An Old Memory
An old memory has been haunting my memory as of late...that of a manager at Denny's in Las Cruces (Shush, it paid the rent thank you very much--not much else though). Anywho, while getting my MA I moonlighted there.
That was also the semester I got into Stony Brook.
I knew I was moving to New York. I was elated. The desert was fun, but my time was on a proverbial time line...when I told my manager, or really he heard through the grape vine as someone had seen me celebrating at a bar the weekend before, he was filled with disgust. He called me into his office and said, "I heard you're going to NY."
"Yup." I was still smiles.
"Have you even been there?"
"Yea, in..."
Cutting me off, "Well, I don't think you really know. I took my daughter there and when I asked for directions a cop told me he didn't know, that everything takes an hour or more, and I was told to 'fuck off' by people on the street." At this point manager man was pretty much yelling at me and pointing his finger at me. "I don't think you've thought this out. People are rude there and no one will help you. I just thought you should know that."
Needless to say I asked him if he wanted two weeks since I knew how he felt. His response, "just leave your apron. We don't need your kind here."
Funny thing, NYers aren't as assholey as we are made to be. He probably got that reaction from his dickwad stance, shaved head, and over compensating body. Then again, he was shagging a waitress. Perhaps I should also mention he is the doppelganger for a boyfriend I'd known a few years before 'Cruces.
Why that memory still lurks and lingers I'm not sure. The point...I'm not sure. Memories have funny ways of unfolding themselves, when we least expect, and jarring us from a present reality. Sitting to the mindless rocking of the subway I'm looking around and hearing the endless scraps of conversation about last night, someone's hedge fund, a literal hand in the cookie jar, a growth (in a place you shouldn't be discussing in public), and dinner plans.
I do think I have a point. I need to remember my subway read, not leave it sitting on the bookshelf, and that I shouldn't be left alone with my own thoughts. The latter is always dangerous.
That was also the semester I got into Stony Brook.
I knew I was moving to New York. I was elated. The desert was fun, but my time was on a proverbial time line...when I told my manager, or really he heard through the grape vine as someone had seen me celebrating at a bar the weekend before, he was filled with disgust. He called me into his office and said, "I heard you're going to NY."
"Yup." I was still smiles.
"Have you even been there?"
"Yea, in..."
Cutting me off, "Well, I don't think you really know. I took my daughter there and when I asked for directions a cop told me he didn't know, that everything takes an hour or more, and I was told to 'fuck off' by people on the street." At this point manager man was pretty much yelling at me and pointing his finger at me. "I don't think you've thought this out. People are rude there and no one will help you. I just thought you should know that."
Needless to say I asked him if he wanted two weeks since I knew how he felt. His response, "just leave your apron. We don't need your kind here."
Funny thing, NYers aren't as assholey as we are made to be. He probably got that reaction from his dickwad stance, shaved head, and over compensating body. Then again, he was shagging a waitress. Perhaps I should also mention he is the doppelganger for a boyfriend I'd known a few years before 'Cruces.
Why that memory still lurks and lingers I'm not sure. The point...I'm not sure. Memories have funny ways of unfolding themselves, when we least expect, and jarring us from a present reality. Sitting to the mindless rocking of the subway I'm looking around and hearing the endless scraps of conversation about last night, someone's hedge fund, a literal hand in the cookie jar, a growth (in a place you shouldn't be discussing in public), and dinner plans.
I do think I have a point. I need to remember my subway read, not leave it sitting on the bookshelf, and that I shouldn't be left alone with my own thoughts. The latter is always dangerous.
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