| Monday April 10, 2000 I have a job interview! Finally!
The ad read:
COMPUTER SUPPORT PROFESSIONAL: Join a team that supports R&D
business units and major technology programs. Diversified, hands-on background in NT,
Novell, Mac's Win 95 & 98, network connectivity, workstation and server. Background in
servicing a scientific community is a plus.
And the e-mail I sent read:
The requirements listed in your ad for a Computer Support Professional
servicing the scientific community match my qualifications quite well.
In 1997 and 1998 during my assignments at Eastman Kodak and Danka I worked closely with
several technology engineering departments. In 1998 and 1998 at the University of
Rochester Medical Center, I frequently worked with biomedical researchers and engineers in
the Medical School.
What I learned in those two assignments, was that scientists and engineers are a different
breed and need special handling and care. What impressed them about me was my knowledge of
their requirements and my ability to speak their language. While technology is my career,
science is my avocation. I subscribe to the online editions of the peer-review journals Science
and Nature in addition to being a longtime subscriber to the more layman-oriented
Scientific American.
While I have no industry certifications, I have many years of experience. My experience
with NT Server and Novell are primarily with light administration, (user accounts, print
queues and such) and I worked with Macs at both Eastman Kodak and the medical school. On
the workstation side, beyond experience at work with Windows 9X and NT, I've run NT
Workstation 4 on my home PC since Beta 2.
I think I can bring unique abilities to this position which will make the client pleased
to have chosen [contracting firm] as their vendor. I can interview on fairly short notice
and can start immediately.
Both the contract house and the job site are on bus routes and the
interview with the contract house is on Wednesday afternoon. Wish me luck!
The downside of getting an interview was getting a haircut. Although no one else cared for
it, I liked my hair long. It was down to the middle of my shoulder blades and now
it’s back to the corporate-drone cut. Of course Mondays are the traditional
hairdressers’ day off. But have no fear. A friend of Derrell’s cuts hair from
his home now that he can no longer do it full-time. Three hours after phoning I was
asking, “Can we save all that and glue it on top?” If I don’t get this job
I’ll scream. No, actually, I feel better just getting an interview after all this
time.
In answer to the question Von asked in her entry today, I’ve only
been “browsing” for apartments. It’s hard to make a decision or commitment
when I don’t know how much I’ll be able to afford or what my living situation
will be. Nor have I decided whether I want to live alone or have a roommate. And if with a
roommate, would it be Jeffrey or a stranger? Of course you can predict I’m liable to
go with the devil I know…
My lease isn’t up until the end of May, although I’d rather move on the weekend
of the 20th and 21st. So I have time yet. There’s a large
student population around here and the neighborhood is simply festooned with “For
Rent” signs.
Von, you and everyone else can rest assured that I won’t become homeless. The
worst-case scenario is that I’ll put the bulk of my stuff in storage and rent a room
from Jeffrey’s mother for a few weeks. It’s not the best of neighborhoods, the
situation there is unstable and already beyond tense. And I would have to install and be
responsible for phone and cable. (You don’t think I’d give up my cable modem, do
you?) Trust me, the situation would have to become very grim before that would happen.
Another bright spot is that
Jeffrey has found a job - as a part-time banquet server at the Hyatt-Regency. (!) Can you
imagine? “Hi. I’m Danger-Boy and I’ll be your server tonight.” 
He won’t know for sure until tomorrow if he’ll need to cut his hair or not, nor
has he decided if he will or he won’t. The agency he’s using has other contracts
where he may or may not have to cut it. It’s a big decision for him considering his
self-image and persona for over 20 years has been a longhair.
The simple fact that he’s considering cutting his hair, presently down to the middle
of his back, is a good indicator of his desire to change his life. Despite the fact that
he’s still been unable to get his prescriptions filled, he’s been doing
surprisingly well recently.
Yes, he did go on a guilt-induced and mania-enhanced bender Friday and Saturday, (alcohol
not cocaine). I spent the wee hours of Sunday morning holding him as he cried and wondered
if he should check himself back in to inpatient. It was after dawn by the time he’d
cried it all out. Then he slept for 12 hours. With rest he had regained stability (and
sobriety) and he worked through a lot of it at group today.
Still, I no longer doubt his commitment or ability to turn things around. He’s not
getting all the support (read: meds) he needs, group fills only 20 of the 168 hours of the
week and, like it or not, I’m part of his problem. Frankly, I think he’s doing
as well as he can right now and it’s a whole lot better than I ever expected.
As for me, I read only three
books last week. I see it as a move back towards reality. I also signed up for another
course at Writers and Books. This one is called
“Memoir and Autobiography” and it meets on Saturday mornings starting on the 29th.
I wrestled with the decision for quite some time because although I think I met my goal of
writing better, I’ve become intimidated by achieving that very goal.
It’s a very old pattern with me. The perfectionism that was beat into me (literally)
growing up mutated into a strange logic. Anything worth doing is worth doing well. If it
can’t be done well don’t start because not doing something at all is better than
doing it poorly. Hence, fewer entries since I started the last course.
