Archives: May 21-May 27, 2006

May 21, 2006

I find myself across the kitchen table from my grandmother, sitting in her little apartment to play a game of canasta. We each sip from glasses of iced tea as we float cards across the way into the center stack or into lines in front of us.

I remember my younger days, back when my grandma had a house of her own, and there were neighborhood kids who lived around it. My brother Ray and I used to play baseball with them then come back in to my grandma's place to play Uno or Scrabble with her, drinking that same blend of Crystal Light iced tea. Tired from the sun and all that running around, I remember how I used to nod off during the games, sometimes not waking until my mom or dad were there to pick me up.

Playing cards today, I notice my grandma yawning more often than I'm used to, and starting to nod off a little herself when I take a long time with one of my turns. “You tired?” I ask her at last.

Grandma shakes her head. “Ah, it's just the heat. Looks like you brought the summer here with you.”

I chuckle. It has gotten up to the eighties since I've been back in Shermantown, keeping me in a lazy mood myself. I'm content to stay here on this Sunday morning, hating to even think about tomorrow, when I'll begin the search for a summer job.

May 22, 2006

“Um, thanks,” I say, accepting a sheet of paper from the girl behind the counter. I'm applying for a job at Stephon's, a teen clothing store in the mall. It's not exactly my first choice for work, but at least it would keep me air conditioned and it's more dignified than working fast food.

Still, as I take this application, I don't like my chances. There's a tall girl with long brown hair, about my age, working behind the counter, and she doesn't even look at me or say a word as she gives it to me. I get the impression if I return this application to her it'll sooner wind up in the recycling bin than in the manager's hands, so I decide to pocket it, bring it back on my way out of the mall. Of course, if this girl's any representation of the employee body, I'm not sure I like my chances of getting hired to begin with.

Moving along, I fill out an application in the store for a department store, another for a gift shop, one for a health food store. At last, I end up at Golden Burger—pretty much the last place I want to work, but passable as a last resort. At least I'm confident I could land some hours there.

A short, thirty-ish guy with glasses greets me at the counter. “Welcome to Golden Burger. How can I help you?” he grunts.

“Yeah, I was actually looking for an applic—”

“Oh great,” he cuts me off reaching under the counter, then slapping down a quarter sheet of bright yellow paper in front of me. “Just fill this out, and can you come in for an interview on Wednesday?”

“An interview?”

“Yeah, the store manager won't be back in until Wednesday, but we're scraping for people. Can be here at, like, noon ?”

Taking the application in hand, all I can think is that it's better doing this than nothing, and agree to it before setting to work on the application form.

May 23, 2006

“So you're saying that I may soon be dating a proud associate of Golden Burger?” Veronica asks across the phone.

“I'm not so sure about the proud part,” I say, lying on my bed, looking up at the ceiling. “And I'm not sure they call them associates. But nonetheless, if the interview goes well, that might be where I earn my spending cash for the next few months.”

“Well it's not so bad. I mean you probably get free food and stuff, right?”

“It's beyond me. Not like I'll want to eat it after having to smell it all day. So how about you—how things going at Abbott and Costello?”

“It's Abbleman and Cross,” she corrects me. “And it's going all right. Mostly just filing so far and answering phones, not much of an internship. But I guess that's what I get for staying close to home.”

“Eh, it'll still look good on a resume. Just write something about administrative skills or heading up operations.”

“I'm just hoping they give me some real work once I prove I'm competent. Let me help manage an account or something.”

“Yeah,” I say and pause, before changing the subject, “You know I miss you.”

“That's cute.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

“I miss you too, Preston —you know that.”

“I'm still going to get to see you in a week right?”

“It's more like a week and a half.”

I like that she's keeping track. I like the idea she's an impatient as me for that Friday afternoon to get here, when we'll each drive out and meet halfway between us.

Until then I settle for the sound her voice, asking her more about her internship, telling her about Matt and my search for a job—waiting for a week and a half to be done with.

May 24, 2006

“What kind of customer service experience do you have?” a heavyset woman, about forty years old asks me. I'm seated in the mall food court, the Golden Burger store manager across from me, pen in one hand, munching on fries with the other.

“Well, at my college I work at the Front Desk, where I deal with residents everyday—signing out equipment, giving them their packages—things like that.”

“All right, and what kind of availability would you have?”

“My schedule should be pretty open,” I say. “I don't have any other jobs lined up.”

“Sounds good then. Can you start next Monday?”

We're, at best, five questions into the interview, I'm a bit surprised to hear it's all but over. “Uh—yeah, I don't see any reason I wouldn't be.”

“All right then.” She pencils something down on the sheet of paper in front of her. “I'll get you in the schedule starting then. And we'll have you fill out all of the tax forms then.

“So that's it? I'm hired.”

“Oh there is one more thing. What's your shirt size?”

*

Leaving the mall, I come to Stephon's clothing store. I brought my completed application with me today—that obnoxious girl was still working when I left the mall the other day. This time, I don't see any sign of her. There's no reason to think Stephon's is any more likely to call me back than the other stores where I left applications. Nonetheless, if there's even a glimmer of hope that the sheet of paper in my hand could spare me from a summer at Golden Burger, I figure it's worth a shot.

May 25, 2006

It's just past 7 p.m. and I sit at a table at Norton's Steakhouse a little known place just outside Shermantown where my dad likes to go. It's a pretty nice restaurant—kind of place where you don't need to wear a tie, but you get some looks if you're not wearing a collared shirt and slacks. I'm probably the youngest person here, and I had forgotten about this perk of living with my dad.

Of course, in the past we would eat family dinners here, with my mom and, earlier on, my brother to join us. Now it's me, my dad and Leonard, another attorney from my father's office.

