Within two weeks my license for substitute teaching came in the mail.  I immediately notified the school district, and they put my name on the list of people to call.  It had been Harvey's idea that I try substitute teaching.  He took me up to the school to apply.  When we walked out of the building, the sun was out and little streams of melted snow were racing down the pavement.  At the bottom of the stairs was a deep puddle that I didn't see, and I stepped into it, soaking my tennis shoes and socks.  I laughed.  Harvey apologized for not alerting me to the obstacle.  I shook my head.  "It feels good," I said.  "Spring is wet.  Now I can literally feel that it's on its way."
    "Yeah, time goes by fast."  Harvey looked away.  We hadn't been talking about his leaving, although I did admit that I wasn't going to be heading out of the area any time soon. 
    I touched him on the arm and smiled.  "This temporary gig at the school is perfect for me.  I'm really grateful that you thought of it and helped me follow through."
   He smiled halfheartedly.  We got into his car and went back to my house.  We made dinner and turned on a Quentin Tarantino movie.  We held each other on the couch, paying about as much attention to Quentin Tarantino's masterpiece as a student absorbed in thoughts does to a teacher.

"You lied?  Again?"  Tony squinted at me, his eyebrows fighting for a position in the center of his forehead.  I looked away from him at the empty tables.  The coffee shop crowd was thinning.  Tony's exclamations had echoed loudly in the near vacant place, and the publicity of his accusations made me squirm.
    "I didn't exactly lie to Harvey.  I really did apply for teaching programs which would eventually get me certified and into education.  But I didn't qualify.  I have to take a bunch of tests, and they aren't going to be offered again until fall, after the programs have already started."
    "So you take the tests and apply next year.  There's nothing wrong with that."
    "Everything's wrong with that."  Hadn't he been listening to me?  "Harvey's leaving soon, and I have nowhere to go and no job.  I have nothing."
    Tony blinked, trying to think of something to say.  I ached for his sympathy.  I wanted him to nod and say that he was sorry for me.  Instead, I knew he was hoping that some positive side of the situation would come to his mind.  He was uncomfortable under the weight of my commiserating. I couldn't blame him; my mood was suffocating our talk like a candle snuffer.  He opened his mouth, and I could tell he was about to change the subject.
    "He's leaving me," I said.  "And I've left him so many times, there's nothing I can do."

Tony agreed to meet me at the coffee shop after work, but he was late.  While I waited for him, I began to grow nervous.  I'm not sure what for.  My book wasn't holding my attention; it was more like a placemat for my thoughts than anything.  I hadn't talked to Tony in weeks, and my nonexistent attempts at communication tugged at my guilt organ, causing my stomach to start cramping.
    When I saw Tony, however, and he was beaming, a rush of relief flooded my senses, and after standing up and giving him a big hug, I felt as if nothing had changed since we'd first begun our friendship.  "Hey, stranger!" he said.
    We were tipsy on caffeine by the time we started talking about things that mattered.  I marveled at how different my relationship with Tony was in comparison to my relationship with Harvey.  Harvey and I conversed about the future or politics.  Tony and I discussed the obscene color of the mustard on his sandwich and the implications that a condiment of that shade might have on his digestive track.  Often with Tony I wished that there were an easy segway into the matters that needed to be discussed, the issues that were lining everything we were saying with a thin but prickly coating that scraped at the insides of our mouths each time we chose to bring up another meaningless topic.
    At some point I couldn't take it any longer, and I blurted, "I'm sorry."
   "For what?"
   "For not calling or texting you or trying to get in touch with you.  We haven't talked in weeks, and I feel completely responsible."
    Tony reached up and started fingering his hair.  He looked away and then back at me.  It was hard for him to look at me for some reason.  "It is what it is."
    "I'm so sorry.  But you seem so good now!  You seem so, I don't know, happy."
    He smiled.  Then he nodded.  "I met someone."
    "I figured," I said.  I couldn't stop smiling.  "Me too.  Sort of."
    "I thought you said you were leaving.  Going into teaching."
    My eyes started stinging as suddenly as if mustard gas had been secreted into the air.  I swallowed.  "Tony, I don't know what to do."

