Into the Den of Inequity

Retracing your employment history can be an emboldening exercise–reminding you of where you’ve been and what you’ve accomplished, and all of the experiences that have brought you to this moment.

A moment that quickly devolves into you defending your rationale for wanting Job X, and why you really don’t care that you have an advanced degree, because, well, the economy has been in the shitter and you’d just like a paycheck, please.

Eyebrows raise.

Uncomfortable, stilted chuckles punctuate the awkward silences.

But you keep smiling, if for no other reason than to prevent yourself from screaming and throwing the tragically upholstered chair you’re sitting in out the window.

After all, it’s not the chair’s fault.

You knew this was going to happen.

***

We’ve all experienced Battered Employee Syndrome–the sense that a work experience or situation isn’t the fault of our crazed employer, but our own.

We apologize.

Run back.

Hide the emotional damage they’ve wrought with plenty of smiles and “yes, your right”‘s.

Sometimes, though, we need an intervention. Like the one I had several years ago at the dismal conclusion of my graduate school experience.

And yet, yesterday I found myself walking onto an academic institution’s campus, feeling that same sense of dread creeping up inside me, crushing the breath out of me like ten cats eating the face off of their dying cat lady owner.

But as I waited outside prior to my interview, I chided myself.

They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. It’s nothing like Chapel Hill. That was four years ago! Snap out of it, already! Plus, this is on the other side of the fucking country!

Deep down, I knew better.

Because, as much as I hate making gross generalizations, there’s always been a thematic thread stitching together every academic institution that’s become a part of my personal history.

And that lone thread makes the whole sweater itchy and uncomfortable and stifling.

***

I put on my best poker face, walk through the door, and immediately feel uneasy. And not just because I have to ask a David Bowie doppelganger for directions while navigating through the labyrinthine auditorium to the office.

Soon enough, I’m in the lioness’s den. And her cubs pull and tug and twist my resume and experiences as much as they can–tenderizing everything before she goes for the jugular.

Still, as I sit there bleeding out like a disfigured antelope, I defend her–try to rationalize away her repeated bites. Which keep coming as my head spins.

“So, I mean, you know this isn’t, like, an education role. You’ll be doing really low-level stuff.”

She motions toward the administrative assistant at her desk.

“I understand the role and its components, and I’m fully prepared to take it on, regardless of the level of work required.”

“But, you have an advanced degree. And why in Anthropology?”

Hon, I ask myself that every single day.

“Well, I believe the positions I’ve held, whether in a volunteer or employed capacity, are thematically tied through public interfacing and outreach. Connecting with people and facilitating their needs through a variety of channels. And I believe, taken collectively, my experiences align with the skills required to perform the tripartite functions of this role.”

A quizzical, dismissive look and wry smile.

“I see.”

I long for a vodka cran.

***

One more interview later, I’m confined to a cubicle-like office to complete a few “exercises” to test my abilities. I look from the computer screen to the stack of exercise prompts, then my watch.

I’ve been here for two hours. I’ve interviewed with five people. And now I have four multi-component exercises to complete by 6:30 PM? Girl, please.

And I stare at the prompts, flummoxed. While I’m perfectly capable of learning Excel formulas in a short amount of time, I certainly don’t have them filed away in rote memory. The same can be said for performing some convoluted mail-merge exercise.

I try to open the Internet to search for the “how-to” functions, but access is routed through the institution’s portal.

Foiled!

So I complete the most difficult tasks–the ones that I feel speak more to my web-based capabilities than Excel functions that I can glean from an Excel for Dummies book.

Straighten my coat and tie. Get up. And let her know I’m done.

“Alright. You should be getting a call from me by the end of next week.”

I smile.

Shake hands.

And want to scream.

***

After Andy reassures me that I’m not nuts, that the process as I relayed it to him was really bizarre and not transparent, I hang up and drive home.

But all I can think about is the whole process.

How completely unprepared most of the interviewers were with their questions.

The accusatory tones of the senior staff’s fragmented questions.

The holier-than-thou academia-laden drivel they used to try and veil their social ineptitude.

And the kicker, from the lioness herself: “Well, your experiences are sort of all over the place. So what makes you think you are a good fit for this position?”

Y’all. The lioness poked the bear.

Because some of us haven’t been able to retreat within the confining walls of academia our entire professional lives. We haven’t been stunted socially, only able to interact with other socially-inept academics who have very little sense of self, and a high opinion of everything they’ve ever written. We’ve actually waded into the murky depths of the depressed job market, rather than orbit–like soon-to-be-retired planets–around the same dying star that academia has become. We learn from every new role. We do what we can to make ends meet. We do not quibble over job deviations from our former profession. We embrace change and do what’s necessary to make it in today’s world. We diversify our skill sets. Unlike you.