“I'm telling you, real estate is the way to round out that portfolio,” Leonard says. “Look at me, I just bought a little house in Florida . Cost me big, but in twenty years, I'm gonna make my money back three times over, and I can put that money toward my own retirement home.”

“Well, I'm not too interested in Florida ,” Dad says, the trace of a forced smile on his face.

Leonard laughs, adjusting his glasses. “Right, sorry John.” He looks down at his steak, cutting off another bite. “So Preston , your old man tells me you're about to embark on a career in fast food.”

“Yeah, I'm supposed to check in this weekend to get my hours—start work on Monday.”

“You don't sound so excited about it.”

“Would you be?” I smile, putting some steak in my mouth.

“John, you should have given the kid a job at the office. Probably could have done better than that kid we've got doing the filing this summer.”

“I offered it to him,” Dad says. “Back when he was home for Christmas. But Preston didn't want to be tied down with a 9-5 job, or have to put on a tie everyday.”

“Trust me, if I knew then what I knew now, I would have jumped on that 9-5.”

“Ah, this'll be good for you.” Dad takes a sip of wine. “A job like this one will build character—make you appreciate the money more. Then next summer I'll hold a position for you at the office, and you can use the money you make this summer to buy yourself a few ties.” Both of the men laugh, as I shake my head, looking back down at my dinner.

May 26, 2006

I'm about to nod off to the whir of Matt's fan when I hear my cell phone ringing from the pocket of my jeans.

“Hello?”

“Hey, is this Preston ?” a raspy woman's voice comes across the line.

“Yes, it is.”

“ Preston , this is Lois, I'm calling you from Stephon's. I was reading over your application and wondered if you'd want to come in for an interview?”

I snap my fingers then motion with my hand for Matt to turn the down his music. We're sitting in his room—Matt on his computer while I read the morning paper in his papasan chair. “Um, yeah, that'd be great.”

“Well cool then, how's Tuesday morning work for you? Say at 11?”

“11 sounds good. So do I just ask for you?”

“Yep, I won't be hard to find.”

A moment later, I'm off the phone. “Holy shit, I might not be flipping burgers after all.”

“Who was that?”

“Stephon's—the clothing store.”

“The one where that bitch blew you off?” Matt asks, stretching his arms back.

“Yeah, one and the same.”

“Sounds like a great job.”

“Better than fucking Golden Burger.”

“Yeah, but you're not scoring me free fries at Stephon's. Most I'll get is 50% off some mini-skirt.”

“You could use a new mini-skirt. It's summer time—oughta show off those legs.”

“How ‘bout you work your legs and get off your ass to get me another soda.”

“You want fries with that?” I ask, but do get up to fetch us some drinks. The very idea of not working at Golden Burger has got me feeling good, and I think I might just depend on this interview with Stephon's, and call off the fast food thing today.

May 27, 2006

“Now that you've got that job lined up, you oughta be the one buying drinks tonight,” Matt says, as we walk toward The Palace. It's been two months since the last time we were here at the bar, and I am reborn again as Kerwin Lewis of New Jersey , the 22 year old look alike whose ID Matt gave me back then.

“You can start me out with a pitcher of Bud,” Chang breaks in. “I'm looking to get tanked tonight.”

Derek Chang graduated with me and Matt, a part of the group of friends we started in middle school, and built up through high school. If Chang were 21, he would probably have a harder time getting in with his real ID than he would with his fake. With his red hair and fair skin, Chang probably isn't one bit Asian, but the only family he has ever known are his folks who adopted and raised him.

It's the first time I've seen Chang since last summer, and it's good to have at least the three of us together again. We all get in without issue and make our way in. It's not long before I see Julie, at a table on the other side of the bar with some girls and a couple guys, one of whom is Johnny Reed. Though he doesn't speak a word about it, I know Matt's already seen her, if he didn't know in advance that she'd be there from one or more of the conversations he was having over Instant Messenger all afternoon.

True to his word, Chang starts us out with a pitcher at the bar, pouring us each a cup. “Here's to the start of the summer, guys,” he says. “And saying a big fuck you to the school year.”

“Here, here,” Matt agrees and we each raise our cups and drink our beers a little too fast.

The bar isn't so busy tonight as the last time we were here, which means that when Johnny gets up to order drinks for his table, it's not hard for him to spot us. I may be paranoid but I could swear I see him smile.

Johnny deftly lifts a pitcher of beer, a mixed drink, and two shots and brings them back to his table. He and Julie each take shots, then Johnny whispers something in her ear before heading our way.

“Hey Reed,” Chang calls out he nears us, raising his hand, acting drunker than he is.

Johnny clasps his hand, smiling. “What've we got here? Presto-Chango and their buddy Matt. How we doing fellas?”

“Not bad, Johnny,” I say clasping hands with him too, purely out of courtesy.

The guy is huge—broad shoulders, built chest, standing a good head taller than any of us. He squeezes my hand in just that asshole way to show he's strong, and probably could hurt me if he wanted. “How about you?”

“Eh, not bad. Just hanging out with my friends over there, reminiscing about the good old days and then, bam! What do you know? The good old days come on into the same bar.” He slaps his hand down hard on Matt's shoulder, making him wince. He leans forward, putting a hand against the bar. “You guys really oughta join us.” Johnny slides his hand back until it knocks into Matt's near full cup of beer, tipping it into Matt's lap.

“Fuck!” Matt calls out, scooting back from the bar.

“Oh man, I'm sorry,” Johnny says, all but laughing in his face. Across the bar, I see the other guy and a couple of the girls laughing too. Julie is looking away. “I've turned into such a klutz over the last year. My bad, dude, no hard feelings right?”

Matt just nods, while Chang asks bar tender for napkins. Johnny heads off to the other side of the bar, where his buddy gives him a high five.