The days leading up to Harvey's return were simultaneously empty and full.  I was floating along like thin cloud cover, refusing to emit the sun and also withholding rain.  My parents didn't know he was coming home, and on Friday my mom sat me down and admitted that she was worried about me.  "You've seemed really depressed lately."  I felt myself nodding, and I wanted to contradict her and set her right, but I realized that I did feel depressed. Within minutes, she was listening to me explain the text I'd received and my confusion, my worry that he might not actually come back.  The time and distance between wherever he was now, having the intention of returning, and the image of him at our front door was a world of difference.  And if he did come back, what then?  Could I, would I, should I jump into his arms like a cat begging to never be locked outside again?  Maybe his appearance would dissolve all of the ardent feelings I had since discovered.
    Mom sighed.  "That's a predicament," she said and came over onto the couch to massage my neck.
   
Sunday came and went without a word from Harvey.  I despaired.  My days following continued in bed.  My arms felt sticky because I was sweating a lot at night and not changing my clothes.  My sweatpants smelled like a basement.  My phone was never farther than an arm's reach from me, and  I was constantly opening Harvey's text message that said the date he was planning on being back in town.  I touched his words with my finger, drawing a figure-eight over them, for minutes at a time.

I was dreaming fitfully that I had flipped a kayak and was struggling to right it, while water crept into my lungs.  Up above me, at the lake's surface, someone was banging on the bottom of my boat.  "I'm not okay," I tried to say, but my mouth only swallowed more water.  The pounding continued, growing louder, until I realized it was the front door.  I woke up, throwing the covers off me, and flew down the stairs.
    Nobody was at the door.  I opened it and ran into the cold.  Harvey was walking away, down the driveway, back toward his house.  "Hey," I cried.  The wind was biting at me through my cotton pants, as I tore down the walk and threw myself at him.
    His arms were already crushing me, when he said, "Slow down, Little Lady, I'm not going anywhere." 
    I felt my heart collapse like a cardboard box being flattened, and I hesitated, searching for the right thing to say.   When nothing came out, I grabbed his hand and led him inside.
   
    "I'm going into teaching," I said, when we were on the couch and the cat was curled up safely between us like some sort of parenting proxy.  "I've applied to graduate school, and now I'm just waiting to hear back." 
    Harvey was grinning.  "Kids are going to fight to be in your classroom."
    "Thanks," I said.  "What about you: what have you been doing?   Why are you home?  Are you going back?"
    He looked down at the ground, and I could tell instantly that this was a bad sign.  "I've been nominated to be an officer.  I'll be home for a month, and then I'm going to Afghanistan."
   "Afghanistan?  Where in Afghanistan?  Will you be surrounded by bombs and gunfire?"
    He shrugged.  "I don't know."
    "Why did you even come home?"
    "I was given some leave after the promotion."
    "I don't think you should have come back."  I stood up, responding to a sudden urge that cried to be away from Harvey and his capacious features, his short hair, and his angled cheeks like the crook in a tree.  I didn't get anywhere, however, before I felt myself enveloped in this new found maturity.  As we fell onto the couch, the cat throwing herself out of the way, it felt as if my body, my shell, had remained standing, while the rest of me was being whisked away to some secret place.  I put my hand on his chest and drew away.  He froze instantly.  I touched his lip with my finger, the way you might touch a mushroom, curiously, to test its buoyancy. 
    "We love each other, don't we?" I said.
    His chest rose like a wave beneath me as he sighed, and I felt my lungs fill up with tears.  "What are we going to do?" he said.

