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.