture to describe what's going on in my life. So I jumped in and reflected on 2013, because tackling the entire past year was just too hard for my heart to handle. This is what I found.

And what we can learn from this graph, other than the fact that I turn to pizza when I'm lonely, and that I am a raging chain smoker/wino, is that we shouldn't be ashamed of the things that make us a little less than perfect. The dates and the pizza and the singing and the wine: well, it makes us human. I once thought that I knew exactly what my life would look like once I was at this age, and it doesn't look like that at all. Life is a little bit of a complexity: it can be a tragedy or a comedy, all depending on the way that you look at it. A year ago, if you asked me how I would feel about living with three sports buffs, remaining single, and ordering approximately two Dominos pizzas a week... I probably would have been pretty sad about it. But when you put it in perspective, it's a pretty funny life--mostly because it's the last thing I would have planned.

I think we all try and prepare for things so that we can do our best at outsmarting life. We follow an unspoken syllabus because we think that's what will make us happy. I see it done every day: by people back home, by people in DC, by people everywhere really. But it's pointless because your life is yours, and if you want to go and get a pint of Ben and Jerry's with a Diet Coke... well then damn it, you should. And it shouldn't matter that it makes you feel old or lame or socially awkward because that's your life, and honestly... no one else has any more idea of what's going on than you do. So, for 

you seven year olds that read my blog, my advice is to plan your future very loosely. Know where you're going, but don't Google Maps the directions or anything... because inevitably, you're going to miss a turn or take the exit two before the one you were supposed to take. And for everyone else, myself included, we know the big secret to life: there's absolutely no controlling it, and even more than that, there's absolutely no stopping it. Because very similarly to my car, when you have it figured it out and fixed, something else is inevitably going to break down. And that's okay because we're a resilient species. We do what it takes to make things work.

So, since I've started this blog tonight, I'm about four beers deep, a couple cigarettes in, and about to pee on myself because I haven't taken a bathroom break. It's been almost a month since I submitted my last entry, and even though it's almost 3:00am, and I'm about to pee on myself--there's a satisfaction that comes with writing another post. It's an idea that's sat in my head for weeks, and originally, I anticipated that it would be filled with wisdom and insight, when in reality--it was more of a display of the embarrassing things I do on a daily and/or monthly basis. But that's the point: no one is wise. This world isn't particularly about being smart--it's partially about luck and partially about determination. You have to be at the right place at the right time, but most of all, you have to be determined enough to keep going so that you eventually hit that string of luck. And in the mean time, you can always run down to 7-11 for a bottle of wine.

Handsy on the Metro

When I was planning on moving up to DC, one of my fraternity brothers who had lived in DC before asked me what I was most excited about.

The metro. Definitely the metro.

And I mean, he tried to warn me. He told me that it would be fun at first, but that it would get old. As a recent graduate, I built it up to just be the jaded attitude of adulthood. The metro was awesome. The metro is how the cool kids go places. And you know... maybe it is. But the thing about the metro is that you have to know what you're doing; it's kind of like walking into a gay club or a drug deal. You don't go to "ya boy's boy Demetrius" and go and ask him what kind of illicit materials he has available this week. That's pretty much how the metro works. You don't go to mingle and conversate, and you don't dare mosey. You get on the metro to get shit done.