“This institution is built upon a diverse experience of the world, and I believe my diversified skill set is complemented and bolstered by my experiences in corporate, non-profit, and federal contexts, allowing me to exercise sound judgment and fulfill job expectations through informed, socially aware tacks.”

***

The vodka is ice cold. The ice cream is a little melted. The chocolate is dark and rich. Dinner is ready.

And Andy’s hugs are tight.

This, the present, is all that matters.

Not the battered past.

Not a skewed future blighted with malignancies.

Just this.

And that’s all the incentive I need to succeed.

Death and Chinese Food

Grit and dirt and noxious smells are part and parcel of city life.

A little imperfect, and left behind.

And Andy and I are reminded of that every morning when we walk to his car in a nearby parking deck.

“This place always smells like death.”

“And Chinese food.”

***

Experiencing life within city blocks nested within neighborhoods nested within metropolises is like an endless sorting of matryoshka dolls. Each shell is hiding something new and amazing, or amazingly disturbing.

And within each shell are countless people that’re systematically blurred out–whether by too many mimosas that morning, or the conditional cleansing of our social lenses.

Because everyone learns to see the city their own way, and figures out how best to cope with the overwhelming stimuli firing off around them.

Some choose to ignore the person asking for money, the man thumbing through the garbage, the old woman pushing an overloaded shopping cart to an underpass–the invisible, the overlooked, the under-served.

Others engage everyone, strike up conversations–all with a smile, as if remembering the punchline of some past joke.

***

Whether a carryover from our species’s first foray on two legs, a survival instinct more pungent than overstuffed dumpsters seems to permeate and mix with the hive’s low, buzzing din–propelling us forward with heads up, eyes ahead, blinders on to all distractions. As if the slightest stumble–a glimpse of your imperfect self–will elicit an attack from passersby. Or find you in the gutter with those whom you’ve objectified as amalgams of your worst fears.

Fronting your way through a crowd, hardening that soft, fleshy exterior almost seems requisite for some reason. But it’s just another trait I’ve wrongly assumed to be shared by most big city people.

Because the key to connection is simply being open. Showing those around you that you’re not frightened at the prospect of them ignoring you. Or saying hello back.

***

Last weekend at LA Pride, I was reminded of the importance of connection. Of just being yourself, and how that can trigger a conversation or connection that redefines your trajectory and helps surround you with friends. (Like these!)

Being open.

And while I was always taught to be polite to everyone–minus the guy in the serial killer van–it’s frightening how quickly the herd mentality can buck civility to the back of the manners line.

Because it’s so easy to lose yourself within these nested layers, to forget what and who make you your own person–make the place you call home a home.

So many can turn a blind eye to that part of their personal history, and actively seek to forget the difficulties and triumphs that brought them to this very moment of being, and never attempt to acknowledge the same reflected in the eyes of those buzzing around them.

And while I don’t have the best eyesight, I hope I can always catch the slightest glimpse.

And never forget what a gift it is to cherish.

Inked

It’s late December and my second year of graduate school is halfway over.

It’s a good feeling.

Even better, I’m not preoccupied with the upcoming semester and its associated stressors, because I’m too busy trying to find constellations in this popcorn ceiling.

“Lint-licker!”

Laying prone on the countertop, I crane my head to see the woman who’d walked in thirty minutes before yelling this rather odd, seemingly derisive moniker at the man with the shaved head.

Unfazed, the man continues to watch the massive television opposite the overstuffed sofa.

“Bastard,” the woman mutters before chatting up the chef preparing hamburger on the stove top, mere inches from my torso.

“So I said to him, ‘Mother-fucker you can’t have it both ways.’”

I close my eyes and imagine myself in a tropical paradise, away from this loud woman and her mindless drivel.

“You doin’ okay up there?” Kelli asks from her bar stool perch.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” I respond, clenching my eyes closed.

Like a T-Rex orienting its reptilian senses to the slightest stimulus, our brief exchange draws the loud woman’s attention.

I can feel her eyes.

“Ooooh. I like how that’s lookin’,” she oozes. “You got anymore?”

“Just one.”

“Where’s it at?”

“The interior of my right hip.”

“What’s it of?”

Sensing my growing irritation, Kelli butts in.

“It’s two rings intertwined,” she chirps, lifting her right foot and displaying hers.

“Oh. For what?”

“Friendship.”

“Y’all must be close.”

Best friends.”

The woman grows silent.

And I melt into the surrounding noise–the hamburger sizzling below my ear, the chef humming to herself.

***

Months before I end up on a bar in Hartford, Alabama, Kelli and I are planning our brief three-day visit over Christmas break. We’ve settled on the dates, but Kelli hasn’t yet wrangled her brother’s friend’s friend and tattoo artist, Derrick, into doing our tattoos.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get it figured out,” Kelli assures. “Derrick’s supposedly a nice guy and should be in town around then.”