And yes, I know it’s stupid, twisted and self-defeating. I’m trying to get over
it. Bear with me, okay? Even my issues have issues.
In between reading too much and writing too little, I have managed a bit of stock-taking.
It’s not gone well. I wasn’t so much scared as bewildered that recently I
couldn’t answer the question, “What do I want out of life?”
The long and short of it is that I don’t know, other than to say happiness. And yes,
true happiness comes only from within. But the choices we make in our lives influence our
inner happiness. I don’t know which choices are most influential or which among the
many options to choose.
And now I’m feeling nauseous over this job interview…
Morning, Wednesday April 12, 2000
At his request, there will be no further entries about Jeffrey or any of
my interactions with him.
Early evening, Friday April 14, 2000
Jeffrey has given me permission to write this. [As
usual, my editorializations are in green and within brackets. Think of this as a press
release.]
He is physically ill, possibly seriously, and no, it’s not HIV. [Thank
heavens.] Beyond that, he’s not had access to his meds so he’s not
feeling well upstairs “at all.” [Further he says,]
“I’m getting help and going somewhere I can.”
[He said to say,] “I appreciate hands down, up and down
and all around the respect and appreciation of Jean and Marty [the
foster parents of Jeffrey Jr.]. They mean a lot to us because they can do for mine
what I cannot.
“I mean no harm, want no harm and ask for none. All I want is love. I don’t want
to fight any more.”
[It’s for these reasons, among others, I’ve agreed not to
write about him or our interactions in the journal without his prior approval of subject
and content.]
Thank heavens I’m not having auditory hallucinations along with all my other mental disturbances, (trust me on this, one wonders.)
I’ve been concerned because since February, because every so often the doorbell rings
and there’s no one there when I get downstairs. It’s a wireless doorbell and I
chalked it up to either the weather, that it’s defective, or worse, haunted.
Nope. Late last night when it rang, as usual there was no one there. When I stepped out
onto the porch to examine it I saw someone standing on the steps two doors down. Watching
out of the corner of my eye, I saw him press the doorbell. My doorbell rang. Problem
solved! I changed the code settings in the doorbell. I wonder if my doorbell has been
driving the other people just as crazy as theirs has me?
The job interview on
Wednesday did not go well. First, the interviewer took phone calls during the interview,
which is never a good sign. Second, the agency has “a relationship” with another
agency where I worked and I had issues with them. A quick cross-check will reveal we
parted amidst mucho mutual animosity. I’m writing it off.
Of course this set off a
major attack of the “poor me’s”. After five months without even getting a
interview, the first place that says, “Come on in for an interview” is connected
with a place where I never would, (nor could) work again.
And it simply cascaded from there. I can’t begin to describe exactly how worthless I
feel. Beyond that, I’m worried about where and how I’ll live after unemployment
runs out. You’ll notice I’ve managed to convince myself it will run out before I
get a job, even one wearing a paper hat.
Coupled with not knowing were I want to go with life, or even why it should matter,
I’m a mess. Even though I owe her $50 from our last visit in November, I called my
shrink today. I got the machine, but she usually doesn’t work on Fridays anyway. I
learned from Jeffrey exactly what I need to do should a crisis occur. If it gets to that,
I will. But I need to discuss this face-to-face with someone who can objectively decide
what I should do, and more importantly, who help show me how to do it.
Saturday April 15, 2000
Something switched back on in my body yesterday. Half a casserole at
dinner didn’t do it. Over the course of the evening I consumed a further four
sandwiches, ham and swiss on whole wheat, a half-dozed chocolate-chip cookies and a candy
bar.
I was doing some packing yesterday and it occurred to me that I really don’t have
much to pack. It took me 12 hours to pack everything when I moved here, and three hours
start to finish for the movers. And that included figuring out how to wrestle the credenza
in here, (removing doors and the handrail from the back stairs) and determining the
sofabed wouldn’t fit without the aid of a chainsaw.
My acquisitions since then have been two futons, three paintings and the kitchen set I
purchased from the previous tenant. I’ve thinned out a lot of stuff in the past year.
Books, CDs, clothing, a mountain of files and several boxes of old computer junk have all
found their way to the curb or elsewhere.
Sunday April 16, 2000
On Tuesday, Von wrote to me, (in part):
As for the hair... here is a bit of VonWisdom: Sometimes bad karma sticks around.
Sometimes the bad karma sticks to your old hair. Getting it cut off is not a bad thing.
Not that it will fix everything that is wrong with your life, but ya know, it can't hurt
She may be right.
Yesterday’s weather was straight out of the late-May playbook. The high was in the
lower 70s, low humidity, light breeze and a few puffy clouds gave the sky some interest.
The heavy scent of freshly mown lawn wafted through the windows for the first time this
year.
As day gave way to night the warmth of the day lingered and the late-spring illusion
continued. The smells of yard work gave way to that of steaks, hamburgers, onions, chicken
and ribs as, barbecues alight, to the sounds of laughter, music and conversation, the
neighborhood gathered on its porches.