The text message came while I was washing dishes.  Assuming it was sent by my mother who was looking for distraction from work, I continued with my chore until all the utensils were put away and my hands were dry.  My hands must have been a little wet still when I tried picking up my phone, because the thing slipped from my hands and clattered on the floor.  The battery went in one direction and the plastic shell in another.  By the time I got the battery back into the phone and the whole device turned on, I forgot that I had an unread message. 
     I sat down with my book and accepted the lazy afternoon that the clouds were tempting me with.  When my mom got home she asked if I'd gotten her text.  I slapped a hand to my forehead and opened my phone to read the message that I had missed.  The mysteries of technology are wide and deep; the unread text was not from my mother.  It was from Harvey.  He was in the States and would be home in a week. 
    I closed my phone.  I opened it again.  I reread the message.
    Back when I had no idea what day Harvey might reappear, if ever, his return had always seemed imminent.  Suddenly, his presence seemed like a lifetime away.  And I wasn't sure I could wait that long.

Three weeks into the job at the rec center, I quit.  It took me less than three days to sort the papers and clean out the office.  I asked Mr. Rutger what I could do next, and he looked at me confused.  Shaking his head, he said, "Nothing.  Just watch the window and help people who walk in the door."  Unless it was a Saturday, people rarely walked in the door.  I watched the clock like it was a television.  It felt as if I were being asked to sit and watch my life expectancy drain, one grain of sand at a time, in an hourglass.  "Please give me something to do," I begged Mr. Rutger.  He frowned and asked how I could monitor the front desk and work on a project at the same time.  "I need your full attention on the patrons."
    I managed to strike up a landscaping deal with one of my dad's co-workers.  It required driving out to the property, twenty minutes away, and working for only an hour or so at a time, but each day I earned twelve dollars that I wouldn't have otherwise.  And I enjoyed the work.  The weeds were ripe and prevalent in his flower beds, and it was embarrasingly satsifying to rip out the ripe weeds, the ones that were so big they were a sovereign nation that slipped so easily from the loam where they had been born that they seemed pleased to be leaving the earth.  My body ached by the time I was finished, even if I was only sitting for an hour or so.  When I stood, I felt like a wooden table, and it took me hours and a hot shower to loosen up.
   On some days after the yard work I went into Greywood, which was a city not far from the property.  The city park was always alive with children, their nannies standing dutifully on guard by the benches.  Little balls of bright color bounced around on the equipment; the playground looked so vibrant and friendly I wanted to find a way to reach out and connect with it somehow, but I couldn't settle on a method that would make me seem wholly sane. 
   One day I found myself prey to an advertisement for an Irish Creme Frappe, which was being offered at The Bean for only $2.25.  The man at the counter was Midwest-stereotype friendly, and when I laid out my coins on the counter in preparation for the total with tax, he scooped up my change and, counting it, said, "Seventy-eight cents, little lady.  That's your total today."
    "Seriously?!"  I was already putting away my wallet, scared he would change his mind, when I added, "Does it say 'unemployed' across my face?"
   He gave me a serious look, then offered me a cookie with a Hershey Kiss on it.  "Have a cookie.  And get a job."
   "Thanks," I said, taking the donation.  "I'm actually going into teaching."
   He nodded.  "You'll be unemployed your whole life then."
   I should have been embarrassed by his comment and by my lie, but when I exited the doors and stepped into the street, I couldn't have felt more exulted.

Getting my paycheck was like seeing the sun appear after a six month hibernation.  The dollar sign looked as ornate as a blooming flower with swollen white petals.  I could smell fresh buds, somewhere, poking forth from the tips of branches.  This tree had fruit made of gold.  Multi-faceted raindrops hung suspended from the womb of the red berries.  I was floating in a land rich with possibility, where the air dripped with aromas of expensive culinary treats: espresso and pecans and lamb and curry. 
    After depositing the check, I went online and paid off a portion of my debt.  It was a small amount, but it was the first bite of chocolate cake.