Seeing as how Kelli is the Grace to my Will, her words placate my anxiety-prone mind and I assume everything will fall into place. I hang up the phone and tweak the graphite sketch, and decide on the right spot.

Seeing as how I’m an academic masochist–read, graduate student–I figure it’s apropos to site the tattoo just below my ribs, in one of the most painful spots possible.

***

The day after Christmas, I drive down to Kelli’s mom’s house with my overnight bag in tow. I haven’t seen Kelli for about a year—not since we’d left for our respective graduate schools.

Driving with the tattered directions I’d jotted down in one hand and maintaining control of the car become mutually exclusive once I pass a swamp and turn onto a pothole-dotted gravel road. My car shudders and bucks down the narrow stretch. But even at a snail’s pace, I pass the house.

Backtracking, I pull into the leaf-covered driveway, park in the backyard, and make my way to the door.

Watch it!”

I freeze. And a mound of moldy shingles crashes onto the patio a few feet ahead. I look up to the two burly men shoveling off shingle clusters from the roof, and side-step to the door between their off-loading.

Soon enough, Kelli and I are hugging and shrieking like sorority sisters getting morning-after pills. And Kelli introduces me to Arvind, her boyfriend of a year. We exchange pleasantries, and Arvind excuses himself outside to smoke with Kelli’s brother, Jeff. While Kelli’s mom, Marie, shuffles around the house listening to her Walkman, Kelli and I catch up.

I bitch about graduate school and she glows about hers, how great her adviser has been, and how perfectly her school fits her personality. Burning with envy on every count, I change the subject to tattoos.

“So, Jeff said that Bobby said that Derrick will be able to do our tattoos Friday evening. But Derrick’s kinda hard to get in touch with, so we’ll have to call ahead to make sure.”

This is sounding too Telephone Game-like for my taste.

“But we will be able to get tattoos while I’m here, right?”

“Of course! Don’t worry!”

Again, Kelli’s overwhelming optimism allays my fears. So we get drunk, and I doze off by the fire we’ve been feeding with wood Arvind and Jeff have been chopping all day.

***

The next morning, my sinuses are blocked and it’s raining.

“Looks like a fine day for tattoos,” I snuffle, staggering into the living room.

Honing in on the closest fluffy chair, I plop down and sigh.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get’em today,” Kelli assures. “Now, let’s eat.”

Plates-full of biscuits, gravy, bacon, and eggs later, Kelli and I retreat to the living room and watch the King Kong remake.

“You know, my sister never knew how this movie ended.”

“Really? Isn’t this a classic?”

But it’s true. In the darkened theatre, right as the planes began circling the Empire State Building, Laura had leaned over.

“He’s going to make it, right?” her voice wavering, eyes big as saucers.

Well…”

As I watch the great ape plummet to his death, another load of shingles thuds outside. The rain has let up, and the roofers are back. Kelli’s phone rings, and I nearly jumped out of my non-tattooed skin.

“Is it Derrick?”

“I dunno who this is.”

She answers and I mouth “Well?” She shakes her head; not Derrick.

Damn. Even though time is crawling by, it’s going somewhere.

“Do you think we should call Bobby?”

“Just a little while longer, and then I’ll call.”

Before I know it, and after a few drinks, we’ve watched another movie and drained a few drinks. It’s evening, and we’ve yet to get any response to Kelli’s multiple voicemails to Bobby.

We call it a night, drink our dinners, and drowse off to sleep.

***

Saturday morning finds me pacing the living room. Kelli is on the phone with Bobby. A few minutes later, we’re crafting the day’s plans around our tattoos.

I follow Kelli and Arvind into town and pass a number of ramshackle homesteads, longing for my camera the whole way. Soon, the landscape changes from quaint to commercial, and we pull up to a bowling alley. I pile into Kelli’s backseat, and we head to the movie theatre.

Where we realize the newspaper times got it wrong, and we’ve missed the showing.

“Just as well,” Arvind says from the front seat. “They all looked pretty dumb.”

We opt for an early lunch before deciding to kill time in a nearby mall. Arvind disappears while Kelli and I peruse hideous discounted Christmas décor and wait by her cell phone like crack fiends.

My stomach starts feeling a bit uneasy. But it’s not my black bean burger making a reprisal. During lunch, a thought kept resurfacing: What if the tattoo-artist or the friends he’s staying with are queer-hatin’ Bubbas?

I’d voiced my concern to Kelli, and Kelli had called Bobby and left him a message to call her back.

