*****
This week, I didn't have a stressful time at my main job culminating in a moment where I seriously considered just quitting the damn place, taking my 401K money and just walking away. I also didn't have to deal with doctors regarding my prescription for anti-obsessive medication. And I didn't make a mistake while working the register at the new bookstore that allowed someone to walk away without paying for their merchandise. I didn't get a curt lecture four days later, after I apologized for it over and over, from a manager who's only met me twice and yet felt that I needed to be told the basics of cashiering, even though I've been doing it for four years. I haven't been working so much that I've barely slept and haven't had a chance to relax or write.
No, this week, I took advantage of the long weekend by hopping in my car with an overnight bag and heading for the coast. And William, a new guy, joined me, someone I've been going out with for weeks but haven't mentioned here. (Some things have to stay private, I guess.) We just thought it would be good to get away. He's really great - you know, cute enough, I guess - and I really like him. I mean, he seems to be able to talk to me, which is key. For some reason, I think it's all going to be all right. I mean, I felt so comfortable with him that I suggested this trip. And he went along with it. And that's why I haven't written. The best moments, though, have been when he's let me have time to myself. On Saturday, he went to get us food, and he just let me walk along the beach at night by myself. I took my shoes off, and I felt the sand beneath my feet. I never take my shoes off. I don't know what came over me. I was just feeling like, I don't know, everything had fallen into place. The sky above me was filled with stars. I'd not felt that good since that day on the Millennium Bridge in London. All in all, it was a good weekend. He's very sweet. He's sarcastic, but he's got this, I don't know, swagger I like. My mom's even met him - since she stopped by the apartment to drop off some stuff for the trip. (Truthfully, she just wanted to check up on me, I think.) And, though that was a little weird for me, it went well enough. I feel good about it, particularly now that we're back. I didn't even get sunburned. Seriously.
******
Lupo was worried about me when I talked to him this morning from my apartment, where I was lounging on the couch.
He said he was frustrated, that he didn't know how to just listen to me without offering help or assistance. He said he loved me, but it bothered him that everything with me was always in "such turmoil."
He suggested that there were things that I could do. I could look for another job, that I could try to get published. My life, after all, is my making. He's told me that about a million times. I know. I know. I fucking know.
So, having already told him about what happened at the bookstore where the manager lectured me, I told him that I took some time and just walked alone on a beach.
He told me that sounded nice, but he couldn't figure out how I'd done it. There aren't really beaches nearby.
In my head, while I'm at the bookstore, I think of where I'd rather be. I go on dates. Good ones. I go back to London. I see beaches at night, only at night. And that's how I do it. (I'm actually surprised that I end up on a beach when I do it. I'm not really a beach person.)
"Benjamin, I love you," Lupo said. "But I don't know what you want from me. I don't know what I'm supposed to say, if I'm supposed to say anything. I should maybe just start to listen to you. What do you want?"
I gave Lupo a speech about how frustrated I was with myself, so frustrated that I didn't know how to give him guidance in the situation because I didn't know where I was going, if that makes any sense.
I am not this, I kept telling him. This is not my life. This isn't something that's just happened. I'm not stuck.
I'm not this. I'm a writer. I'm a good writer, I told him. I'm a writer, and I have time and means to do it for a living. And I'm not working constantly, feeling crazed and misunderstood and tired.
I told him that I'm working at places where no one understands me or knows how to communicate with me. And I don't know what to do.
"This isn't the secret life of Walter Mitty," I pleaded mid-speech. "This isn't my secret life of Riley McCarthy. I mean, who am I? WHO AM I? Where is this going?"
I kept starting sentences, then stopping them, then starting new ones. It's a terrible habit. My mother used to hate when I did that.
After talking to Lupo, I had the urge to listen to Elvis Costello's "Everyday I Write the Book." But it only helped a little bit.
*****
A guy I work with at the bookstore writes short stories. He's been published in some literary journals from Tallahassee and Valdosta.
I told him that all I'd had was a column published in The Guardian from London.
His eyes got big. I chuckled.
I had to stop talking about it, though, when a customer came up with their books.
"Did you find everything you were looking for today?" I asked the customer. "Will you be using a discount card, saving 10 percent?"
*****
Ron and I went to a movie and dinner on Friday night. At dinner, we talked about when we both used to work for CNN Interactive.
That's the job I got fired from. Thinking about those people and that situation makes my shoulders droop and my face feel heavy.
I was very young. I made mistakes. And I was manipulated by people. Once one person decided they didn't want me around, it was only a matter of time. There wasn't anything, really, that I could've done.
I would've been laid off a couple months after I got fired anyway.
That was four years ago. It is no longer who I am. I don't know who I am, but I know who I'm not.
Is that something?
*****
Speaking with a different manager at the bookstore tonight, a nice guy named Harrison who's pleasant when I speak to him, I asked him if I could be frank and confidential.
I told him that I didn't feel comfortable at the store yet, and I didn't know what to do about it. I said I knew it would take time, but there had been problems. I didn't really specify what the problems had been.
He assured me that the store was very busy and different, and it required a period of adjustment. He said he transfered a year before and that it's all worked itself out for him.
I told him that I felt weird with the new people. And I told him that I felt disliked and misunderstood.
"Really?" he asked me. "I thought everyone liked you a lot."
He said he noticed that I didn't have a problem talking to people.
"Some people here kinda keep to themselves," he said, "but you've been a talker."
In regard to other things, he told me that some people are naturally going to judge my performance based more upon the work that I've been doing over my longevity with the company. People make judgments based upon what they see, and, even if it's not the whole picture, that'd be a situation I'd face everywhere.
Give it time, he said.
*****
Black called me during my shift at the bookstore today from a bar in the French Quarter.
He told me that I'd like it if I were there.
And he told me that I'd have liked one of the guys who apparently walked up and hit on him in that bar.
*****
I don't know what this is about. I don't know where I'm going.
I know where I'd rather be. I know who I'd choose to be, and I know like I feel like I don't have a choice, even though I do.
*****
I wanted to go away this weekend.
It would've been nice to be alone on a beach, barefoot in the sand and looking up at the stars.
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