Brimming with papers and bench warming (but occassionally needed!) supplies, like three-hole punches and blank C.D.s, the office at the rec center looked like it had been a victim of a vengeful tornado. There was a desk.  But there was no chair by the window where I was supposed to be greeting patrons. When asked if organizing is something useful that I could be doing during slow times, Mr. Rutger wondered out loud, "Why?"     
    Having ignored the statement I got from his raised and confused eyebrows, I was now spending most of my days at the rec center trying to clean up the office space.  I refused to sit on the tile in the pool area and hope that no families I couldn't see were coming through the front door.  It was mindless work, sorting papers.  But, somehow it felt perfectly appropriate and satisfying.  Tony and I didn't talk much while we were on the job.  Sometimes we ate lunch together.  For some reason it felt like he had clued in to the fact that I knew he was gay, and now everything was inexplicably awkward.  One day, I approached him while he was on his lifeguard ladder to ask if he wanted to come share some cookies with me, and he jerked forward, when he saw me, covering his bare chest with his knees.  "Let me put a shirt on," he said.  "I'll be right there."  He was a pretty small guy, and I noticed nothing that he should be embarrassed about.  I wasn't brash enough in the moment to acknowledge his odd reaction, and that day had now receded into the murky depths of history, a place where good friends can't go fishing for supporting evidence during accusations.  I told myself that, mostly, I just didn't care enough to call him out on his weird behavior.  Truthfully, my mind was elsewhere.  It felt good to have a job, even a menial one; I could feel my stress abating, while the hands-on labor picked up my thoughts and took them away for play time.

End: Part 1

Tony came charging up my front steps unannounced yesterday.  His lemon hair was flying back like a cape, and his grin was wider than the Grand Canyon.  "I found you a job."
   I let go of the door which I had been holding open for him, and it slammed in his face, stopping him in his tracks.
  "Where?" I said.  I dared not get too excited, but I could feel my eyes widening.
   He cocked his head, glaring at me through the screen door.  "The Pool.  We're looking for a receptionist.  I told Mr. Rutger to look no farther; I have the perfect candidate."
    "A desperate candidate."
    "A perfect one."
    I opened the door and yanked him inside.  We unearthed some Chardonnay and continued with the project until the bottle was empty.  Tony picked it up, bringing the glass to his eye to diagnose its opalescent color.  "Results say that it is empty."
    "It's empty, all right," I said.  "My blurred vision can atest to that."
     Tony smiled, and we sat there for a stiff moment.  "You know I owe you,"  I said, "for hooking me up.  I really appreciate it."  He rolled his eyes and batted the air with his hand.  I laughed.  "Cheers to working together."
    "Cheers," he said, smiling. And as we drained our glasses, I felt a rush of strings in my stomach coalescing into a central knot, resulting posibility from the idea of being stationed at a desk, greeting athletes, for forty hours each week, or, more probably, from the more opaque uncertainties that clouded my sudden fit of loneliness.

Job applications litter the floor.  The debris hardly draws my attention when I walk into my room these days.  I don't bother picking it up, because the half finished forms are an open testament to my life, the cast-off clothing of a furious love affair.  If I were to pick up one of the crumpled papers from the flotsam and sniff the drying ink, which gives off a hopeful scent like face powder, I might collapse onto my bed with an eruption of exasperation and useless emotion. 
    Every few days I get emails, slow responses to the editing jobs I had applied to while in Boston.  Each one apologizes for not getting back to me sooner.  Each one thanks me for applying.  Each one admits shock at the number of inquiring candidates they were faced with and encourages me to continue my interest in their company.  By the end of each email, I am left wondering at which point they told me that I wasn't getting hired.  I suppose it was implied with the obvious ommission of "Congratulations!"  Still, they seem so cowardly for not stating it overtly. 

