I couldn’t tell if Duncan’s speech was meant to be a pep talk or a cautionary tale. I’d been to my share of community board meetings with Vivienne—they were epics of tedium, like the Ring Cycle if the Ring Cycle were about the placement of recycling bins and Siegfried was an ancient crank with a fraying collar, sardine breath, and an encyclopedic memory of every neighbor who ever committed a violation. Those mind-numbing evenings were reason enough to get out of politics.
But that was the Upper East Side, where activism was mostly a matter of keeping out pesky waste transfer stations and homeless shelters. The Broadway Triangle was another world, one in dire need of revitalization (or vitalization, really). Unlike Vivienne’s constituents, the people there had real problems. As far as I was concerned, that could make for a nice change of pace. No question we’d have to prove ourselves, but between my diligence and Elliot’s gift for putting everyone at ease, I was confident we’d manage. Didn’t Duncan say we were far better prepared than he was when he started?
Duncan wished us luck and sent us off to make the world a better place. We figured The Customs House—that exquisitely conceived bar, which I now learned from the wrought-iron sign was actually a “cocktail club”—would be a quiet spot for a debrief. As it turned out, though, the place was full at three o’clock in the afternoon. On a Wednesday. Elliot and I stood in the doorway, gaping at the tableau before us. There were some single customers huddled over Macbooks, but you could find their kind at every last coffee shop and dive bar in Brooklyn. Harder to figure were the couples and families at leisure, each table its own magazine spread, the men a cross between lumberjacks (shirt, beard, build) and architects (glasses, wristwatch), the women manic pixie dream girls aging into earth mothers, the babies all dirty blonde curls and cerulean eyes, dunking Scandinavian-looking wood rattles in the bourbon milk punch.
Who were these people? What did they do for money? Were they all sculptors and chapbook publishers, as their looks and demeanors suggested? Or did they represent the latest leap in the evolution of the consultant, their brains percolating with new product names and pop-up concepts, racking up the billable hours as they nursed their Sazeracs and pisco sours? Waiting for a table to free up, I was struck by the strange realization that what separated me from them at that moment wasn’t money or status or the subtle accumulation of life choices, but rather the availability of seating. If we wanted to make this place our office, drafting budgets and work plans over devilled eggs from In It Together hens and artisanal moonshine from up the block, we could. We’d just have to show up a little earlier.
I looked over at Elliot, wondering if his thoughts ran along similar lines.
“I’ve got to go anyway,” he said. “It’s my shift at the daycare.”
Easy to forget the guy had a whole life, teeming with responsibilities, that I never saw. Easy to forget, really, a world outside The Customs House, outside Red Hook, existed, and most of the people in it were, right at that very moment, still at work, most likely resenting their jobs. Poor saps.
* * *
Next stop was supposed to be Gravesend to visit The Living Classroom. Duncan Donner may have been the godfather of youth farming in Brooklyn, but Linda Light was at another level of the pantheon altogether. She was the undisputed goddess of green, patron saint of slow food, queen bee of school gardens. No one associated with cuisine in America provoked stronger reactions. Is this bitch for real?—that was Tricia, watching Linda tell a bemused TV reporter that families in the inner city could afford to eat organic if they stopped spending all their money on cell phones and brand-name sneakers. The interview was shot in her home kitchen, and while she sounded off in an ethereal lilt, she lovingly coddled a single egg, holding it over a wood fire in a copper spoon at least two feet long. The video went viral, naturally, and the consensus seemed to be that Linda Light did not give a fuck, though opinion was divided on whether this made her a badass or a disgrace. Either way, it didn’t stop the stampede to her renowned Berkeley bistro, where tables booked up months in advance, especially as April approached and the local asparagus reached the peak of its season.
Linda herself didn’t spend much time at the restaurant anymore. She was busy raising awareness, and more tangibly, getting her Living Classroom project off the ground. The idea was basically that every school should have a garden, so that kids could learn how to grow, cook, and eat real, wholesome food—pretty much the same thing we were trying to do, only Linda, as near as I could tell from my research, didn’t have ambitions to raise test scores, end hunger, or turn schools into restaurant suppliers. You had to hand it to her: she was admirably insistent that a fresh tomato should be an end in itself, a good so radical it justified a massive restructuring of school budgets.
Because that, in effect, was what she was advocating. Her vision for a 21st century school garden, much like her wood oven and copper spoon, didn’t come cheap. The flagship Living Classroom on the poor side of Berkeley (who knew there was such a thing?) consisted of a one-acre landscaped garden complete with greenhouse, rainwater irrigation system, chicken coop, and meeting pavilion, alongside a fully equipped teaching kitchen. Linda raised all the seed money herself, but the school had to hire not only a head chef, a garden manager, and a team of “ecoliteracy specialists” (furnished by Americorps) but a full-time development professional to keep the whole operation solvent. Hey, it takes a village, right?
