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.