With an hour to go, the window of opportunity to gracefully bow out is closing fast. But just as we pass a jewelry display, Kelli’s phone rings. It’s Bobby. She talks a few minutes before dropping the question.

“So, Bobby, Matt’s gay. Is that gonna be a problem with these folks?”

I grip a nearby Rudolf doll and brace for the bad news.

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

Kelli hangs up and turns to me.

“He said they’re all laid back. Don’t sweat it.”

“Good. I didn’t feel like being the hate crime of the year.”

I look at my watch.

“We better get going.”

***

Within fifteen minutes, we’re rolling through a neighborhood of small 1950’s cottages that’ve seen better days.

Faded rental signs cling halfheartedly to massive oaks, and chained-up dogs bark at Kelli’s teal Jetta, as if saying, “What in the fuck are y’all doin’ here?”

“There it is!” I yell, pointing to a small house next to a gravel lot.

We park and walk toward the front door.

“What a minute,” I stammer, taking a second glance at the house’s paint-peeled address numbers. “This isn’t the right house. It’s 271, not 221.”

Just as we about-face, the door creaks open horror movie style. But I’m not about to suggest we investigate, gang!

A tall, thick man with intensely dark sideburns ventures out and lights a cigarette.

“Y’all here for the tattoos?” he asks. “I’m Derrick.”

“Oh, er, yeah. But we thought it was 221,” Kelli calls.

Derrick cocks his head and looks up at the house numbers. Now closer, I can see that the second 2’s tail has fallen off. What a fortuitous mistake I made! Or is it?

We step under the front overhang and walk inside.

“I’ll be in there in justa sec,” Derrick calls after us, “Just have to finish my cig.”

***

Right after crossing the threshold, something slams into my crotch and doubles me over–a pit-bull whose head and testicles approximate a bull’s.

Whoa, Baxter!” a man with a shaved head calls after the well-endowed dog. “Sorry ’bout that. He’s just friendly.”

After cheerful Baxter is pulled away and I discreetly readjust myself, the three of us stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Like we’re here to pick up our prom dates, and are anticipating the run-down from Dad.

Introducing himself as Mark, the man with the shaved head invites us to sit down. Mark’s wife, Debra, blows in behind us, tossing her work uniform as she does. Between exchanging pleasantries and discovering Debra works as a professional wedding cake maker, Debra asks if we like hamburger.

“Oh, we just ate dinner. Thanks, though!” we chime enthusiastically.

“Well, there’s going to be plenty, so y’all feel free to it.”

Derrick comes in a few minutes later, and it’s then that I realize his sideburns are actually black-and-gray Koi fish. Immediately entranced, I can’t peel my eyes from them. He disappears to the back of the house and reemerges with his portfolio for us to leaf through.

“So, y’all know what you want to get, right?”

“We sure do. I want this dove outline on the side of my left foot,” Kelli says, pointing to a line drawing she’d made the day before.

“And I’d like to get this on my torso, beneath my ribs,” I say, holding my sketch.

He looks them over and tells us to give him a few minutes to trace and tweak them. Kelli and I scrunch together on the couch and peruse his portfolio while Arvind takes a recliner.

Derrick’s work is good, and has found a place almost everywhere on the human body. And as we turn the page to a single set of tattooed testicles, Mark passes behind us.

“Ha! Those’re mine!” he crows.

Now we know what Mark’s testicles look like.

Before I can further contemplate why Mark chose to get a skull forever inked into his nutsack, Derrick grunts from his illuminated drawing table on the other side of the room.

“Done.”

Smiling like I do in the presence of chocolate, Mark hands us his sketches. He’s made a few augmentations and waits for our respective green-lights.

“You’re the artist, and it looks good to me,” I say. “I trust you.”

He smiles again, and my heart beats a little faster.

But Kelli isn’t quite as enthusiastic.

“Can the wings be rounded on the ends?”

Derrick says it’ll be no problem, that he’ll alter the sketch after I’m done. He turns back to me, then looks at the low kitchen table.

“Here, why don’t you hop onto the bar?”

“I don’t want to break it,” I say nervously, eyeing the bar.

“Honey, you look like you weigh next to nothin’,” Debra calls from the kitchen. “You sure you don’t wanna sandwich or something?”

So I ease onto the bar and lay down. Derrick preps his equipment, shows us how he cleans it, explains what he plans to do, and asks if I have any questions.

I shake my head and he positions me a little lower. His touch is electric, and I nearly melt into the bar top.

“So, what do you do?” he asks, dipping the needle tip into a black ink well.

“I’m a grad student.”

Buzzing fills the air. My skin begins to sting. And I start finding constellations in the ceiling.

***

“Lint-licker!”

Swirling a bottle of Bud Light like a Riedel glass, the loud woman is accosting Mark again. But this time, Mark’s had it.

