That I Would Be Good

Chapter Sixteen

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.” ― Aristotle

       A few months after I graduated from Hell Hole High I moved to New York, with the little bit of money I had from my graduation party, in hopes of finding something there to keep me busy.  Living in my own house with my parents was still too difficult with the thought of Fritz not being there.  None of us had recovered from it completely, but could you ever recover from something like that?

       I had zero talents though to make it in New York.  I couldn’t do Broadway since that involved singing, dancing or acting.  Okay maybe I could act, but I couldn’t sing or dance and I didn’t go to a school of fine arts and Broadway was heavy on those types of people.

       No four year degree in business meant no job at a big business.  I wouldn’t have enjoyed that anyways.  I hated paperwork and I think my lack of doing homework proved that.

      That only occupation left being a waitress and all those other miniunum wage and below jobs.  Seeing as the aspiring play-writes, actors, singers, and critics took up those jobs, I had to dig through the newspaper for something else.

      Dolores had an ad in the paper looking for an assistant to help her write and edit her work before sending it in to her publisher, and I jumped right on it.  Little did I know no body, and I mean no body, wanted this job.  It was worse than working in the sewers or subway, even though it paid twice as much and you had free rent. 

     Why would no body want this job?  Because Dolores is crazy, rude and just plain old mean.  But it worked for me since I wasn’t the nicest person in the world either. 

      When I got interviewed I knew nothing about writing, but that didn’t seem to matter to her.  She just wanted someone to run her errands for her.  The “help with writing and editing” part of the ad was a lie to bring an aspiring writer in to go get her 2% white milk from her specialty store.  

       After a ten minute interview I had the job.  Not once after that though did I get asked to read or write anything for Dolores, besides the few lines of characters in accents.  Not until she asked me to read that one piece and I left the note on it. 

     Nine months later I still don’t know a thing about writing.  I do know how to make the perfect pot of raspberry tea though and how to keep a hyperactive dog quiet.  This is what my life was now.

       Keeping in contact with my parents was hard and didn’t last long.  When first coming to New York I’d call every day checking up on them and telling them about my job hunt.  But once I got involved with Dolores my phone calls came less and less frequently.  Now they were lucky to get a call from me once a month.

     It wasn’t that I was trying to avoid them like I had a little over a year before.  I did want to talk with them, but I didn’t have the time and it was awkward.  Whenever we spoke you could tell that things weren’t right.  Like something was going over the others head. 

      The things we talked about were like things you’d talk about with a complete stranger… and I guess you could say we were strangers.  We all had our own lives and there was no room for the other in them.

     

      “Elodey!” Dolores screeched, making me wince.  I was sitting in one of the two chairs she kept in her office for Barry and Harold. 

       “No need to yell. I’m right here and not you,” I grumbled, rubbing my ears.  She shot me an annoyed look from her spot in front of the typewriter.  I returned her look and took a sip of my hot coco.