Maybe I need a job.
I drive down to the bookstore around ten in the morning. Nina is asleep, splay-legged and fashionable, because I peeked in to check that she wasn�t up and roaming. The bookstore seems like a good place for me to be: quiet, and dull, and filled with books. Maybe I�ll even get some inspiration for my book, because right now it�s reading more like a Renaissance Fairgoer�s wet dream. I tried to write about something traumatic for the maiden, but she wound up raped and I felt ill after writing it. I don�t know where violence like this comes from: I think rape is horrible and I deleted the passage with a jerk. I just have trouble writing things that haven�t happened to me, and I certainly have not lived in medieval England with witches and maidens and boozy locals who try to look up your skirt.
I�ve never even worn a skirt.
The bookstore does have a help wanted sign like I remember, and the girl at the counter looks kind of excited to see someone to help her out. She tosses me an application and indicates a nearby table with the kind of stewardess wave you don�t see on anyone who isn�t a stewardess. I nod and squint a little at her nametag when she goes back to typing. It could be Sarah; it could be Iran or perhaps Ilana. I�m hoping for Sarah because that�s the name I called out as I finished my application.
She comes over and looks at it with sharp little bird eyes. Sarah has short red hair under a black bandana and turquoise chunks set in her ears. She has a pierced eyebrow and small, red lips, which she pinches between her teeth when concentrating.
After a few seconds, she puts it in a drawer behind the counter and says that they�ll call me to schedule an interview. Suddenly I think about what Nina would say and I ask, quietly, if perhaps we could just arrange one now.
�Sure,� says capable Sarah, flipping open a planner that has been produced from either the drawer or thin air. �How is your Saturday?�
I pretend to weigh options. Usually I pick up groceries on Friday. Usually I sleep in on Saturday and watch bad movies on TV.
�Pretty clear, I think.�
�OK,� Sarah says with a sharp little restrained grin. �Why don�t you come by around two tomorrow, and you�ll get your interview.�
Sarah wears a bookstore apron and pigtails. She has pale skin and lavender eye shadow. She isn�t very pretty, but I like her already.
Nina is still asleep when I come back. I make some toast and munch it while wandering around the house fetching official documents for my interview in two days. It�s been so long since I�ve had a real job: when I was a firefighter we had this real informal deal set up, but you got scrutinized by the other guys. It wasn�t about your Social Security number, but how many jumping jacks you could do in ten minutes was a huge deciding factor. Whether or not the guys liked you was an issue too.
It was about rapport, about guys you would willingly dive into 500+ degrees to help out. You can�t just do that for anybody.
Maybe bookstore work is for kids, those dorky teenagers with mossy braces and jerky, nervous grins. Maybe I should go back to the firehouse.
Or intones my Positive Voice. I think he�s Doctor Phillian in origin. It�s for whoever is qualified and best for the job. Think about how much experience you have had with books. You�ll get the job, no problem. Relax.
My Positive Voice is a bit of a bastard. I squelch him with a pair of Oreos in my mouth and head upstairs, filled with vim and something closely resembling vigor. I am excited.
I bump into Nina on the stairs. She smiles and spins around, and then asks if there is toast. I nod and she bustles into the kitchen. I think this good-feeling thing is popular and easily spread.
Just like chlamydia.