But very similar to my first drug deal and gay club experience, the metro took some getting used to, and it didn't come without it's fair share of errors. As a young resident of what some (okay, very few) have come to call "The District,"all I wanted to do was talk to people, which seems like a natural thing to do considering that back in Tennessee I have fifteen minute conversation with gas station attendants. But I quickly learned that no one wanted to talk back to me. Occasionally there would be a man with an airbrushed Obama shirt or a disheveled homeless man up for some incomprehensible rapport, but on the up and up, the metro just wasn't the place where you had conversation.
I made a series of errors on the metro in my first week that could have gotten me arrested and/or killed. Occasionally, when I would get bored, I would take pictures of myself with sleeping people to see if I could get away with it. Once when the doors were closing, I stuck my leg inside thinking that it worked like an elevator, but all that happened was that my leg was closed inside the door, like an unforgiving guillotine. Essentially, what I'm trying to say is that there is nothing fun about the metro. It's not a game, and it's not a social site. Most of all, it's not for children or people without direction.
It wasn't long until I became "one of them." I had a bonified metro pass with reloadable features, and I judged people who used paper passes. Once I descended into hell the escalator, I make eye contact with no one. People do not watch out for each other once they are underground; you are simply on your own.
Today seemed like any other day--I talked to my mom on the way to work, scanned my metro pass to get in and board, and just like every other mid-week venture, the metro was absolutely packed. I wore my colorful sweater and corduroy pants, you know, because it seemed like that kind of day, but with it, I wore my blue Chuck Taylors. I always try to wear something against the norm because DC is a boring place when it comes to fashion. People wear the same black slacks and loafers every day, so it's important to find some kind of way to stand out. The person standing fartherst from me couldn't have been more than a foot away, but the rule still applies: no looking and no conversation. The man standing directly in front of me was looking down at my shoes; it wasn't surprising to me--like I said, people don't really wear things like that to work.
But after the first stop, I could feel someone staring at me. You know the feeling... that pressing awkwardness when someone's eyes are quite obviously fixed upon you, and when I looked up the same man was staring at me. He was probably around my age, Hispanic, and a decent looking guy. I nodded at him and gave him a brief smile, then quickly turned away. But the longer I stood there, the more pressing the feeling became. He is still staring at you. You can feel it. So, I glanced back in his direction, and indeed, he was still staring. Feeling a little more energized this morning than usual, I decided to play his game.
We held each other's gaze for about fifteen seconds, and then he lifted his hand off the bar he was holding and gently put it over mine. For a second I was stunned... I mean, you don't look at people on the metro, and you definitely don't talk to people on the metro, so I can only assume that you are under no circumstance supposed to purposefully touch anyone on the metro. I glanced up at his hand, and glanced back at him, and he was still staring at me... smiling. The woman next to us looked at me, then at him, and gave us this knowing smile as if to say, I support your decision to be homosexual together. Congratulations. I did something akin to a smile/mouth stretching exercise and slowly pulled my hand down by my side. Yes, I risked the possibility of eating it on the metro, but it seemed kind of worth it to avoid this awkward situation with [this stranger/creeper/my new boyfriend].
The man immediately apologized, and I said, I mean, it's cool. I'm not bothered. Thank you. It's not a big... okay. And then I just kind of turned perpendicular to him and tried to evaluate what had just happened. Yes, a good sixty-five percent of me was really weirded out by the whole ordeal, but there was this other thirty-five percent that was oddly appreciative. People in DC, and a good number of people in my life, do not show emotion, let alone physical affection. I don't know if the guy was interested or potentially blessing my hand with some odd Hispanic ritual, but something compelled him to do it.
Because DC is DC, I'll probably never see my mysterious hand-holder ever again, but if you ever read this, I will never forget the thirty second visual exchange we shared, and the five seconds that woman thought we were a couple. And for a number of reasons, I hope that you're the only random man who ever caresses my hand on the metro. Let's be honest--it just wouldn't be the same with anyone else.

Death and All His Friends

Last night, I was sitting with my roommates, talking about our lives in the context of a television show, which happens pretty regularly around our apartment. At first, I think they loved it, but I can tell from their lackluster reaction that it has become white noise like most of the things I do and say around the apartment. But last night, as we were commingling life goals and television talk, I said that you can't just settle for something in life because you don't know how long you're going to live. Eventually that led to me asking What if one of us died tomorrow? Wouldn't that be a huge plot twist in the show? What if it's me? to which Ben responded, You can't die. That would be like killing DJ off in the first season of Full House. It was reassuring because I always considered DJ the most integral of all of Danny Tanner's daughters.

It's not the first time by any means that I've contemplated my impending death. At six-years-old, I specifically remember going up to my mom and telling her that I was going to die when I was 29, which is super sketchy for a six-year-old to drop in casual conversation. That moment always stuck with me, and it stuck with my mom as well, so we don't talk about it. And the idea of 29 haunts me every birthday because I know it's getting closer and closer each year, and as silly as it sounds, I don't really feel like getting to 29 to find out if my child-in-a-horror-film-esque proclamation was right.

