|
| |
|
Times 63, Minus 97
by Sarah Frankfurth
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I found the calculations written on the back
of an envelope that I had fished from the clutter of clothing, junk mail,
cat toys, and dirty dishes that littered the floor of my tiny studio.
I remembered scratching them out in one of my many attempts to
figure out how the hell I was going to get out of the massive debt I’d
accumulated over the past few years.
I had no idea how I could possibly owe so much when I had so little
to show for it. A few trips
here and there, an old car, some used books and records, but nothing that
seemed like it could possibly total such a large amount.
I looked at the equations on the envelope for a possible answer,
but none of them held any meaning for me, they looked like a stranger had
written them. |
|
|
|
|
I squinted harder at the numbers, fighting
back the panic that my debt would swallow me, and tried not to think about
my passive role in all of this. So
far, every significant step in my life had been taken on a whim or a
suggestion from someone else. The
university I attended, the various cities I’d lived in, the meaningless
café and temp jobs that I’d survived off of were all selected at
random. There was never any forethought or master plan that guided my
life. In fact I tried to
avoid any type of plan at all costs, even one as simple as meeting a
friend for a drink at a specific time on a specific day.
The idea that I might have to live up to something and therefore
could fall short filled me with dread.
My failures were all chalked up to fate or someone else’s bad
idea. But now I needed a good idea to carry me out of this debt.
|
|
|
I turned my gaze to the cracked window that
separated me from the street outside and contemplated stripping.
I weighed the pros and cons. Well,
there are lots of strip clubs in my neighborhood, it would be convenient.
No, that’s not safe. I’d
have to work in North Beach. And
take a cab. Yes, a cab.
And maybe I could wear a wig?
Definitely. And
if people I knew ever came in there, I’d have to pull them aside and
threaten to kill them if they ever told anyone.
But then I’d have to buy stripper outfits.
What are they, and where do you get them?
Maybe I could sew something for myself.
Yes, a good plan. A
cab, a wig, a homemade g-string, and a few death threats. No
problem. I had it all figured
out. Except the part where I
would actually take off my clothes and “dance.”
I have no idea how to “dance” like that.
I know how to dance and I know how to have sex.
I just don’t know how to do both of them at the same time in
front of a bunch of strangers while keeping my wig on and an eye out for
anyone that I might need to threaten.
I called one of my ex-stripper friends for some advice.
Unfortunately he wasn’t home. |
|
|
|
|
I know there are plenty of things I could do that wouldn’t
involve taking my clothes off. But what? My
mind went blank, as it had every time I’d asked that for the past ten
years. I’ve drifted through
various jobs, finding that I know more about what I don’t want than what
I do. I know that being able
to dress however you like at a café isn’t enough to make you happy.
I know that making a little more money as an office grunt in the
corporate world won’t give you a sense of purpose or satisfaction at the
end of the day. I know
that the freedom to dictate your own schedule as a temp becomes a curse
when you’re broke and there’s no work for you. |
|
|
I slumped back into the cushions, sighed and
thought about how nice it would be if I were a fish.
Swimming around without a care in the world and no memory to speak
of. No memory to needle you
with painful reminders of every single stupid thing that you’ve ever
done in your life, every relationship you’ve failed at, every
opportunity you’ve missed. None
of that, just a primal drive to eat and swim.
The key to your oceanic survival buried in your genetic code and
executed unconsciously. There
was nothing in my genetic code that automatically assured my survival in a
world of credit card bills, dead end jobs and confusion. |
|
|
|
|
That dreaded question, “What
do you really want to do?” raised its ugly head again, and I thought
about the different things I’ve spit out over the years as an answer.
I want to go to grad school…I want to be a professor…I want to
be a librarian…I want to work for a magazine…I want to work for a
publisher…I want to work in a bookstore…I want to be a travel writer…I
want to be an editor… A
clever way of putting people off that hopefully kept them from realizing I’ve
never made the slightest attempt to achieve any previous goal. The changing lies created the illusion that I’ve been
growing, moving toward something. Yet
I’m only drifting aimlessly, waiting for someone to take this burden
from me and tell me what to do.
But deep down in the gnawing pit of my
stomach I know that I’m wrong. I
won’t ever get anywhere like this.
My family will always look at me with worried expressions as I
drift from dead end job to dead end job, just one paycheck away from
disaster. My friends will
always sigh resignedly as they pick up the tab for me once again,
wondering why I don’t take advantage of the opportunities around me,
like they have. And I
wonder to myself, what I’m afraid of.
Am I afraid to try something new?
Am I afraid of becoming a yuppie?
Am I afraid to grow up? Am
I afraid of losing the treasured days of my youth to a career?
I harbor a certain fear of
money, because it can create a wall that cuts people off from the world.
Perhaps the noise, crime and dirt of my neighborhood would become
less tolerable if I could afford to live somewhere else.
Or I wouldn’t buy pizza for $1.75 a slice at the place down the
street if I could afford to eat a full meal at a nice restaurant.
Maybe I’d buy a washer and dryer instead of dragging my clothes
to the Laundromat up the block. But
then I wouldn’t end up talking to an old man about the price of
electricity or to a drag queen about how unglamorous it is to wait for
your clothes to dry. What I’m
longing for isn’t greater physical comfort, but something to feel
passionate about. I
have a vague idea about finding a job that will stimulate me creatively
and intellectually, but I can’t seem to put a name to it.
While that idea floats in
my head, refusing to take shape, I continue to survive off of temp jobs.
They’re far from glamorous, but they‘ve generally given me the
opportunity to write for 8 hours a day.
It’s a wonderful trade off, I look like I’m busy so my boss is
happy, and I can write all day so I’m happy.
Plus I’m getting paid $17 an hour for my efforts, which makes me
even happier. I let the temp
agencies know that I’m not interested in receptionist positions, since I
can’t concentrate with frequent interruptions from the phone.
Finding a job that
legitimately pays me to write would seem like the logical answer to my
confusion, but I’ve carefully avoided that.
Writing is my escape into a world that makes me feel alive.
Every thought, feeling, and idea that churns around inside of me is
released into it. I can
examine myself and grow through my writing.
This is so essential to my sanity that I protect it at all costs.
I’m afraid of turning it into a 9 to 5 obligation and a
potentially tedious job, which would jeopardize the happiness it gives me.
If I had to write for someone else all week would I still be able
to write for myself when I got home?
I know that I can’t
ignore this question for much longer.
I’m feeling more and more impatient as the years pass and writing
becomes an obsession. My
disdain for the temp work that I’m obligated to perform will eventually
grow to such huge proportions that I won’t be able to disguise it behind
a smile anymore, and my assignments will dwindle away.
That’s a miserable path for my life to take.
Instead of waiting for this to happen to me, I ought to figure out
how to grow up without becoming an adult and losing my spark.
A tricky assignment, but at least it will keep me busy at work for
awhile. |
|
Copyright © 2001 Sarah Frankfurth |