Linda, meanwhile, had her sights set on the rest of the country: L.A., D.C., New York. A single fundraising dinner (her contribution to the menu was a dandelion salad dressed in vinaigrette) had apparently brought in enough private donations to recreate the Living Classroom, meeting pavilion and all, at the local elementary school in Gravesend. Elliot and I suspected that our comparative advantage lay in counterprogramming, pitching ourselves as a more cost-effective, academic-oriented alternative to Linda’s high-minded herbaphilia, which, however admirable, let’s face it, tended to exasperate everyone who encountered it. Nonetheless, Brad and Kenesha at Prometheus were keen for us to score a face-to-face with Linda’s Brooklyn team so we could “harvest lessons.” I had a funny feeling that by “harvest lessons” they meant “gather intel,” The Living Classroom being one of the only high-profile nonprofits operating in the city that wasn’t part of the Prometheus portfolio.
That was fine by me. The only problem was we couldn’t get anyone to talk to us. The principal was too busy, naturally, and didn’t seem much more clued in than Mr. Jenner at Begin to Win. She couldn’t tell us if The Living Classroom had hired a local site coordinator yet. The number listed on the website went straight to a generic voicemail recording, and our messages were never answered.
Then, on a Wednesday night, while I was busy making dinner—my chore exclusively since I’d stopped working a regular schedule—I got a call from Elliot.
“John says Linda Light is at Rita’s. We’ve got to get over there.”
Tricia didn’t seem thrilled to take over the Greek salad—I’d only got through the cucumbers and peppers, leaving her to get teary over the onions.
“The egg coddler? You really think she’s going to be helpful?”
“You never know. She’s new to New York. Maybe we can help each other.”
My supportive wife made her whatever-you-say face. “I’m watching Breaking Bad without you.”
Linda was already drunk when we got there. And not tipsy either, except in the literal sense that it appeared she might topple over. It was hard to reconcile her public persona with the red-faced hellraiser sitting cross-legged on top of the bar, shouting along to “Barracuda” on the sound system, pounding puttanesca-style pizza with one hand while pouring hundred-dollar wine into the open mouths of John and Francisco lying on the floor beneath her. For a while, we just gawked from a distance, Elliot trying to discreetly take video with his phone.
Eventually, John somehow noticed us from his spot on the floor. He waved us over and introduced us to Linda as “my political guys,�
�� a designation that would have given me greater pause if he’d been upright and wearing a shirt. Linda bowed her head, a regal gesture of acknowledgement that threatened to send her ass over tit. Then she reached out, laid her hand on my arm, and fixed us with a bleary eye.
“Stick with this guy,” she said, aiming her chin down at John. “He’s the real deal. I mean a true-blue fucking man-the-barricades revolutionary. That’s what this country needs, right? Right?”
We agreed, and she saluted us with her wine bottle. “See, that’s why I love Brooklyn. In Berkeley, everyone’s got soil under their nails, but sometimes you need a little dirt!”
* * *
I figured our work was done; we could now tell Prometheus we’d had an actual meeting of the minds with Linda Light. Elliot decided to stick around and see how the night unfolded. When I called his cell the next day around 11:00, he answered with a low moan.
“Where are you? We were supposed to go over the marketing plan.”
“I’m in bed, like all decent folk.”
“Is Linda there?”
“Wait, let me check.”
I waited. It seemed Elliot was actually making sure he hadn’t dragged a wasted Linda Light into his marriage bed.
“I wonder if she ever made it out of Rita’s. That woman is an animal. A grass-fed, free-range animal.”
“So you enjoyed yourself?”
“You know that copper spoon? It’s not just for eggs.”
“As much as I’d love to be regaled with the details…”
“Marketing plan. No problem. Give me twenty minutes.”
I could hear Elliot thumping around his apartment. A cast-off toy squawked as he trundled over it.
“Actually, that’s why I called,” I said. “I have to cancel. I got a letter about my unemployment.”
“Shit, I have to get moving on that.”
“Yeah, well, they’re making me go to the Career Center for some kind of workshop.”
Elliot yawned. “You’re going to make something of yourself, I just know it.”
It took me a second to realize he’d hung up.
The Career Center thing was a major pain in the ass. The state of New York was enlightened enough not to drug-test unemployment recipients, but it did randomly spot-check to make sure they were really looking for work. That meant showing up at your assigned center, presenting your resume and a list of employers you’d contacted, and sitting through a lecture on career planning, interview techniques, blah, blah, blah. Of course, I hadn’t contacted a single employer, nor had I bothered to update my resume—not since the last time I’d gotten fed up with Vivienne, anyway—but I knew the pencil-pushers at the labor department looked kindly on entrepreneurs; I figured I could do a passable John Cardini impression if it came to that.