Death has always been a tricky thing in my life because I've seen so much of it, so in a way, I never really thought much of it... almost to the fact that I've been obsessed with it. Death and Justin are a bit of a roller coaster because when it comes to the topic, I've always been a bit up and down on the matter. One of my favorite anecdotes I've ever read (about my silverfox mancrush, Anderson Cooper) was that he became so obsessed with journalism and taking in sights that he would take pictures of all the things he had seen throughout his line of work. One day, whilst taking a picture of some dead bodies he had come across, a friend took a picture of him and gave it to him; it was to show him what he had turned into, and from that day on, he has supposedly drawn boundaries for himself. In a way, Anderson and I have that in common. I become infatuated with death and the emotional consequences it can have (i.e. One Tree Hill school shooting) that I sometimes forget how incredibly real death is, and then like clockwork it comes rushing back, and I witness something death-related--and all blog candor and humor aside, it's not a joke.

So when I woke up this morning, I was weary of even getting out of bed because I had this inclination myself that this is going to be the day that I die. I suppose it could be a lead-in from the conversation that I had last night or maybe that the bed was just really warm and that my subconscious went to a really dark place so that I would stay there, but I really did have a gut feeling that this was going to be my last day on Earth. So naturally, I reset my alarm for two more minutes... and for twenty minutes, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping that my intuition was wrong. In essence, it was very Meredith Grey in the bomb episode of me (2.13 "It's the End of the World," for those interested). And after resetting my alarm ten times over the course of twenty minutes, I admitted to myself that if this was really going to go down today, and this was my time, I couldn't really intervene fate when I don't actually know what the fate is. 

On the way to work, while very consciously watching out for other drivers, I thought about what I would want to do--how I would want to act--if this was the end of my road. So I called my mom, who started talking out of the blue about how she was happy that nothing had happened to me since I've moved because she has no idea how she'd get to me. Needless to say, when you have the pressing feeling in your gut that a catastrophe is bound to happen, and you're going to be its victim, the foreshadowing of your mother's praises don't help matters... so I told her I loved her, and I got off the phone. By the time I got to work, I had decided on my game plan... just be kind.

I didn't want to go to a special restaurant for lunch or take the day off (mostly because if I took the day off, then my chances of dying would have exponentially increased). I just wanted to be kind to people because I think that how's you should want to be remembered: kind. And it was probably the hardest thing that I did today because apparently no one else thought they were going to die today, or at least, they had a different approach to humanity if they did. I didn't want to tell anyone about my unconfirmed fate because I didn't want to taint the day, and I didn't want anyone to respond to it one way or the other, so the only person I told was my sweet, sweet coworker Liz who was mildly concerned and mildly frightened. As for everyone else, I just wanted them to act as is. I made an effort to call people on my breaks today to tell them hi or that I loved them, but it seemed as if everyone was busy or, honestly, just didn't want to talk. I made an effort to talk to an ex who would only respond in one word answers and quickly reminded me why we probably broke up. Others that I would hold the door for were downright hateful. I thought to myself Wow, you guys are really taking a giant shit on my last day on Earth. The climax built up to the walk to the metro when I nearly got hit by a car who sped through a red light. After I got to the metro, I accidentally backed into an Asian woman who flipped out on me in the middle of the car. 

That's when the take away kind of hit me: you don't live your last day on Earth (or at least act like it) for the praise of other people; you do it because that's how you're supposed to be every day. And for the logically-minded, I apologize for wasting your time with a whole bunch of nonsense revolving around potential death. If I had wanted to be logical, I probably could have spelled out all of the reasons that I wasn't going to die today (even though, today isn't really over. I still have to drive to class and back). However, and I may be stretching it, I don't think that feeling like I was going to die today was really the end-all-be-all lesson that came from my experience. People can be kind of cruel without even thinking about it, and it's even easier to notice when you honestly believe that it may be the last time that you'll ever see them again... even if it is just the door people at your office. But as crazy as it sounds, I really did believe when I opened up my eyes this morning that there was a good possibility it could be my last; it's a numb pain that's been with me all day. And as logic would have it, this will ultimately probably not be my last day, but it's a good reminder anyways because any day that you take out one minute, just sixty seconds, to remember how very fragile life can be... well... I would consider that a day well spent.