This morning was as shiny as a copper penny heads-up in the parking lot.  Encouraged by the premature summer sun, I went for a run.  Winter was melting, and rivulets of water flowed by me.  I stopped for a minute to watch liquefying lake-bound snow charge through piles of roadside sand.  The water was weak but determined, and, spurred on by gravity, I had no doubt that it could accomplish any task involving demolition.
      I met Tony at the coffee shop.  We brought our books and sat reading, enjoying the presence of each other.  His smell, like eucalyptus bark and lemon, infused the air with a balmy quality that always left me feeling drowsy and occassionally hypnotized.  I was probably falling asleep when Henry, my sociology professor, addressed me.
    "Ali?"
    "Henry?  Hi, Mr. Cunnington, how have you been?  How are classes this semester?"
    He replied politely, smoothing down his beard while he talked.  I hadn't forgotten that habit of his.  In turn, he asked me how I was and what I was up to.  Then he asked me what I was doing back in Wisconsin.  It was this last question that triggered some kind of spasm in my mental mechanism responsible for appropriate responses, and before I knew it, I was lying. I told him that during the process of scheduling dates for several interviews at New York publishing houses I suddenly realized I wanted to go into education and ditched the opportunities last minute, whereby I returned home and began applying to graduate programs with the hope of becoming an English teacher.
    "Why did you say that?" Tony asked, when Henry had sat down at a small table, out of earshot.
    I shook my head to indicate that I had no clue.  "I thought he wanted to hear it, maybe."
Tony furrowed his eyebrows and leaned forward as if he hadn't heard me correctly.  "But he wanted to hear the truth."
    I shrugged.  "Maybe it was the truth."

    On my way home I met the mailwoman at our mailbox.  She was trying to closed it, and her process of slamming it shut only to have it pop free from its latch and loll open reminded me of watching an exhausted adult fight with a manipulative child.  "I'll take it," I said, walking toward her after I parked the car in the driveway.  She retrieved the stack from inside the mailbox and handed it over.  Immediately, I recognized, tucked between advertisements, a follow-up bill--a reminder of the reminder that the bank had sent me two weeks ago. 
    "I heard that the Postal Service was going to quit offering service on Saturdays.  Do you think you could take these back and bring them to me on Monday, when I might have a job interview lined up?"  I held out the mail.  She scratched behind her ear and, after hesitating a moment, hopped back into her car.  I knew she knew what I was talking about.  She delivered bills everyday and she received them too.  "You're lucky to be in the public sector," I said.  "You know that?"
    She smiled.  "You could apply.  I didn't even have a degree when I signed up over twenty years ago."
    I nodded.  "Twenty years ago.  You would need a degree now to re-apply.  In fact I bet you wouldn't even qualify for your job.  You better hold on tightly to your position."
    She laughed and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, as if she did indeed feel perched precariously.  She lifted the car from its parking brake, and the vehicle started moving forward.  "You can't have my job," she called out the window.
    "I'll arm wrestle you for it.  We're probably equally eligible, if you consider merit-based requirements."
    She was gone, and I was left standing in mechanical flatulence.

After Tony left in the morning, I sat down at the table to write Harvey another letter. 
     "How's the Air Force?  I'm considering joining..."  I started.
      I tried again: "I can appreciate why you ditched society..."
     My final attempt began as follows: "I understand why you left, but I don't like it.  I miss your company and your frizzy hair.  I miss fighting with your tiny hands for the last piece of pizza.  I actually don't understand why you took to the military, when there are plenty of better ways to demonstrate dedication for your people, like supporting your community, a commitment which asks only that you stick around."
      Had the letter not been abandoned, when I realized that I could never envision his reply since I had never intended to send it, had it been sent and then read and reread and contemplated and reread, I have no doubt that my life would unfold very differently.