“Cassandra, will you please shut the fuck up?! The game’s on!” Mark barks, keeping his gaze locked on the large television.

“Eh, fuck off, you lint-licker!”

I realize “lint-licker” is some euphemism she’d used while relating a story to Debra. But I really don’t care enough to think about it anymore than I have.

All I care about is seeing my tattoo and getting out of here. Because now that the initial excitement of getting my new tattoo has worn off, the reality of the situation is hitting me: I’m in some strangers’ house, half-naked on their kitchen counter, getting tattooed; an imposing, friendly dog is circling underfoot; and an AK-47 is casually propped against a bookshelf.

And a man with fish sideburns is leaving an indelible mark on my torso. I turn and open my eyes. Kelli looks up at me.

“It looks really good,” she says. Derrick switches from black to red.

“That’s bad-ass, man,” Cassandra howls from her seat in the living room.

I muster a Thanks, and roll my eyes closed.

Except for her bad highlights, Cassandra reminds me of a pathetic man who’d followed me and Kelli around a tattoo shop in Alberta City, Alabama– where we’d gotten our friendship tattoos. The guy had several mediocre tattoos dotting his arms and legs, and had repeatedly insisted that, if he could, he’d get a tattoo every day.

“I mean, if some dude came up to me and was like, ‘Hey, dude, can I scrawl some ink into you?’ I’d totally be in,” he’d quipped.

And while I’d said I shared his enthusiasm for body art, he’d sounded slightly insane. Our tattoo artist had shooed him away repeatedly, but he always reemerged spouting, “Just scrawl it in, man. Scrawl. It. In.”

“Sorry, he’s kind of a fixture around here,” our tattoo artist had groaned as the tattoo-obsessed man bothered another employee.

Soon, Derrick’s quick strokes subside, and my new tattoo is deemed complete. I get up, examine it, and can’t stop smiling.

Shine on!

“I absolutely love it!”

Derrick has exceeded my expectations. A much higher-quality tattoo, especially given our environs, at a ridiculously low price, I tip Derrick exceedingly well, and trade places with Kelli.

After a few back-and-forth’s with Kelli about the roundness of the dove’s wings, Derrick dives in. Between holding Kelli’s hand and playing with Baxter, I stave-off questions from Cassandra.

But before I know it, Kelli hops down from her stool and pays Derrick.

We thank Derrick profusely, thank Mark and Debra for their hospitality, and bid a wasted Cassandra goodbye.

“Bye, lint-lickers!” she laughs, closing the door behind us.

“That woman was weird,” Arvind mutters, undoubtedly reeling from the whole odd ordeal.

Back at the bowling alley, we say our goodbyes.

“Another successful tattoo experience,” I laugh, hugging Kelli.

“Except this time our artist wasn’t high,” she adds.

***

As usual, that night I dreamed my tattoo came off in the shower. And I sighed with relief when I woke up and found it right where it was supposed to be.

I headed downstairs, and followed my parents’ voices to the kitchen. After a few minutes, I couldn’t hold it in.

“Morning! Y’all wanna see my new tattoo?!”

The color drains from Dad’s face. Mom rolls her eyes.

“Not really,” he sighs.

“Let’s see it,” she groans.

I lift up my shirt, and they both gasp.

“It’s a bit big, isn’t it?” Mom asks anxiously.

“I guess. Relative to the first one.”

“Well, what’s it mean?” Dad inquires.

Huh.

Derrick had asked me the same thing, and I’d rattled off something I’d rehearsed.

“Well, I told myself that I’d get a commemoration tattoo for surviving my first year of graduate school.”

Like Derrick, my parents wanted more of an explanation.

“The subject-matter’s derived from a painting I’d done the summer after my first year. It’s almost like, no matter how crappy or hard life gets, no matter how much it tears you open and makes you bleed, you can still shine.”

Dad rolls his eyes. Mom’s well with tears.

Bingo.

But even though I’d laughed a little after I’d explained my soon-to-be tattoo’s significance to Derrick, I’d meant what I said.

Sure, it’s a bit trite and slightly saccharine. But it’s true.

So, after I pull my shirt back down and leave my parents to their now-spoiled breakfast, I hum Cyndi Lauper’s “Shine.”

And resolve to do just that in the coming years.

Even if I get a bit bloodied in the process.

A Real Job? What’s That?

I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I’d been feeling so off, especially since I’d just returned from what I felt was a solid job interview.

After all, I’d cobbled together a decent outfit.

Scuffed the bottoms of my new shoes to decrease the chance I’d slip and topple head-over-ass down the lobby stairs.

Acted professionally throughout the interview, fully answering 25 or so questions and providing ample examples for each.

And never once blurted out, “I CAN’T TRUST YOU!”

