If nothing else, our continuing search for Something Better will (at least) dull the pain of these current positions, which are best filed under Not Good Enough.

As winter ends, we barely have our sea legs as we wobble into March. Somehow, the seasons matter less this year.

I didn’t make any resolutions this time, but I did stop wondering What If, and then I really started to see.

This is a good year to undo everything that has been. The idea here is living. The methods are not as important as the results.

The summer after I finished the internship, I took a position in Virginia

and told myself I couldn’t wait for something to open up

around home, which was neither true nor accurate.

(By then, I didn’t have a home–just a place where I slept at night.)

It took a week to get my bearings–to figure out my commute,

judge the local places, maybe find kindred spirits.

At quitting time the third Friday, I drove east, winding along back roads between

the Rappahannock and York Rivers.

I parked where the pavement ended, took off my socks and shoes,

and walked over small dunes to reach the water.

The Chesapeake Bay was vast and cold, but when I closed

my eyes, I was young again.

The ocean was infinite and we could be anything we wanted

I didn’t think about the eastern shore on the other side,

the last division between the known and possibility.

The sun was behind me as I traced the horizon’s blue line north and south,

and everything was quiet.

I stood there for a while, the cold water lapping against my shins.

I watched the dark blue water and wondered what could

happen in the years ahead.

It was a long time before I found home again, and it changed

locations a few times.

A few thousand days later, I turned the glass inward.

I had been walking in the wrong direction.

The drive takes a little longer now, and I don’t always

know where the winding roads lead.

Every weekend I die and am born again.

I stand there and close my eyes while everything goes quiet.

The ocean is limitless again.

I wanted to hit pause on everything

to back away and see what these two months of winter

had done. Nobody else got the memo, though.

So, instead, I kept going.

I stayed up late at night and thought about from whence the

drive had sprung.

I decided that the answer was inside all along.

We’ve always known what moves us; what separates is the

courage to do so.

All this time passed and we don’t know and we never knew

why things fell the way they did.

After a while, it didn’t matter.

In the grand scheme, we know what burns inside.

We know what matters.

I didn’t make any resolutions this year.

I decided to just try to do some things I always wanted. I decided to live.

The dream buried deeply will still be felt

until we abandon everything.

I won’t do it.

What I’ve found in these weeks looking has changed me

more than the years I spent not.

I hope everyone sees what I can see.

So, let’s keep driving these winding roads.

What lies around the bend is lasting.

I started working at fifteen, in the most accessible work sector available: fast food. Technically, I was working a few years before then, but they were jobs that anybody would enjoy. Scratch that: a paper route in Montana wasn’t exactly ideal. Mom and Dad ended up helping me a lot. Long before a Polar Vortex, there was something called really fucking cold weather. This was something that happened frequently in Montana. The fast food jobs in my teenage years were the first tightly-structured jobs I held, but I worked a shit ton of jobs all the way through college. General retail, summer amphitheater shifts, ice cream shops, clothing retail, and more food. I stopped counting how many different jobs I worked. 

When I finally took a degree (achieved shortly after walking into my advisor’s office and saying, “I’ve got something like 160 credits; in what can I get a piece of paper?”), I retired from Academia for a few years and worked my “business” job in a casino. I was a complete fuck-up, but the money was nice. Actually, the money was great. Not too many of us worried about anything. We just kept working, earning, and spending. A few years later, what remained of my conscience whispered in its death rattle, “Do more.” I had seen enough of that particular type of business to last me for a while, if not permanently. Sadly, I didn’t have the kind of degree that promoted a direct transition into a structured career pathway. Which meant, of course, that I had to go back to school. So I did. The estranged folks I met on this second undergrad experience were phenomenal people (No worries; I’ll revisit them later), and we stammered through the ether darkly, to arrive at additional academic ends at which points we waded into Academia.

It didn’t take long to realize a well-known truth: Academia generally doesn’t pay. Not at all. After that first year, I started working odd jobs again. What I thought might be “just for the summer” became more of a “just because I need to make an actual living” necessity. Enter the Second Job Era. At some point, I wandered back into food, but not just any kind of food.

It’s simple, really. I sling cheese steaks. To the uninitiated, it’s the Food Industry. Au contraire, my friends. You will get no corporately-induced pandering. This is no jackoff restaurant conglomerate. If we’re wearing flair, it’s ’cause we’re weird. Okay, we have matching t-shirts. That’s about it.

There’s four of us on deck, and when I’m on the grill, I’m making music and film references as often as possible. We laugh. A lot. Oh, we’ll acknowledge you when you come in. We’ll say Hi.  We’ll chit-chat with you. We’re not robots. We don’t hate life. Fuck, man. We are happy to see you, because without your cash, we’re not doing much. I’ll give you the Bro nod. However, the love affair ends shortly after that.This is still business, kid.

The menu’s easy to read.

You don’t have to squint, dipshit.

The font is fine.

And your options are consistent. You know what we have; don’t act like it’s a mystery.

