We sat in silence.
“What is what I do so different compared to what you do?” Miles asked.
“What?”
“What do I do that is so different from you? Besides the drugs.”
“A lot of things.” I was a little miffed that he was comparing us.
“Name them.”
“I work for wages and have a boss. I go to work, people don’t come to me.”
“Is that it?”
“I have co-workers and I supply a product people want.”
“I supply a product that people want.”
“Not everyone wants it!”
“Not everyone likes coffee either. I can’t stand the stuff.”
I felt a little on the defensive.
“What about your future?” I said, trying hard to make him feel bad.
“What about yours? You mentioned you went to college, did you major in coffee making?”
“That is pretty unfair Miles. I am working at the Garden while I look for another job.”
“How hard are you looking?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? There aren’t a lot of jobs in my field in Toledo.”
“You still live at home, don’t you?”
“I recently moved back after I had a problem with my roommates.” I wasn’t about to tell him the Amy/Noah/Serena saga. “Why are you asking me all of these questions?”
“I am asking you because you asked me. I know what you are trying to do, you are trying to shame me into going into another line of work. I dropped out of high school, I am from the poor east side, I don’t have any connections. I see what it is like to have to work two and three jobs to make it because good paying jobs are hard to find. My brother does just that. I refuse to be a part of that machine. I deal, it makes people happy, keeps me happy, and that is it. I don’t see my future being much more than sitting here on this couch watching life pass me by. What is your excuse?”
I had to admit to myself that I didn’t have an excuse as to why I wouldn’t sit on this couch watching my life go by, because to tell the truth, I wasn’t going anywhere at the moment.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I said, fighting to keep the panic out of my voice. Miles was right. What the hell was I doing?
Dutifully, Miles lapsed into silence and I vowed never to bring it up again with him. He was fine with his life. Who was I to say anything about it?
Like all things in my life, over the next month-and-a-half, I developed a pattern with Miles, coming over and sitting on his couch, staring at the TV, drinking a beer while he nodded off, all the while neglecting the rest of my life, which wasn’t that filled anyway, except for work. Work, Miles, home. Miles, work, home. Miles, home. Work, home, work, Miles, home. The police scare had passed but Miles had seemingly developed agoraphobia and never ventured outside when I was with him. He didn’t even keep up with his grocery buying, and as for washing the dishes? Forget it. I became his caretaker of sorts because we certainly weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend and we certainly didn’t talk about anything important ever. I was, in effect, hiding out from my life at his house.
Chapter 21
By mid May, Miles’ drug taking and depression seemed to increase. For all his courageous talk about doing what he loved, he sure seemed miserable. If anyone should have been depressed and should have felt useless it was me. I had turned 27 in February and I still lived at home and I still worked in a coffee shop.
I had never seen him shoot up before that afternoon; he was always off by the time I arrived. It was an elaborate process full of spoons and lighters and the scariest looking syringe, ever. Straight out of central casting, it was. Who could do that to themselves? Addicts must develop such an intimate relationship with heroin that the only way to truly become one with it is to inject it. That and the withdrawal symptoms must suck really badly.
Miles’ eyes closed immediately, and he sank back into his faded couch as if shrinking from life. I was fascinated in the way an anthropologist would be studying a new and foreign culture. I hoped that no one would come to the door wanting to buy anything at that moment because I wasn’t going to add drug dealer to my resume.
As I watched him I thought about what he said about heroin being an escape from yourself. It certainly sounded like an attractive option, until I realized that I had nothing to escape from, except boredom. I had no real problems, except laziness. I wasn’t from the wrong side of the tracks, I had every opportunity, I had a college degree and I had the qualifications to get a real job. Sitting around feeling sorry for myself because my dream job didn’t knock on my door begging me to take it wasn’t a valid reason for escape. And this wasn’t even true, I thought, betraying my pity party, there was that job at the museum, which didn’t do much to excite me, but it was a way out of the coffeehouse.