Notes From Corporate America

Since I started my super fancy, corporate internship in October, I've had people ask me, What's it like to work at a super cool, nifty public relations firm in the heart of our nation? Actually, no one has ever asked me that, and if we're talking geographically, most would argue that the heart of our nation is somewhere in the Midwest, but that's neither here nor there. But, if anyone is interested, I'm ready to talk about what it's like to work for a company like I do. Most of the time, I'm busy and diligently working, but occasionally, on days like today, we have staff meetings. Since this was my first time interacting with the entire company in one room, I came prepared with a notebook and pen to take notes down.
I soon after found out that no one takes notes at these things, and usually, people start drifting waywardly around the "Finance" section. But, I had the notebook and pen and imagination, so I took notes anyway. Some would call them more of a documentation of my inner dialogue, but I think we all know that when I'm at work... it's work only. Rome wasn't built in a day, but when I'm in charge of it, you can bet it will be done in two. Here's my notes:

1:59pm: Intern Nicole has abandoned me to sit with the Brand team. When I asked if it was okay if I sat with them she said, You can't sit with us! so I took a page out of Gretchen Wieners notebook and sat elsewhere. I felt awkward at the prospect of sitting with the boy interns, so I'm kind of sitting with the Social Marketing division... oh yeah, and Destiney--Destiney is my girl.

2:02pm: I'm feeling unwarranted resentment toward JJ, the Online Strategy intern. I don't know why.

2:04pm: 90 minute meeting has been reduced to 60. The aura in the room went from an orangey-red to a blue. Much better vibes. Much better.

2:05pm: Sudden paranoia has set in. I thought my phone was going to go off... checked it... it's on vibrate. Thank God.

2:08pm: Mother's intuiton was correct. Someone is calling me. Whomever you are, may you burn in the depths of corporate intern hell.

2:18pm: My boss Erica just waved at me from the back row. Hey, girl!

2:22pm: I feel like I'm missing out on a lot of inside corporate jokes. I should have been here longer before I had to come to one of these. Also, Destiney just told me that she likes my socks. They're not special, but it means a lot.

2:26pm: The inside jokes are getting out of hand, and I'm uncomfortable. Not in the "sue the company because this is inappropriate" way, just uncomfortable in general.

2:30pm: Fun fact: I've been wearing these socks for almost three days. #sorrynotsorry

2:37pm: The head of my division just arrived. This is going to be great. Game on.

2:38pm: I feel like we say "sexy" a lot in the Social Marketing division, yet again, not in the "sue the company" kind of way.

2:40pm: In front of the entire company, the head of my division just said, The spirit of the holiday is when you enjoy the misfortune of others. 10-4.

2:42pm: I finally realize why my chair won't lean back any further... it's because I'm pushing against a man's leg. My bad.

2:44pm: The head of my division (aka, super boss) is the most entertaining of all the super bosses.

2:45pm: We have officially hit the Finance section. Money on someone from Brand falling out of their chair.

2:48 pm: My mouth just made a super awkward popping noise, but it wasn't nearly as awkward as the length of time I spent pointing at my mouth afterward. I don't know if anyone saw, but if they did, I'm never going to get a job offer... actually, let's be honest... those chances are looking pretty slim anyway.

2:51pm: Yawn so hard, that yawn cray--ain't is J? Oops. Just got a message from OKCupid on my phone. Note to self: Tell no one at work that I have an OKCupid. Second note to self: See if I can find anyone at work on OKCupid; use it as leverage.

2:58pm: There are literally chapters in this meeting, one of them being a E! True Hollywood Story (literally) chronicling one employees path from college to graduate to her new promotion. Snaps for Dana.

3:03pm: Now a woman is reciting a haiku about an employees promotion... wait. The last line had six syllables. She was like, This is a haiku! and I was secretly like, No, it's not.

3:07pm: Oh good. There's my face on a giant screen. Welcome to the company, Justin. They asked me to stand up, and I think I did something akin to a curtsy. I can hear the keys typing up an ad to replace my position as we speak.

3:08pm: Oh, look it's Intern Liz! But it's awkward because she's not here. Snaps for Liz! I wonder what's she's doing... JJ's on his phone... they're probably texting. (more unwarranted resentment)

3:10pm: They're giving away a Kindle!? I want a Kindle.

3:13pm: Obligatory announcement of birthdays and anniversaries. So much clapping. So much.

3:17pm: In true PR fashion, the president of the company lied... but not completely. The meeting was 77 minutes--not 90, but definitely not 60.