First time here? Cool. Make eye contact with whichever one of us looks likely to be friendly that day. We’ll be honest with you.

Want egg? Yeah, I’ll put it on there, but I’ll mock you for it. Christ, look at your belly anyway. C’mon, man.

Bacon? Yeah, I love it too, but now all the grease from those strips is spreading over the rest of my real estate, and the wannabe vegetarian hipster who ordered right before you is nervous that his or her newfound food religion and life outlook will be murdered by their love of hurtful, vile beef and pork. Lookit that grill, pricks: you came to the wrong goddamn place for green eating. This here’s Thunderdome. See my spatulas? They bathe in blood all day, son. Hear that “shing, shing”? That’s how I clean my katanas. I don’t sheathe them. They’re always ready.

And don’t talk to us about fucking Philadelphia. Philly is a cool city to visit for a few days, but Philly is full of assholes who think Philly sports matter. Most of Philly’s city proper smells like a dumpster full of dead kids. Take your opinion about Philly cheesesteaks and cheese whiz and get the fuck out of here. This is Pittsburgh.

Now, if you’re cool? You’ll dig the fact that this is my second job. That’s right, sir or ma’am: I’m so industrious I want to work as many jobs as possible, just so I can be like you when you stumble into eateries like this one.

Look, you’re there anyway–we might as well be honest: job #1 probably sucked for both of us. Yours is worse than mine, though, which is why I’m on this side of the counter smiling while you stare slack-jawed at the menu–No, you don’t order by talking to me. What do you think this is, New York? Too many deli scenes from your sitcoms and bullshit shows, dude. Go to the register, where the rest of the folks are ordering. Honestly…you gotta be observant, B. Now, sit where you want. We’ll call your number, and if you’re not close by, we’ll walk it to you.

Dig that sandwich. Dig it. Forget your day job. Join in on our inane conversations. Offer your witticisms. Don’t be fooled, though–we’re not stupid. We just work another job.

Hell, we like it here. And while I won’t be here forever–as soon as my extra degrees offer some semblance of normal Americana, I’m most likely ghosting here in order to pursue my true passions–in the meantime? Let that food provide a little escape. That’s all we really want, anyway.

That, and two jobs.

I switched to Manhattans to dull the last month and talked to Bobby as he moved smoothly and parallel to the widescreen mirror above the bottles. He was polite, and seemed to be a little more tired than his smile let on, and it was idle talk, really, but it was much better than sitting on a couch twenty-six miles away, watching winter crawl slowly over the hillsides. Everything was white and gray and quiet, and I had to get out of the house.

I asked for Maker’s, and he questioned the vermouth,  which, without, the drink was nicer than what I used to make at home, but had more bite. I thought about the balance of these elements, and the first drink went down moderately. I wasn’t in a rush. We laughed about working extra jobs, and shook our heads at people in general. For some reason, it’s always a little more bearable when you know others also have to do a lot more than they’d like.

Maria from Rochester sat down and had a beer while she looked at the menu. She was in town for a week to train for a position she scored back home. I liked the way she said “Rah-chestah.” She was late forties, pretty, and she took care of herself. She smiled broadly, and it was obvious she liked to talk, so Bobby and I offered our opinions of good places to eat. We were appalled that her co-workers had sent her “to a gas station for lunch” (Cahn you believe that?). After a few drinks, the big thoughts came out, and we group-pondered the intricacies of work, play, love, and life in general. Maria’s husband called to make sure she was okay, but she made him wait for a few minutes before she called him back. “I called him earlieh, and I didn’t get him, so now he’s gotta wait for me,” she smirked. She talked about her sons, the importance of family, and how to really make relationships work. “I’ve been married twenty-seven years to him,” she said, smiling, as she picked up her phone and waved it.

“I love him to death. We have a nice life. We don’t always get along, but nobody does. That’s one thing younger couples don’t always get; you don’t constantly get the other person. Not all the time. We learned to pick our battles, and when we’re upset, we have it out, and then that’s that. You know you’re in love? You say what needs to be said, you pick yourselves up, and you keep going. It’s not easy, but it’s not as hard as people make it out to be.”

She had a lot to say about almost everything, and before it was time to call it a night, I thanked her for her time and for the conversation. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit here; we could use more like you in these Pittsburgh bars.”

On the way home the promised snow came in at a slant. I turned off the stereo and listened to the snow under my tires as I felt the weight of time passing.

Let’s sit facing each other

or side-by-side

and forget the day (or night)

for a little while;

let’s charm each other

with slight exaggerations and

sparkling eyes

while hoping for time to stop

altogether

during a long laugh,

denying the clock’s power

to affect our departure point.

the thoughts crept along all day
gnawing at me:
the way I haunt this place
killing time
and a little more of myself
every day;
I put them down in ink
smearing them
as I hurried to record
and destroy,
shoulders aching
from carrying their weight
too long,
forgetting form in order to
rifle them off
and let them bruise the paper
instead of the heart