I didn't get the job after all.  The email bearing this news came minutes before Tony knocked on my door.
    "Just a sec," I called from the bathroom.
    "Are you okay?" he asked, when I let him in.
    I nodded and explained that I had been turned down for a job in the town next over. 
    "I can tell you've been crying."  He pantomimed following a tear down his cheek; he seemed proud of himself that he recognized the symptoms.
    "Nope."  I shook my head.  "Do you want something to drink?"
    Tony didn't drink beer, but he accepted some tonic water, a preference that I found interesting.  Admittedly, it was a little early for a drink.  Even though the dirty light that cues dusk was sneaking its way into the dining room, the clock insisted it wasn't even five o'clock.  Putting a muzzle on propriety, I used what was left of the tonic water to dilute some whiskey that I had uncoverd in the liquor cabinet.  I waited for Tony to make some remark about my proclivity for such strong liquor at such an early hour, but he glanced at my drink and said nothing. 
    Within a half hour, Tony was drinking whiskey too.  "The only thing I could see being appealing about bank telling--and not that I would have wished this upon you--is the possibility that I'd be a victim of a hold-up."  He was staring at ceiling of our kitchen, as if trying to envision it.  "You could be the hero who dials for the cops with his foot which he freed from his shoe when the bandit was preoccupied with blinding the cameras."
   "Yes, that would be very exciting," I said.
   "But the chances of that happening are pretty slim.  You know what I love about lifeguarding?"
   "Saving lives."
   "Telling the squirrely kids to slow the fuck down when they're going across the wet tile.  I get such a kick out of watching them slam on the brakes.  I can practically see the skid marks.  I love it."
   "You enjoy being in the power seat," I said, deductively.
   "Saving lives.  You had it right the first time.  I can see the future like a shaman, and if I weren't there telling them to keep their m.p.h. down, they would be minced meat.  They hate me, and for some reason it turns me on.  It's like, well, it's like some kind of game, like one of those relationships, where I'm the partner who gets all jazzed about being ignored and they're the partner who gets all stoked about being screeched at.  You know?"
   "No, I have no clue what you're talking about.  Can we just say that you like saving lives and leave it at that?"
    He rolled his eyes and flipped his hair back.  And in that moment, because it was one in which I had no feelings for him, I wanted to ask if he was gay.  He seemed too comfortable in my dining room, getting up and pouring himself more whiskey.  It occurred to me then that he had never been romantically interested in me, not even during our first interaction at the coffee shop.  He was just, like me, a lonely person, and his oddly-timed hair adjustments were not nervous ticks but, instead, just manifestations of an unconscious and perservering desire to look good.  As the evening waned, we chatted and the whiskey bottle emptied, until the fact that Tony could not drive home was acknowledged, at which point I made up a spot for him on our sofa.  He emitted a  satisfying snore as soon as his head hit the pillow.  Meanwhile, I pulled out my computer and started researching the Air Force.

The other candidate who made it past the preliminary round of the hiring process was the brunette who didn't have a college degree and had to "pass" when the recruiter asked her to give an example of a time in which she provided excellent customer service.  She confessed to me, while we waited for the interview to start, that her friend was a manager at the branch that had open positions.  It was this connection, she said, that was boosting her through the process.  I thought she seemed intelligent and bright and I couldn't see a reason why we shouldn't both be hired.  There were at least two openings.  During the interview, we performed equally admirably, answering questions similarly but according to our previous experience.  Again, however, my competition refused to answer a question after struggling for several minutes to come up with a response.  At the end of the questioning, the interviewers asked us to participate in a mock sales pitch which required us to market an item in the room. 
        When they returned, I had my item in front of me and my spiel ready.  "Only one hundred calories, loaded with B-vitamins, consisting mostly of water, Monster Drinks are a sure source of energy and only $1.50 per can."
       "I feel like those are full of sugar," one said.
       "They actually contain less sugar than your average granola bar or supposed health food bar which we tend to consume when we're low on energy."
      "You sold me," she said, which, I guess, means that I also sold her my ability to work as a bank teller, selling products and upgrades, which, I guess, means that I sold my soul, until I find it in me to forgive myself for putting my dreams on hold.

I hadn't realized that I had been waiting desperately for a text from Tony until I fell asleep one night and dreamed that I lost my phone.  In the dream, my phone was vibrating in a far dark corner of a locker at the rec center.  It was crying out like a lost and forgotten child.  I woke up sweating.  After minutes of blind probing, I uncovered my phone in the dark.  It lit up the room like a spaceship when I checked it.  There were no unread messages.
    Days past.  I had stubbornly refused to initiate anything. When we finally met up again, I was starting to wonder if he wasn't interested in me.
    "Who are you dressed up for, the president?" He already had a half empty cup of coffee in front of an open book.  I wondered if he had been waiting a while.
    "What are you reading?" I asked, squeezing into the seat across from him.
    "You know this isn't an interview, right?"  He was laughing to himself. 
    "Laundry day: all my scrubby clothes are dirty."
    "Barth."  He flipped the cover of the book so I could see it.  "Do you read?"
    "Like it's my job,"  I said.  "And I hate John Barth."
     His body froze, and for a second I was worried he was going to lunge at me.  Then he ran his fingers through his hair and pulled himself back into his chair.  "How dare you," he said, smiling.