The nearest center was in the Fulton Mall downtown, Brooklyn’s very own bazaar, rife with Rocawear and prepaid cell phones, irregular nurses’ uniforms, and lightly used Beanie Babies. Like the rest of the borough, in a few years, it would look a lot more like Manhattan. The Gap, Armani Exchange, and Starbucks were all on their way. The center itself was beige in the way only a New York City government office can be beige, but it was clean and quiet, not as obviously hellish as the DMV. I was directed by the woman at the front desk to a classroom that was really just an open space marked off by a different shade of carpeting. She didn’t ask to see my resume or a list of contacts.
Most of the chairs were already taken, so I had to sit close to the front. Giving my classmates the once-over, I was struck by the variety. There was a white guy who looked like his entire wardrobe came from the stores just outside the center—XXL T-shirt and jeans, knock-off Tims—sitting next to an older black guy in a suit, checking his two phones. There were two Middle Eastern women, one chewing gum and staring at the ceiling and one with a notebook in her lap and pen at the ready. It hadn’t crossed my mind until that moment there might be people taking this class by choice, but it was open to anyone with free time in the middle of the day.
This, I thought, was what “the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression” looked like up-close. Here were the real victims of the big Wall Street gangbang: the lady with the chewed-up nails and anxious eyes, the chubby dude in the NYU hoodie looking bewildered by his presence here. Seeing them brought home how much was riding on the farm. Without it, I’d be just another drop in the bucket marked “unemployed.” But if Elliot and I could make it work, before long we’d be the ones doing the hiring.
Our instructor, Mr. Clark had a whole look going: dreadlocks, hoop earring, bow tie, vest. For the first minute or two of the class, he conducted a silent inspection, prowling the rows of seats, sometimes pausing in front of someone and extending his hand for a shake. The NYU grad stared at the offered hand as if it were a foreign word he had to translate. The white guy in Fulton finery reached up for a soul-shake from a nearly horizontal slouch. Mr. Clark returned to the front of our notional classroom and cleared his throat.
“First impressions are the only impressions when you’re trying to land that dream job. Lack of eye contact, a weak handshake, casual attire or attitude. Any one of those is enough to disqualify you.”
He paused to glance at the sloucher, who gave no indication he got the message. Mr. Clark was undeterred.
“I’m going to give it to you straight, people. This economy is brutal. You’re competing with thousands of jobseekers just like you. Employers have their pick. So when you show up late for an interview or you fail to ask relevant questions about the position or you try to negotiate salary before an offer is made—that’s game over. And you’re back here with me, saying, ‘Mr. Clark, I don’t know what happened. I thought I had it.’”
“Let’s start with the resume. How many of you have a resume down on paper?”
About half of us raised our hands. Mr. Clark turned to me. I guess my whole this-doesn’t-apply-to-me vibe wasn’t getting across.
“May I?” he asked. I took my stale resume out of the manila folder I’d brought along and handed it to him. He held it primly at the edges, as if it might be my only copy, and read aloud, trying to impart some flair.
“Director of Policy and Intergovernmental Affairs. Nice. Now it says here you ‘briefed’ a member of the City Council on issues affecting her constituents. What does it mean to brief someone?”
In practice, it mostly meant telling her what the people she liked thought about a given topic, and more importantly, what the people she hated thought. But that didn’t seem like the right answer. I told Mr. Clark I presented the councilwoman with background research and made recommendations about positions she could take. He listened intently, modeling proper eye contact.
“So you researched and you recommended. Good. Would it be fair to say you orchestrated your office’s response to the issues?”
“Well…”
“Would it be fair to say to you led these high-level strategy sessions?”
“I guess…”
Mr. Clark handed back my resume with a flourish. “Action verbs, people. The stronger and more active, the better. You didn’t make copies at your last job, you mastered office technology to facilitate the smooth exchange of vital information. You didn’t flip burgers, you ran the grilling station to ensure timely delivery and consistent quality. Now let’s talk about the interview process.”
He pressed a couple of my classmates into service to run through some mock scenarios. Once it was clear he was through with me, I zoned out for the duration, contemplating how I could spice up the farm’s nascent mission statement with a few juicy action verbs: innovate, collaborate, germinate.
The second hour of the workshop turned out to be a self-directed session in the center’s computer lab. I realized no one was going to be scrutinizing my paperwork. While the others bulked up their resumes and cruised the job boards, I checked email and political gossip. Mr. Clark was making the rounds, offering words of encouragement and advice—or rather facilitating the jo
b search process to ensure maximum productivity—but he steered clear of me until the allotted time was up and I was heading for the door.
“Hope you don’t mind me using you as an example back there,” he said.
I told him I didn’t. He lingered at my side.
“So you’re in politics, then.”
“Well, I was…”
“Come on, now. You’re not going to have any trouble finding something. Between you and me, most of the people I work with, they’re never going to have ‘director’ on their resume. ‘Policy’? That’s not even a word in their lexicon.”
It seemed like Mr. Clark put a lot of stock in vocabulary. I considered telling him I was exiting the political arena voluntarily, but I decided to just smile politely instead. It felt like there was a right and wrong way to respond to this guy, and saying I was trying to break into farming definitely seemed like the wrong way.
In the Weeds Page 8