So, what was my deal?

Even in his post-work exhaustion following a day trip to San Diego to interview candidates, Andy weighed in.

“Well, you’ve never really had a good work experience. So you’re probably just reacting to getting back into employee mode, and feeling the only thing you associate with it: dread.”

Hot damn.

Reason #4,578 to couple with a Human Resources professional.

He was right.

Because when I tried to counter with the proverbial “But,” nothing followed.

***

Now, it’s not as though the two non-academic jobs I’ve had haven’t had good qualities. I’ve learned plenty in the past five years navigating through the job market.

Every lesson hasn’t exactly been glutted with rainbows and butterfly kisses, but I’ve been able to distill out enough goodness to keep the wheels turning.

But when I really stop to think about my time in the job market, I realize how many obstacles so many of us have (had) to overcome.

For starters, I entered the job market a month before The Great Recession (TGR) tore into the US economy, gutting it like bad Thai.

And while I was insanely lucky to snag a job at such a critical moment, it came with a string of conditions.

Condition 1: No social life. Performing physically rigorous archaeological fieldwork in random parts of the state left me isolated and exhausted. The day and a half I had for downtime before returning to far-flung field sites afforded me just enough time to take a shower in my crappy apartment, do laundry, and get some quality sleep.

Condition 2: No benefits. Despite the fact that there were employees at this particular office that did not have any anthropological education, they were still entitled to company benefits that were not extended to me, an MA-holding anthropologist. Combined with absolutely no paid leave, the job’s only attractive quality was a paycheck.

Condition 3: No certainty in compensation. When I would tell my parents “I don’t know what I’ll make this paycheck,” I wasn’t being purposefully vague. In the context of an economic downward spiral, management was doing its best to shuffle monies around to compensate everyone. But that meant that each paycheck was a crapshoot–an amalgam of billed projects, each of which had its own payment rate for differently-tiered employees. Which meant my paycheck would vary by hundreds of dollars each month. Which made budgeting nearly impossible. Which made having fun and spending money financially imprudent. (Refer to Condition 1.)

Soon enough, TGR’s all-consuming waters lapped at our office’s door. But right as most of the staffers got pink slips, I was able to jump ship.

But as I’ve written before, I jumped from the Lusitania to the Titanic. Because not only was my rescue ship doomed too, but it came with plenty of other conditions.

Condition 1: Paid time off, but no other benefits. Sure, I was given a slight step up from where I’d been, but having no benefits still put me at a disadvantage. Having experienced a bout of skin cancer immediately after graduate school, when I had no health insurance through my job, I realized the importance of some measure of insurance. So while I had health insurance, it was one more out-of-pocket expense.

Condition 2: Crazy-ass commute. Now, I didn’t have to have this commute. But living in a conservative area compounds the social isolation LGBT’s feel, and I wasn’t about to go down that road again. So, it was a nearly three-hour round trip commute every single day. (Which was still less than what Andy had to drive.)

Condition 3: Quarterly taxes. Because the educational institution through which my “fellowship” was directed refused to deduct taxes from my paychecks, I had to pay quarterly taxes. Now, that might seem like a deal. But it’s a trap. Not only did I have to pay out over a thousand dollars every quarter and still pay my bills, but I also got whacked with my income taxes because the tax code changed and no one bothered to inform quarterly taxpayers. So if, say, your car shit the bed and you had to use part of your lump-sum paycheck to cover it, you may not be able to pay quarterly taxes on time. Which would lead to penalties and debt. Or, to obviate late quarterly taxes, you pay for unexpected expenses with a credit card. Either way, you rack up debt quickly.

Condition 4. Crazy-ass coworkers. I love fun, crazy people. I do not love insane, hostile people. And after dealing with a slew of nuts, I couldn’t take anymore.

In the end, it came down to balancing emotional health and financial feasibility.

Was it easy? Hell no.

Because it meant that Andy had to keep going in a job that was equally as draining.

Most folks don’t have the luxury of having a partner whose income can float two people, and must continue on in jobs where they’re underemployed. Or they have to wait in the unemployment line.

Still, we kept going, working toward a larger goal while cutting our expenses tremendously.

And it’s paid off.

***

Now, though, I’m starting to realize how far I’d sunk into the dregs of the employment market. Just reading job descriptions, and getting callbacks from jobs that offer real benefits–that I’d actually have the chance at contributing to that elusive 401k thing I’ve heard so much about–gives me chills.

In many ways, TGR has reminded people what’s important–not riches or snagging a high-paying job that sucks the life out of you: it’s the things and people that make you happy. It’s that passion you’ve always had for cooking or sewing or writing making a resurgence and becoming something you’ve always wanted it to be.

And we feel less lost because of it.

