conte [issue two - Intro to Narrative]

“Car after bus after car after truck,
After this my lungs will be so fucked up.”
~Cake, Carbon Monoxide

Near the vending machines is a large yellow puddle that no one’s in any hurry to clean up. A broken juice cap nearby reveals that the diseased-looking pond is just orange juice. Still, people are making every effort to put as much distance between themselves and what could easily pass for the piss break of some hobo. At the same time, no one’s complaining or anything, because this is Philadelphia’s bus station to New York and New Jersey. And no one from New York or New Jersey is about to complain about something miniscule like piss on the floor.

It’s 6:30 am and I’m alive on 2 hours of broken sleep acquired during the trip from Pittsburgh. I call my parents who have jobs, and are therefore awake. I tell my dad that I’m going to have to rely on etiquette and charm to get this job- I don’t know jack about marketing.

“No one knows anything about marketing.” My dad says. “You’ve got to actually work in marketing to learn anything about it.”

Vending machine coffee tastes like shit, and I tell him so. He tells me it’s probably better just to wait to get to New York to buy some coffee. New York has good coffee. Say what you want about Pittsburgh- at least their bus station had a café that you could hang out in. At least their bus station was bigger than a living room. And the poor people of Philadelphia don’t know it, but they’ve become the enemy. Everyone in my way, no matter how big or small.

The luggage attendant.

All of them are my enemies. Erin says that I’m becoming Holden Caufield- that I’m just sick of everyone and getting worse and worse at hiding it. It’s easy to lose patience with people when you’re a graduating theater major.

The job is with a marketing firm that somehow liked my resume. Weird, but not entirely unpleasant. All I have going for me are writing skills and people skills. And I’m hoping that the firm hires me before my people skills run dry. I just need to get out of this city before I snap. I’ve read that Philadelphia was almost the nation’s capital, and I can’t say I’m surprised they changed their minds. The attitude and general feeling that one gets from this place is one of unrest. The security guards in the station are jaded and short-tempered. I can’t remember a single smile anywhere I’ve ever gone in Philadelphia that wasn’t caused by monetary compensation. It’s no wonder a revolution was planned here: everyone’s constantly on edge. I can imagine John Adams and Thomas Jefferson sitting around, pissed off, and getting news about the latest tax increase.

“A .25% increase for olive loaf? Those bastards! You’re going down, George!”

And thus America was born out of hatred for King George and all his assorted processed meats. This is not such a crazy idea when you’re tired and nervous and in one of the craziest cities in America. Note that here, “craziest” is not intended to mean “darling” or “out there”. I dislike Philadelphia because it seems to dislike me.

When I get to New York, I race to the nearest bathrooms in the Port Authority and change into my new black suit. It’s still got tags in it as this is the first time I’ve ever worn it. Dressing in a men’s room stall is an act of balance and patience. I’m sliding from one side to the other in my black wool socks, desperately trying to avoid falling onto the filthy tile floor. A line has formed outside, and some walking, talking stereotype is banging on my door and saying “’Ey- come ann! Dere’s a line out ‘ere!” While all this is happening, the Benny Hill theme plays incessantly in my head. When I finally stumble out, I go to a nearby mirror to make sure everything’s in order. I look alert enough- not washing my hair has given me some natural oil that makes me look put together and groomed. By this evening I’ll just look greasy. My suit is black with a white shirt- no frills. The idea is to look professional. With my rolling suitcase dragging steadily behind me, I look more like a pilot.

To suggest that I’m not here to apply for theater jobs is untrue. On top of the marketing job, I’m here to be interviewed for two internships- both working in the theater. However, both are business jobs: one for a company that plans and executes theatrical entertainment and events for large corporations, the other for a group that funds and plans out the road tours of major Broadway shows. Essentially, both are jobs that I can say, “Yeah, I work in the theater- but I get paid a buttload to do it.” I’m no longer in the mood to suffer for my art. Screw bohemia- I need a job

The rejection letter I will get from Barkley-Kaplan and Associates a week and a half later will say that they are pleased to inform me that they have chosen a candidate perfect for their internship. The only way you can tell that it’s a rejection letter is from the fact that they never mention that the new intern isn’t you. It would have been interesting to break the time-space continuum and have a copy of that rejection with you in the past, because the company didn’t seem like they were full of shit. Their namby-pamby method of rejection, however, proves this to be largely untrue.