What's Old Is New Again

Hey Higher Power,

Listen, I've heard about this "fork in the road" metaphor B.S. before, and I really can't wait to get to it. Because if this summer's letdown was spurred by the path I chose when there was a choice about where to be employed, it's leading me right back to the exact same fucking fork.

Let's see; last summer, I took a shitty door-to-door sales job and didn't find anything else until mid-August when I started at the waffle house. Shortly after taking that job, seemingly every single place I'd sought employment began ringing my cell phone off the hook to say things like, "I've got your application in my hands" and "If you're still looking for work ..."

And now this summer I took the first shitty door-to-door sales job I was offered and here we are, in mid-August again—back at the waffle house. Why do I get the queasy feeling that every place I sent resumes out to is suddenly going to be holding a copy in their hands when I'm now working my ass off? It's a fair question.

When I was finishing out what I thought would be my final days at the restaurant, they'd hired a hot young girl to replace me. Wondering why it took so long, I told myself, "Figures."

But now that I'm back at the pancake place for the time being, I'm getting to know her better and finding that the gig wasn't really all as evil and subhuman as I had made it out to be. And while I'd hope for something better, seeing as I, you know, fucking graduated and all, it's okay just being able to make some cash again. Money has that effect on you.

I've gotten to know a local cabbie who has had the incredible luck of driving me the short distance from the bar to my house on select weekend afternoons. Those occasions usually found me entirely shitfaced because I had just completely gotten my ass kicked all day at the restaurant and found the local barkeep—who claims he cannot function each day without getting stoned—makes me vicious Long Island Iced Teas ... or a variation of the recipe. Whereas a traditional Long Island uses a splash of Coke to offset its five other liquors and sour mix, my buddy behind the bar uses Chambord. If there's sour mix in it all, I sure as hell don't taste it.

When the cabbie and I last met, I detailed my pathetic summer of unemployment. He knew I was going to Columbia and had a career in radio himself. He keeps telling me to hound the Kane County Chronicle, for whom I had delivered papers as a kid. When he found out about my most recent string of luck—back at the restaurant, a shitty sales job—he shook his head and said very plainly, "How much are you going to let you distance yourself from what you really want to do?"

It's a good point, but here's the thing: I'm not really sure what exactly I want to do. Yes, writing would be ideal. But while that's pretty broad, so is my acceptable mediums I think I could be happy doing it for: newspaper, magazine, online. You get the idea.

For now, I'm content with just being employed again. I don't see how I would let myself be sucked into any great length of time back at the waffle house. And the simple pleasures of flirting with a girl 10 years less than me who doesn't flee in terror has me thinking that if the phone does start ringing like it should have two months ago, I'm not jumping immediately at the first "fork" I come across. The worst thing I could do would be going down another path of similar unhappiness that only ends up bringing me back to exactly the same place when I could have been satisfied still waiting for the right "fork" to present itself.