I thought about my past. I had so much promise. I talked a good game, but here I was. Sitting in a drug dealer’s apartment while he was too high to talk, feeling sorry for myself because life dealt me what I thought was a cruel hand. What a crock of shit. I was always full of self-pity, it was one of my least redeeming qualities, but this was over the top. I had nothing to feel sorry for myself about. I had made horrible choices because I was either lazy or scared, but I did have every opportunity. The thought made me ill.
Whenever Miles nodded off, I immediately wanted to leave, but felt a sense of obligation to him in that I didn’t want to leave him in such a state. He seemed so vulnerable. But it really was getting old. Whenever I left at night, he practically begged me to come back, but when I got there he was always passed out on his couch. It was really boring. I felt like his babysitter.
And I was becoming boring, too. All that TV watching was turning me into a mindless idiot. So much so that I was deciding which commercials I liked and which ones I felt had missed their mark. Who the hell does that? Only those who park their ass in front of the TV for hours, that’s who. I felt like my ability to think critically was slipping away from me. The thought scared me.
I had to get out of there before I went mad. I was torn between my desire to escape my unpleasant thoughts and my sense of duty to Miles. I nudged his shoulder with my arm to try and wake him up.
“Miles wake up.”
“Hmmmm?” Miles’ eyes were closed.
“I have to go. There is something I totally forgot to do.” It wasn’t quite a lie, but I doubted he would know the difference. What did I care anyway?
“MMMM. No, don’t.”
What. The. Fuck. What difference did it make if I left? Really, the whole thing was ridiculous. He probably felt safer with me there. I would stay, of course, because I didn’t want him to hate me for some odd reason, but I would not come over again.
I sank back on the couch, pissed, my fist gripped around a domestic beer bottle. Once again, I was in a situation in which escape was as unpleasant and not escaping and it was all my doing. I had a knack for trapping myself in this bullshit.
Maybe it would do me good to have to sit there and confront myself, however disagreeable that may be, and my mind ripped through several unpleasantries directed at my stupidity and Miles’ weaknesses. The more brutally honest I was with myself, the better. I was just in one of those moods.
I started with the heavy issues, such as what exactly did I want to do with my life? What a question. I’m sure that if you asked a group of people, 90% would say they had no idea. I was one of them, and thinking this way was a major cop-out.
My truth was that I wasn’t sure. I majored in art history because I liked art and hanging out in museums all day appealed to me. I still liked art but hadn’t been in a museum in over a year. Dr. Armiss practically told me the curatorial assistant job was mine, but had I applied? No. What was I waiting for, an engraved invitation? Why was I not jumping at the chance? I didn’t understand my reluctance. Probably because it was a real job and I wasn’t ready to grow up yet. Working at the coffee shop was a great way to forestall adu
lthood. The thought awed me for a bit. This job could be my ticket out of Toledo. What was I so scared of?
I looked at Miles. He was oblivious to my torment. His chin was resting on his chest, a thin line of drool trailed down his chin. His life was easy. All he had to do was sit on the couch and sell drugs.
I sat up straight. All he had to do was sit on his couch dealing drugs? What the hell kind of thinking was that? I didn’t want to be a drug dealer. I didn’t want to be anywhere near this life, holed up this apartment, hiding out from the cops. And yet here I was.
I stared at Miles, a new realization creeping over me. Was I so scared of being alone that I would be with someone who was totally wrong for me? It certainly explained all of my past relationships. For all my talk of being liberated and free, I was certainly clingy. Who was the crazy one here? Me or Miles? It was certainly a toss-up at the moment.
I got up and got myself another beer and sat down next to him on the couch. I needed a plan. I never had a plan before so this was something new. Maybe I would need paper? I got up again and rummaged around in Miles’ kitchen drawers for a piece of paper and something to write with. I ended up using an old pencil that needed a sharpening and the back of his phone bill. I didn’t even know he had a phone?
I sat back down and started to formulate my plan. First I had to decide what I wanted to do.
What did I want to do? First, was to apply for the curatorial assistant job. I had two weeks before the deadline. Once I got the job, and I knew I would, I had to decide on where to apply for graduate school, which meant taking the GRE, getting recommendations, and applying. Deadlines would be creeping up on me sooner rather than later. Graduate school meant a move, which I wrote down. The University of Toledo did not have a graduate program in museum studies, so I would definitely have to leave.