You didn't want to go to college, but you did.  And you're grateful. You graduated Magna Cum Laude.  You were recognized for several awards and even tutored students in English.  A national magazine asked you to intern in their fiction department and, when the stint expired, they offered to keep you on the team indefinitely, unpaid of course.  After commencement, your professors sent you on your way with a stack of glowing recommendations.  They promised to be persistent cheerleaders, if future employers were to call and check your references. 
    You move to Boston, because your sister is teaching out there.  She has an apartment and a bed, and sisters are accustomed to sharing.  You don't apply for a teaching license, because you figure education is the career you'll hold off on until after you've seen things and done things and made some money.  You want to have adventures after all, so you can tell your students about the mile long tides in the Bay of Fundy and the world's best insulated houses, which are made out of pumice stone mined from the salt flats in northern Chile.  So you apply to editing jobs.  Lots of editing jobs.  Thirty plus editing jobs.  You hear back from three; they are looking for someone with a little more experience. 
     You move back home where your parents buy the groceries.  You score an interview with a company called Green Box.  It's a start-up business that claims environmental awareness; their mission is to greenwash the planet and get everyone to sign up for a monthly box filled with a variety of natural products.  You have another interview the following Monday.  This time you find yourself at a group interview.  You are one of four candidates pleading for a bank teller position.  The recruiter explains that she already knows you would all make great bank tellers; you are at the interview to see if you want to be a great bank teller. "Your job at WellsFargo is to make the one percent richer," she says.  "You can walk out at anytime." There is a pause, and you wish you could walk out, but you have college loans to pay off.  You go home confused.  There were supposed to be opportunities for bright young graduates, options between being a government employee and being a pawn for the greedy.  You don't want to be one of Scar's hyenas, but you aren't ready to commit to a life of servitude.  You think back to the big choices you made.  Volunteering.  Check.  College Graduation.  Check.  Internship.  Check.  You did everything right.  Why are you so anxious for your Friday interview at Cloud City Ice Cream Parlor?

My dad didn't know about the decrepit hut in our woods.  He gave me the name of the previous owners of our property and suggested that I ask them about it.  The last name of the family looked familiar--Povaser.  It was my mother who reminded me that Tony Povaser was the lifeguard at the pool.  Tony was my age, but none of the Povaser kids had gone to public school, and nobody knew them all that well. 
      I had no plans for the weekend, and after mailing a letter at the post office, I went down to the community rec center.  Tony wasn't there, but I left a message along with my number.  Within hours I received a text asking if I wanted to have coffee Sunday morning.  I noted that he must not be religious; it surprised me for some reason.
     Tony had long hair which he touched absentmindedly every so often, as if it might abruptly run off when he wasn't paying attention.  He also talked about it at odd moments, not necessarily in an affectionate or boastful way, but in a manner that led me to assume his blonde locks were always on his mind.  Would it be too much to say that his hair was like his child?  It was this characteristic of Tony's that I noticed immediately.  Also impossible to miss was his limited capacity for following social cues.  Knowing that he had been homeschooled solidified my conclusion that he was, inarguably, conversationally inept.
    "Well, you definitely dress like you're unemployed," he said when I disclosed my predicament.  "I'm just joking.  I'm sorry.  That was really rude.  What I mean is I would hire you on the spot if you weren't wearing those sweatpants."  He made a move as if ducking his head under the table to examine my inadequate attire, and I felt myself start to sweat.  My coffee mug was already empty, but I gripped it like a weapon, hoping he wouldn't notice that I was drinking nothing, when I tipped it nervously to my lips.
      "So you don't think anyone in your family ever built a shack or any sort of outbuilding?  It would be by the creek, about a mile or so from the house."
      He was grinning uncomfortably, unable to move forward with the shift in conversation.  I sat back patiently, until he said, "Gosh, I don't think so.  But I was pretty little when we lived there."
      I exaggerated my nods, trying to hide my disappointment.  "That's okay."  I found myself glancing at the door.  Tony's eyes watched mine, as I prepared to go.  Maybe he wasn't so clueless after all.  "So how come you didn't go to public school?"
      He cocked his head to the side, amused, and checked in with his hair by bringing a clutch of it to his cheek.  "I used to be mormon."    
      Suddenly I found myself exuding sympathy, as if he had told me he were raised in an orphanage.  "Tell me everything," I said.
      While we talked, the setting sun dove through the windows behind me and clung to my back, warm and heavy, like nursing progeny.  The hour I had told my mom that I would be home was long past, by the time I told Tony that I really should be going.  I think neither of us was aware how starved we had been for conversation.