It was just the kind of springtime night that brings the boys out.
I decided that rather than finish the Saturday entry I’d begun earlier, a night on
the town was in order. The words could wait. Boys in the first rut of the season
won’t.
Not wanting to carry a jacket for the walk home and still thinking of the lawns, I donned
a dark-green long-sleeved Bugle Boy shirt, rolled up the sleeves, slid into a pair of
tattered 505s, and set out for the bar.
The neighborhood had quieted down; a few couples lingered with their beers on the porches.
As I expected, the bar was packed. It took several minutes of strategizing and maneuvering
to find enough space at the bar to squeeze a hand and a ten-dollar bill through the
bodies.
Waiting to catch the bartender’s attention, I felt someone brush my ass. I thought
nothing of it considering it was impossible to move without brushing several asses. A
second time, this one a fondle with firm intent. I turned and saw the hand belonged to a
woman. “Oh great,” I thought.
“Hi. I’m Debbie,” she slurred.
Wonderful. A drunken lesbian mistakes my new haircut as that of a butch dyke. I’m
gonna shoot that hairdresser.
“Hi, I’m Bruce,” I answered.
“And this is my friend Ronnie. He thinks you have a great ass.”
“Hi Ronnie, I’m Bruce. Good to meet you.” The bartender tapped my hand. I
ordered a Coke and turned back.
“You have a great smile too,” cooed Ronnie. Hint of a Caribbean accent.
Debbie, her task apparently completed, melted away into the crowd. I left the bartender a
tip, pocketed my change, sipped my Coke and considered my good fortune.
I’d noticed Ronnie at karaoke several times before. He sang a duet with a woman last
Saturday. A gregarious sort, he hangs out mostly with the lesbians and I’d put him in
the “Unobtainable” category. Eye-candy, no hope for a balding middle-aged fag.
He’s a half-head shorter than I, usually wears a cut-off tank top and cargo pants to
show off a body that’s a step beyond defined but doesn’t look gym-sculpted. He
sports a haircut that screams “early 20s” atop face composed of dark eyes and a
wide mouth that pushes huge dimples up his high cheekbones when he smiles. The smile, more
of a toothy grin, set against a café-au-lait complexion that comes only from genetics
rather than a tanning bed.
During which, my internal shy-guy blossomed in full force. I felt myself redden, sweat
breaking out everywhere, a dopey grin on my face.
“Let’s move over there so we can talk,” he suggested, indicating a wee bit
of space by the bowling machine.
“I hope you don’t think I’m too forward,” he continued. “But when
I want something, I go after it. I find you very attractive,” he purred.
Flattery will get you everywhere.
We explored each other a while, through both conversation and touch. His accent
intoxicating, his skin like velvet.
I confessed I was feeling awkward due to the shock, my shyness and being considerably out
of practice. He thought it intriguing.
Later I bought him a beer. He coaxed me out to the dance floor and didn’t seem to
mind that I dance like a dork. He dances like sex standing up. Still, gentlemanly, he
bought me another Coke afterwards.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
Rejoicing, I thought, "This is getting down to business."
“Over by the Forum. And you?”
“I have an apartment off Monroe near Fat-Cats,” he answered.
Alarm bells, sirens, klaxons sounding; lights flashing, flare guns shooting rockets.
Now I got down to business: “Do you get high?” I queried.
“You mean coke? Oh no. I’ve never touched the stuff.”
“Trust me on this,” I advised. “Don’t ever touch the stuff. I this
know from experience.”
Good. That didn’t seem to scare him off. Acceptance.
Later he asked, “Did you drive?”
“No, it’s a short walk and such a nice night. Did you drive or walk?”
“I drove. Are you about ready?”
It was only 11:30. We downed our drinks and he led me to a freshly scrubbed four-door
Saturn of recent vintage. Still evaluating, I thought, “Maybe money, maybe good
credit and dopers usually drive older two-door Accords or Civics.”
His apartment brought a strong sense of deja vu. A friend had lived there in the early
80s. It's a huge two-bedroom, formal dining room, and furnished just as lavishly as when I
was last in it nearly 20 years ago. All the lights were on and reggae softly bounced from
the stereo.
“Oh, my cousin’s still home. I share this place with her.”
She was ironing in the kitchen and looked like a gospel singer. After introductions she
told me, “I hope you ain’t no murderer, ’cause I got a 22 caliber shotgun
in the bedroom.”
“No, I’m not a murderer,” I assured her. “And it’s either a 22
caliber rifle or a shotgun. There’s no such thing as a 22 caliber shotgun.”
“Gotta be a rifle then,” she harrumphed.
She finished her ironing, dressed and went out.
Given he has a good job, a nice car, a lavishly furnished apartment and a protective
gun-totin’ cousin, I figured I could expect my wallet and watch to be in the same
place in the morning as I left them when Ronnie and I went upstairs later.
They were. |
