Just now, chatting with a friend, I remembered a day from at least ten years ago, but feels like a hundred.
This was while I was still hiding in NJ, out of college and too scared
to define what the hell I wanted, and then to scared to chase after it. I
hid in plain sight. It was a gray-faced time.
To earn a few
dollars, I was temping in a squat brick building by the railroad tracks
in Allenhurst. That's a dimple of a little shore town, where everyday is
1956 and a cicada chirping causes the police to investigate.
The company's business was to scan zoning laws for cities all over the
country, from old hard copy pages into digital. My job was to proof read
these zoning laws. The only thing it had going for it was that unlike a
lobotomy, this job didn't leave a scar on my forehead.
Beyond
my computer screen was a window that gave onto one sight: the railroad
tracks. All day, I'd watch trains blur left, blur right. All day, I'd
watch them whisk to someplace, anyplace, other than where I was. I drank
coffee all day until my stomach hurt. Sometimes just to feel something,
and sometimes just for the walk across the room to the brewer.
This was late spring, maybe early summer. My sole uplift came from
buying a sandwich in a little deli up the street. I'd take the
white-paper wrapped bundle, then I'd walk the few blocks due east, to
the boardwalk.
I'd chew slowly, savor it, even if the sandwich
wasn't that great. Children splashed and kicked around in the small pool
of a beach club. Beyond, on the sand, chocolate-brown retirees would
plop into low chairs with striped parasols open and shading nobody.
Sometimes I'd finish the sandwich and crumble the paper, ball it up, lob it from palm to palm, and wonder if the office noticed that one of
it's cogs hadn't returned to the machinery. I doubted they did. It
didn't hurt my feelings. It meant I could stay away an extra minute or
three.
Then one day, on my lunch bench, something went wrong.
I felt like a coward. No, worse than that. As if I was living like an
invalid who has nothing wrong with him. I wanted to throw up without
feeling nauseous. I was disgusted. Not with the temp job. With me. I
could blame them, but it'd be bullshit.
So I did something I
never did before, and never since. I chucked the white paper ball into
the trash, put my hands in my pockets and walked back to the parking
lot. Then I got in my car and I drove away. Never collected my check,
never called, and never got called. Not by them, not by the temp
company.
It was as if I hadn't set foot in there weeks ago. No one batted an eye, myself included.
I drove away from the squat brick building in Allenhurst and went to a
different beach. I didn't have a bathing suit obviously, so I just
enjoyed the sun, took a long walk, and breathed to fill my lungs. I felt
as tall as if you'd stacked me six times.
Thinking of that just
now, I realize that whatever else I gripe about now, well it's not half
as wilting as that job and those days of hiding. Whatever I've got now
is on my terms, I live by my wits and I chose it.
And so my lunches now may still be as modest, but at least they're no longer a dodge. To tell you the truth, the sandwiches taste better. Sometimes I even shovel them down, because there's somewhere I want to be.
©
Eric Yves Garcia 2013
This was while I was still hiding in NJ, out of college and too scared to define what the hell I wanted, and then to scared to chase after it. I hid in plain sight. It was a gray-faced time.
To earn a few dollars, I was temping in a squat brick building by the railroad tracks in Allenhurst. That's a dimple of a little shore town, where everyday is 1956 and a cicada chirping causes the police to investigate.
The company's business was to scan zoning laws for cities all over the country, from old hard copy pages into digital. My job was to proof read these zoning laws. The only thing it had going for it was that unlike a lobotomy, this job didn't leave a scar on my forehead.
Beyond my computer screen was a window that gave onto one sight: the railroad tracks. All day, I'd watch trains blur left, blur right. All day, I'd watch them whisk to someplace, anyplace, other than where I was. I drank coffee all day until my stomach hurt. Sometimes just to feel something, and sometimes just for the walk across the room to the brewer.
This was late spring, maybe early summer. My sole uplift came from buying a sandwich in a little deli up the street. I'd take the white-paper wrapped bundle, then I'd walk the few blocks due east, to the boardwalk.
I'd chew slowly, savor it, even if the sandwich wasn't that great. Children splashed and kicked around in the small pool of a beach club. Beyond, on the sand, chocolate-brown retirees would plop into low chairs with striped parasols open and shading nobody. Sometimes I'd finish the sandwich and crumble the paper, ball it up, lob it from palm to palm, and wonder if the office noticed that one of it's cogs hadn't returned to the machinery. I doubted they did. It didn't hurt my feelings. It meant I could stay away an extra minute or three.
Then one day, on my lunch bench, something went wrong.
I felt like a coward. No, worse than that. As if I was living like an invalid who has nothing wrong with him. I wanted to throw up without feeling nauseous. I was disgusted. Not with the temp job. With me. I could blame them, but it'd be bullshit.
So I did something I never did before, and never since. I chucked the white paper ball into the trash, put my hands in my pockets and walked back to the parking lot. Then I got in my car and I drove away. Never collected my check, never called, and never got called. Not by them, not by the temp company.
It was as if I hadn't set foot in there weeks ago. No one batted an eye, myself included.
I drove away from the squat brick building in Allenhurst and went to a different beach. I didn't have a bathing suit obviously, so I just enjoyed the sun, took a long walk, and breathed to fill my lungs. I felt as tall as if you'd stacked me six times.
Thinking of that just now, I realize that whatever else I gripe about now, well it's not half as wilting as that job and those days of hiding. Whatever I've got now is on my terms, I live by my wits and I chose it.
And so my lunches now may still be as modest, but at least they're no longer a dodge. To tell you the truth, the sandwiches taste better. Sometimes I even shovel them down, because there's somewhere I want to be.
©
Eric Yves Garcia 2013
This is a gem and am so happy you decided to write it "officially" on your blog. Years ago, you suffered. Not in vain however. Because even at this moment of your very young life, you knew beyond what you endured, that this wasn't your path. Some of us, many years older, may feel this 'gut pull' that you describe so eloquently and yet simply. And so we also can learn what we must do. <3
ReplyDeleteI had the exact same kind of experience a few years ago. I was working in an awful retail sales position at a Chanel/Dior/etc. boutique for a woman who was starting to go crazy and took it out on her staff - and her customers. Some of the other salespeople were abusive and rude. Also, the recession had just hit the upper crust, and sales were impossible. It was one of the most oppressive, damaging atmospheres I've ever been in (and that's saying something, because I worked for my mother for ten years!). I think I cried my way home five of the six days a week I worked. Finally, one day, I drove in hysterics to the nearby Sonic drive-in, sobbing my way through my $2 lunch. And in a moment, I finally decided to do what I'd considered dozens of times in those long eight months: never go back. I drove away and didn't return. Eventually I did call and leave her a message that I wasn't coming back, but she never called me. It was like I'd never been there. In looking back, I can't believe I didn't leave sooner. Those were some of the darkest days of my life, and to this day, I take comfort in knowing that at least I'm not working there. Yet I'm glad I did - it shaped who I am today.
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