Because it helps propel us forward, energizes us to take a chance and venture outside our comfort zones.

Apply for jobs we don’t think we’re qualified for.

Make contacts outside of our chosen fields.

Hone the skills that we possess, and shop them around as best as we can.

Not beat ourselves up over not getting that job we thought we’d be perfect for–because, in the end, it clearly wasn’t a good fit and we’re better off without it.

Because the only person who can land a real, fulfilling job–or at least one that’ll help make your life what you want it to be–is you.

And you can do it.

Eccentric, Nonetheless

Having just spilled scalding hot coffee on his leg, Andy stands there, Riviera mug in-hand, dancing about like a cute, partially melted elf.

So, like any caring boyfriend, I jump to action.

Get a towel.

Dampen it.

Run back.

Stoop down.

And blot the Restoration Hardware sheets, to foil the in-setting coffee.

“Seriously? Focus on me!”

“That’s what you expect? After how much these cost?”

Plus, skin grows back.

I mean, really.

Any strong relationship hinges on the partners’ abilities to determine when it’s best to just take the bullet–literally, if necessary–to protect some ridiculously expensive, beloved possession.

At least that’s what I learned when I was growing up.

***

Regardless of the accident, either Laura or I was sworn to secrecy until the guilty parental unit could appropriately cover their tracks–usually with one or both of us running interference in the interim. Had we only realized the potential for blackmail, perhaps we’d have capitalized on the opportunities a bit more.

Oh, you don’t want Mom to find out about you smashing the Fairmont door, huh?”

“Yes, dear son, I’ll do anything!”

“Well, you’re in luck! It’ll only cost you a MASK car and the G.I. Joe helicopter set. And maybe my sporadic ten dollar monthly allowance could actually be monthly.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll get them immediately! And consider your allowance raised!”

*Doe eyes activate, scraped knee transforms into an arterial wound. Run to Mom.*

“MOM! I need your help. I hurt myself!” *Fake tears. Fake, lucrative tears.*

Instead, I’d stupidly nod, completely forgetting about the groundings I’d endured for breaking things in the house.

Usually, though, the guilty party could only stall for so long.

After all, doe eyes can’t quite explain why the van is being parked at an odd angle, facing away from the house. Or why the kitschy rabbit bowl looks like it got a harecut from the scalp up.

Still, the occasional case slipped under the radar unnoticed. Like The Case of the Defaced Table.

***

Every room needs an anchor piece. And a dining room table grounds more than the dining experience–it’s there to bring the family together.

Like the stairs Laura and I wanted in our new-old home, the table I’d imagined was something of a dream: a dramatic, claw-footed monstrosity large enough for two people to sit at either end and never know that one of them had farted.

I’d envisioned butlers scurrying down one side with foie gras, up the other with rosemary mashed potatoes.

Actually, Sebastian, tonight I’ll have the trifle, I’d practiced saying, experimenting with a dismissive hand wave to the imaginary platter of pickled quail eggs he’d likely offer up.

Visions of grand galas danced around in my head as Laura and I waited for our parents to cart their treasure home from the auction.

And soon, my dream was writ tangible: Long and darkly-stained with Chippendale accents, the table didn’t disappoint–it was an imposing piece that almost demanded a constant barrage of five-course dinners.

Set up in all its glory, the table’s two inch clearance on either end didn’t grant us a lot of room to overindulge at dinner. So one of the table leaves was removed, being relegated to an upstairs walk-in closet until it was needed for holiday gatherings.

In the meantime, I waited for Sebastian. But I soon realized his place was taken by my parrot-sibling Scooby, who’d oversee the entire room from his window-side perch, and toss food unfit for his consumption to the dog, usually before narrowing his beady eyes and turning a feathery cold shoulder to us all.

Still, we really could’ve used a scapegoat like Sebastian to assume the blame for the incident.

***

Especially with kids in the picture, a dining room table never really serves as just a place to eat. It’s a landing strip for everything–bookbags, magazines, general teenage angst.

And one day, it got the brunt of some tear-inducing math homework.

Once she’d finished figuring out what X really equaled out to be, Laura lifted up her paper to see the equation–hashed out in its entirety–inscribed into the table top. It seemed the imposing table had an Achilles’ heel after all: a soft, supple, easily defiled shell.

Like she did when sensing an imminent teenage fight, Mom materialized. Saw the table. And wept.

Only after she realized multiple Old English treatments weren’t doing a thing, she formulated another plan.

“Alright. Laura, help me pull the table apart so we can take out the leaf. Matthew, go upstairs and get the other one.”

We each assumed our roles, and before we knew it, the blighted leaf was removed and replaced by its mint-condition doppelganger.

“Now, get a blanket, and we’ll roll this one up and put it in the van. If your father asks where the other leaf is, just say we put it up in the attic.”