My mother offered to pay off my credit debt, when I confessed my dilemma to her after dinner one night.  I told her I would think about it.  The real issue, I explained, was the deeper and insoluble problem of my joblessness. She seemed heartened that we were talking about me, and I think the fact that I had addressed my worries and laid them out on the table for her was exciting for both of us.  She nodded while I rattled off the names of companies I'd applied to.  "Have you considered looking for internships?" she asked.  "We can support you, if you need to move out to a city to start your career."  She was challenging my argument that I couldn't just up and go live in New York City without first lining up a situation that paid. 
      "I can't afford to work for free," I said.  "Not now, while my finances are running on thin blood."
      "Dad and I could help you.  You would find a job eventually."
      "What if I didn't?  And the company didn't hire me after the internship?  I would be like the weakened chick that never got food getting thrown out of the nest to make space for the others."
       She gave me a look. 
       I lowered my head.  "I'm not sure I could live somewhere I didn't know anybody."
       She came over and rubbed my back.  Her touch was soft but sincere, and I felt my shoulders go flaccid like clothes on the line being released by an angry wind.  "Have you heard from Harvey?"
        I wished she didn't asked me things like that, because it always reminded me just how well she knew me.  I hated knowing that she could pick through my thoughts as if they were as tangible as my dresser drawers.  "I should write to him," I said.  "I keep meaning to."  Phrased this way, I hoped my comment made it seem like I was in command of the lack of communication between Harvey and me. 
       She nodded.  "I bet he would like that."

This afternoon, a letter came for me in the mail.  It came for me the way the Grim Reaper comes for lives.  A brief moment passed, when I saw my name on the address, in which I thought it might be from Harvey, but inside the envelope was a notification for an outstanding bill.  The news itself was far from outstanding.  It was a reminder of bad choices made, a knock from the past, like a divorce settlement that needs a signature at the tab along with several grand to pay off the lawyer.
      Back in Boston, I had owned a credit card and used it, after my interview for the hostess position, to fuel a prodigal shopping spree.  Aldo's comment about my deficient wardrobe made me panic, and when I left the meeting I headed straight for the boutiques on Newbury Street.  I had signed up for the credit card account a week prior, upon my dad's request.  He said it was necessary for emergencies.  Well, he was right about it being useful.  I needed a black dress for my first day as hostess, and I didn't have the money for it.  On a rack at Loft, I found the perfect one, but its short hem made me realize that the only shoes I owned which weren't made of mesh were tall boots--too trendy for a fine dining environment.  So, the credit card bought me a pair of flats to go along with the dress.  Then, since all of my socks were white ankle tops, I added two pairs of tights to my bill.  And what would I do about my outfit the day after tomorrow?  Aldo had high hopes that I wouldn't exhaust him with the same dress everyday; I had no choice but to pick out more clothes--some skirt and blouse combos.  After clothes shopping, I went to the Verizon store and bought an iPhone.  The GPS and streaming transportation updates would prove invaluable, since this new job required a timely commute.  Of course, I assumed that by the time the purchases needed to be paid off, my savings account would be growing like a feeding newborn.
       Now here I am with debt the size of a hole to China.  And the longer I wait, the more I will have to pay.  Even money for food proves increasingly difficult to muster up.  The condiments in the fridge are looking pretty lonely.