phiadelphia stories
Many Philadelphians (natch, Pennsylvanians) place electric candles in their front windows at night. When I drive through the city, the candles hold silent vigil: constellations created of reminders. The candles whisper that ghosts that still walk these streets. I asked Shaun why everyone has these candles. He said that the candle-lighters believed that people who had died would know that someone was still lighting a candle, waiting for their return. If that's true, I've a thousand candles lit. Subtle and shy, they make up the molecules of my very body. I know about ghosts and the ones left behind. We all need a little closure or just a sign that someone cares that we lived.
* * *
I walk down the avenue, passing a little old man, smiling and carrying a leash upon which smiles a little old dog. Man and dog move against the wind. I wish I had a little dog and that my little dog could be friends with the little old man's little old dog. I offer a smile, marveling at how it feels to be a stranger. In my last place, everyone knew everything of my comings and goings. I hated that I could have no secrets or that others made secrets of things they surmised, rather than those that had actually existed. Now, I can vacuum early in the morning, toss back a rum in the middle of the day, or listen to New Zealand throat-singers or the Beastie Boys very loudly late at night and no one has a thing to say about it or even cares. I never thought I'd enjoy anonymity and slipping through the cracks so much. It's refreshing, as cleansing as a sip of clear, clean water or no thoughts tangled with fear.
* * *
Speaking of tangles . . .
Rebecca informed me that there was a snag in a deal we made. While at Arco, I made my living space better in many ways, like painting it and repairing the baseboards. Another thing I did was build a closet out of materials I purchased. Most Arcosanti residences lack closets, a symptom either of frugality or stinginess (building a closet would take more materials and therefore, cost more). Seeing this, I designed a closet that covered a wall at the far end of my room. As I was leaving, Rebecca asked if she could have it. I said sure. She indicated that she'd feel guilty not compensating me in some way for the materials (over 200.00), so we made an arrangement that she'd pay 35.00 and come to remove the unit upon my departure. Most of my roommates were home for the holidays, so I was unable to communicate this with them. I did communicate it to the one person who was waiting to move into my room and wasn't officially a roommate yet.
After I left, people got upset about the deal and everyone on-site decided to weigh in on it. Some people were very outraged, saying, "Jewel can't take things out of a space arbitrarily." If I were still living at Arco and made that deal, no one would have said a thing. So instead, an inspection was made to decide whether or not I'd actually purchased the materials (because yeah, I'm going to just scavenge things from the Arco Boneyard and then sell them to my co-worker and friend for 35.00. My integrity means that much to me). When it was determined that I had paid for the materials, the issue was dropped, no apologies tendered to Rebecca or me.
However, the individual who'd moved into the room wanted to keep the closet, so she asked Rebecca for it. Rebecca, being the considerate person she is, allowed it. When she told me about this, it irked me, small as it was, because I wished for Rebecca to have the closet. Also, she shouldn't have had to be attacked for the deal. Why was it anyone's business? This little story illustrates yet another reason why I am relieved to be gone from that place.
People who care that much about what other people do need to get out of the concrete, take a walk, make friends with a dog, do something rewarding, listen to great music, or conjure up a poem. Life is so much bigger than the wars we create.
* * *
So far, the newest job search of four days has reaped few rewards. The one person who responded was a cross Arabic woman who wanted to know why I'd want to be a nanny when I had so many qualifications ("Best resume I've ever seen," she raved, her voice like sharp-clawed birds). "I'm writing a book and need something to settle into the city," I told her. What I wanted to say was, "Before I find my dream-job, the little niche that was created for someone like me, someone who's worked in legislature, tended bar, run businesses, kept ledgers balanced, edited books, written articles, and made hundreds of thousands of dollars for someone else with her ceramics." I've high hopes that there's an employer out there who's willing to take a chance on someone with extensive education and a varied work-history. All I need is for someone to gamble on me and I will be a champion. So far, no one's gotten back to me, beyond the Cross Arabic Woman.
I know it takes most places a week for responses, but damnit, I'm impatient. My twenty-four dollar checking account weeps and alternately, caws at the travesty (almost five grand was spent getting me to the dot on the map that says Here). I even applied at a swanky restaurant less than a mile away from the Apartment. I was excited about earning large tips that would sit folded in my pocket until I felt free to use or invest them (one of my goals this year is to get my finances completely in order, develop a good system of savings, and start researching investment strategies). I was lured by the love I've always had for working at posh places and the friends I've made serving and bartending. When I offered my resume, I was told I would have to take a test immediately.
It's no surprise that I think I failed it.
Never, in all my years of food service have I taken a test like this. After being hired and given information, I've taken tests, but never before. The first question was to name three viticultural regions of France. "Burgundy, Rhone, and Champagne," I scrawled, palms sweating. "Booze, booze," I kept thinking, searching for the answers. Someone who's been as drunk as I have over the years should have had it down. Of course, once I left the establishment, my brain turned back on, but sitting there, staring at this evil piece of paper that had the potential to help me move towards my future and dreams or deny me entrance, scared me.
At one point, I freaked out so badly that I forgot a third type of white wine, which is silly. I know this shit cold. I wrote Chenin Blanc and Chablis as the first two and blanked. O, Alanis Morrissette, if only you'd been there to guide me, by wailing about the "black fly in your chardonnay" in "Ironic." I decided to take the honest route and wrote, "I am nervous and cannot remember this. I promise you that I have an extensive knowledge of wines. Also, I am a red wine drinker and have more of a base of knowledge of those. I am willing and able to learn anything that this job might entail." The bus crashed into the tree after that.
One of the servers gave me a very sympathetic look when I left. Fine dining is hell.
I pray some of the other employers get back to me soon or it's going to be rough. Even so, my hope is a flag I wave in the winter air. My place is cuter than a piglet, I have a gym, the 'fridge is finally full, I've opportunities to meet new people, the guy down the way still likes giving me free cake, the love of an honest and true man, and I live blocks from the coolest section in Philly.
That's not a bad start to my new chapter here. Not bad at all, Blackfeather. I tend my candles well.
Badtesttaker McGee
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
muse) wrote,