Days later, the jacked-up leaf was taken somewhere only Mom knew about, and didn’t reappear until a few weeks later.

Even before we surreptitiously put it back into the table, I could tell something was off. And so could Mom.

“It. Looks. Purple!”

She was right. It seemed the stain the woodworkers used to match the existing stain was only a few shades lighter than mauve.

For fear that another trip would result in an even worse treatment, Mom swore us to secrecy.

And reminded us every Thanksgiving thereafter to “Take care of the table.”

Wink wink. Nudge nudge.

So, every year, we did everything possible to veil the blemished leaf. And to ensure Dad’s wine glass was always full.

But one Thanksgiving, our plan got even more complicated.

As had become customary, Mom and I started pulling the table apart as Laura ran up to get the purplish leaf. But the table had been locked in place for so long, it wasn’t cooperating. So I figured exerting a little pressure wouldn’t hurt.

But after one hard tug, a disgusting crrrrrrrreakkkkch rang out and the table lurched.

From the other end of the table, Mom’s palor trended toward deathly white.

I crouched and looked underneath.

“Oooh, uh. Er. Sorry?”

“I don’t want to know. Just deal with it.”

Laura reappeared with the other leaf, and we situated everything as we had years prior. After we finished and Mom left the room, I pulled Laura aside.

“Hey, don’t worry about the leaf. I just broke the whole goddamned pedestal off one end. Don’t tell Dad.”

More winks. More nudges. Family togetherness.

***

Soon enough, The Case joined others: the cases of The Decimated Bison Skull, The Ear-less Easter Rabbit Bowl, The Shattered Mother’s Day Column, and The Obliterated Faberge Egg.

Only after a few details from these formerly anonymously-authored stories seeped into conversation, usually in a wine-fueled context and prefaced with “You remember that time…” did we start realizing that we tried to trick each other fairly routinely.

And I realized that maybe, just maybe, my maternal grandmother was right about one thing.

“Well, Matt. The family may not have the money to back it up in the traditional sense of the word, but you’re all eccentric.”

I’d rolled my eyes over the phone, nodding and wrapping a curl around my finger.

Because I’d long thought that we’d had a fairly traditional childhood.

But after asking friends if they’d had similar experiences with such subterfuge, and receiving quizzical looks in response, I realized that maybe we were a little odd.

Eccentric, nonetheless.

North Carolina’s Body Politic: A Cadaverous Stump?

You know how everyone’s extended family has at least one raging drunk tucked into the mix? Who always totters around family gatherings, slurring their words, eating all the pinwheel sandwiches, and standing up and toasting at the most inopportune times, usually without their pants?

Well, I just saw mine on the news, and stared slack-jawed at the television screen.

And hung my head in shame, muttering, “Jesus. Get ahold of yourself!” as the newscast droned on about her latest antics.

But it’s not Aunt Patty making headlines tonight.

It’s my former home state: North Carolina.

***

Not only has North Carolina’s Republican majority routinely walked out of the Houses without their proverbial pants, but they seemed to have forgotten a little something else.

No, not the pantyhose tucked into their underwear. The Constitution.

With every slash the Republican majority makes to Medicaid, to voter rights, to LGBTQ rights, to women’s rights, to immigrant rights, to environmental protection, to religious freedom, North Carolina’s body politic is resembling a cadaverous stump.

Republican-authored legislation has been hemorrhaging minority rights at such alarming rates, it’s difficult to identify suitable tourniquets. But even when citizens apply pressure to quell the bleeding, they’re rewarded with handcuffs.

The most recent legislative lunacy evidences the callous disregard the Republican majority has for the rights of those “others” who don’t line their pockets with dirty money.

Who work and work and work for a better future, and are constantly feeling the swift breeze of so many doors slamming in their faces.

Who are just trying to get by.

Who just want a legal ID that reflects their gender identity.

Who just want to govern their own reproductive organs.

Who just want to marry the person they love.

Who just want to be acknowledged.

Who just want peace and balance, with a touch of order.

Who just want a state that takes into account all of its constituents, not just the wealthiest or whitest.

***

Before long, the newscast shifts to the weather, and I stare back down at the stack of papers on the cafe table, and think about our Disunited States.

How absurd it is that, after crossing state lines, the stories of minorities retaining civil rights read like chapters from The Lord of the Flies.

How foolish it is for there not to be blanket protections for all citizens–that gender identity, socioeconomic class, sex, and ethnicity are still such divisive topics, and often limit the rights extended to a state’s constituents.

It’s a sad time in our country when the drunk relative becomes the role model.

When a raucous few are rewarded for pouring them another, and the cab called by a concerned majority leaves empty.

When I don’t regret leaving a state I once loved.