I Ain't No Quitter

Yesterday I quit my job, and I don't think I can begin to explain how big of a deal that is because to be quite honest I'm really bad at quitting things. Originally, I had taken on the serving job because I couldn't reside in the District of Columbia too much longer without a regular income. After a couple weeks, it became apparent to me that the only part of being a server I was good at was entertaining people. I had dropped three drinks on people, two of which were beer, one of which was somehow awkwardly poured down a woman's back. When I serve, I exhibit a nearly bipolar attitude, smiling large and proudly at the table... but as soon as I turn around just a quarter of the way from the table, I instantly lose my smile because at some point someone would ask me "Are the pretzels here salty?" or "Which beers tastes the least like beer?" or my favorite being Stare at the check, look up at me disgruntled, stare at the check, sigh... give me the check back as if to say 'Yeah, you're about to get a terrible tip. I like to imagine where these people work and what they do because with questions like that, the work can't be too trying.

But regardless, I stuck with it because to keep on living in an apartment, you have to have money. It was my second job, so when I recently got my newest internship in public relations, I knew that I had gotten in over my head. If I didn't figure out how to drop a job soon, the fatigue was going to turn into full blown exhaustion and then I was going to pull a much more awkward version of Norma Rae and stand up on a customer's table with a sign that said "PEACHES," which bears no significance to the job I work or Norma Rae for that matter. So earlier this week, I went in to my manager's office ready to turn in my two week's notice and after announcing that I needed to tell them something, she turned to me and said, "You aren't turning in your two week notice, right?" I froze. Quitting is not my forte. "Oh, um, goodness no! I was just coming to tell you that I got my new job!" No, Justin. You were coming to put in your two week notice and you just crumbled like a sample cookie from the grocery store. Blame it on my work ethic or my fear of disappointing people or Shania Twain circa 2004, but I ain't no quitter. (And in a Throwing Up in Kindergarten first, I have included a point video for reference. You're welcome).
And Shania and I are no stranger to an awkward situation that we'd like to quit... look at that super awkward 15 year marriage between her and that guy named Mutt. She was obviously the keeper in that situation, and still she stuck around because Shania is no quitter. Then there's me who probably isn't a quitter under very different circumstances. When I take on something, I commit to them mostly because I don't want to have to deal with the struggle that follows quitting something: thus, why I could never be a vegetarian, still smoke cigarettes, watch an immense amount of TLC shows, and still have this thing for Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. I don't quit things because I get nervous, and when I think about my most difficult situations to quit, I think back to my time as web editor of my college news paper. First and foremost, I want to apologize to The Highland Echo for one of the most blatant half-ass attempts I ever gave to any organization I was in. Furthermore, I want to apologize for the three months that I acted as your web editor with little to no knowledge of HTML. But in my defense, I really did (at least in my mind) try to quit about two weeks into the process. Let me elaborate.
I decided to be web editor under the pretense that I had kept a blog once and that I was pretty good at making Myspace layouts back in 2002. However, pretty early in to the project, I knew it was something that I couldn't do, so I approached the advisor with a speech in mind: Mr. Trevathan, Kim... friend. As honored as I am to do this work for The Highland Echo, I find this work akin to translating Mandarin to the Chinese government or doing open heart surgery on a toddler. I am sorry to say that I'll have to resign. But what actually came out was "I find this to be really challenging, and I don't think I can do it... oh? you have faith in me. Sure? I guess I can keep on trying... I still have no idea what's goi... okay, I'll keep trying." Honestly I had that conversation about three different times over the course of three months, and each on got more and more awkward. I sadly never got to actually use the prepared speech, though words like that may have proved too powerful for the situation at hand. But with each attempt, I became more and more desperate. I couldn't pull it all off and the shadow of disappointment was becoming smaller and smaller in comparison to the shadow of absolute failure that was growing with each failed line of HTML that I had not written. After three months, we still had no online newspaper, and I would just sit shaking in front of a blank white screen that demanded a language that I had no ability to speak.
Eventually, I just plainly said, "I haven't done any work, and I doubt I ever will. I seriously have no idea what I got myself into," and then I avoided Mr. Trevathan for at least two semesters to let the smoke clear. A year later, I got a call from a small feeblish voice that I almost recognized as my own. It was Marie, the then-current web editor of the paper begging for my advice on how to quit. I had become a legend in the quitting community; I was the example of being trapped in something that makes you want to rip your hair out. So I instructed her how to exit, and then essentially begged that she never spoke my name in regard to the matter again. After all, no matter what I've left behind, I maintain the motto, I ain't no quitter.

Wishing, Hoping, Waiting... Tables.

I started my summer in the closet, and today, that's where I ended it. We all wish for these beginnings and endings because in a way, it's comforting; there's a start and a finish, and that's something that we can count on, and as life goes on those moments start to dissipate. Everything becomes much more blurry than what we were counting on. We had a period we spent in diapers, and then we stopped. Growing up, there was a period where I would only eat my hamburgers plain, and even though I have a distaste for most red meat these days, I've learned to put actual sauces and vegetables with my sandwiches. Another period complete. So there's quite a comfort that I ended up in the closet, again, as this summer draws to a close. It's cyclical and familiar, but I was in the closer for two very different reasons.

When I started this project, I was hiding in the closet because I didn't know what to do. I didn't know the people I worked with, and I didn't care to. I wanted to make money, and when I wasn't sure what to do, I would retreat to the closet and turn all the disinfectant bottles forward, count the aprons and rags, etc. And today, I hid my going away presents behind those same aprons and rags: a card from my boss, a penis shaped balloon that had "cum see me soon" written in sharpie, a sperm shaped shot with some milky mixture inside, and a can of V8 to represent a Bloody Mary that Paula said we would always share together. And though I should have been laughing at the absurdity of the gifts, or possibly even repulsed if I were the uptight kind, as I stuffed it all on the back of the shelf, I started crying. And then I couldn't stop crying... crying in the closet--nothing I'm too unfamiliar with.

And it shouldn't surprise anyone close to me that I was crying; much like the end monologue of arguable the best MTV movie ever released, Varsity Blues, "Billy Bob cries because Billy Bob is a crier." I'm a bit of a Billy Bob. And as the small icon on my computer shifts from Aug. 3 to Aug. 4, my stomach drops a little bit more: not because I'm scared of the city that I'm going to or because I'll be essentially homeless when I leave for it in five days, but because of what I'm leaving behind. My hometown, my family, my friends... my restaurant.

As I began my final night of waiting, the first table I picked up was one of my favorites: a man and his wife with these two little ginger nuggets. They come in regularly, so I watch for them. And then the rest of the night is a giant blur of random faces throughout the night. The two old ladies at the table near the window, the woman and man who took their spot whose catfish I dropped on the floor, the family who invited me to sit down... so I did and proceeded to prop my feet up. If for just a moment, they're all special, important. I get their food, and we exchange some funny words--I try to make a joke, and most of the time, someone laughs. Then as we start to close up, someone comes in, and of course, they want an appetizer. Then they want the actual meal, and then their kid drops a full Diet Coke on the ground. But tonight, one of the last couples out was the two old women that Marsha originally referred to as "the whores of Seymour." They asked me about moving, and in the middle of sweeping, I decided to sit down. And though I would say that I'm never fake, for one of the first time, I actually have a real conversation with a customer. They warn me again about all those black people in DC and how they castrate white people like me. I tell them as long as they'll pray for me, I'll do my best to come back and visit. I walked them out to their car, and the one with orange tinted glasses tells me that she knows people up around the White House. She'll give them a call.

And once the open light goes off, I wipe down the tables and start sweeping, which I've never been good at. Paula usually comes by and unties my apron or grabs my ass; Megan pretends that she doesn't like me, even though I know that there's a soft spot there. Marsha's gone home at this point, devastated by the loss of a local politician. Marsha loves Dick, and by Dick I mean Richard, and by Richard, I mean Richard Montgomery. Doris is still complaining how the new girl never cleans out the tea holders correctly, and Mike's ignoring everyone while he counts the money. And last but not least, Eleanor follows behind, somehow finding more dirt on the floor than what I swept up to begin with. It's a snapshot--this picturesque family that I didn't ask for but somehow managed to stumble upon.

And like most teenage boys in a nuclear family, I play my part and pretend like I'm there for the money, which in part... I am, especially when this all started. To avoid leaving, I put all the jelly holders back on the table for breakfast; I double sweep a couple of places I've already swept, I clean the bathrooms. Once I finish up everything I'm supposed to do for the night, I realize that it's probably the last time I'll throw my apron in the "this apron smells like shit now" container, and like clockwork... for the second time in one shift, I'm standing in the closet, crying. I wasn't really sure why it was happening again, but it was tear after tear falling from my face, as if I were about to leave my actual family. So I pull myself together and finally commit to leaving. Eleanor hugs me and tells me that she'll see me soon, and I say my goodbyes. Then I drive home, pretending it's something I'll repeat for the rest of my life.