Now what? The job was taken care of, I needed to get into grad school, and then I needed to decide in what kind of museum I would like to work. The hold grail would be The Louvre, although the Smithsonian, the Museum of Modern Art, or the National Gallery would be great. I stopped myself. I couldn’t expect to start at the top, I needed to work my way up. I decided to research that topic more, which would be easier once I was in the field.
I looked at my list. I felt filled with purpose.
I looked over at Miles, he was still out. I decided that my obligation to him ended as soon as I decided that it did. This was over. He was not my responsibility. With that I put down my beer and I left.
Chapter 22
The next day I woke up bright and early and drove to The Toledo Museum of Art and filled out the application for the curatorial assistant position. I had eight days to spare before the deadline. Afterward, I went to the Toledo Library, main branch, to catch up on the latest in the world of museum careers. I knew the basic hierarchy and like all careers, one starts at the bottom as a curatorial assistant. This position only required a bachelor’s degree in art history, which I had. The next step was a curatorial assistant, where an advanced degree in the appropriate discipline with a special concentration was preferred, such as modern art or 13th century ceramics. The trick was now to decide what my concentration would be and pick a grad school, then apply, which led me to my next step: research graduate schools with museum studies programs so at least I had an idea what I was talking about.
I hurriedly compiled a substantial list and then left. I worked the afternoon shift at the coffee shop and had to get ready. I floated home, the feeling that I had finally done something for myself nearly overwhelming me. Really. I had spent so much time propping other people up that I usually had nothing left for myself. It was an incredible eye opening experience. I just hoped that my plans would work out.
It was a beautiful late May afternoon. I was at the Garden, listening to Kurt talk about how much he hated being married and how much he regretted having a child, when a blast from the past re-entered my life. A friend from high school, Julie, walked into the Garden. I never wished as hard to be invisible as I did at that moment. True, Julie and I were friends, but as soon as we graduated from high school, all I heard from her were lectures about how I was not living my life right. I majored in the wrong thing. Her mother thought I was chunky. My taste in men was suspect. I had no ambition. Julie’s voice sounded like the one in my head that told me I couldn’t do stuff. I wondered if they were related?
Against all better judgment, I plastered a smile on my face when I should have run out the back. I had to face up to what my life had been up to that moment: a slacker’s paradise.
“Hi Julie! How are you?” I could barely speak through my gritted teeth.
“Hi Mia, you still work here?” Ah, the familiar face of pity.
My stomach clenched involuntarily and I wanted to yell, Fuck you. Instead I smiled some more.
“Yes, having a hard time finding a job in my field.” It wasn’t really true because of the as-yet to be landed job the museum, but it was too much to explain it all. Besides, did I owe this person an explanation?
Julie shook her head. “You may have to move out of Toledo.”
Yeah, like I wanted to live here forever.
“Yes, you are probably right. What are you doing in town?”
Julie smiled a smile of self-satisfaction.
“I am here to see my mom, I was just transferred to Indianapolis and I came to say hi.”
“Oh, Indianapolis. How exciting.”
“You don’t even know! I know that a lot of people are jealous of me.”
“For moving to Indianapolis? Didn’t you live in Chicago before?”
“Yes, but Indianapolis is really happening.”
“OK.” I didn’t know about these things, and something told me Julie didn’t know either.
“Are you still working at the same place?” Upon graduation from college, Julie landed a plum job selling piping and piping equipment.
“Yes, I’m a lifer!”
“You could say that about me too, I guess.” Why did I have to cut myself down? To beat everyone else to the punch?
“When do you get off? We should go have a drink.”
Every instinct and fiber in my body screamed no, but of course my brain wasn’t listening. “Yeah, why don’t we?”
“What is your number?”
Oh, I totally forgot about this bridge. The one that says, I live at home.
“I’m back at home. I had some trouble with my roommate, she was a kleptomaniac.”
Julie looked at me in disbelief for a moment, and then it was gone from her face.
“OK. I will call you later then.”
“OK.”
She bought and picked up her drink and left. I turned back to Kurt. He was practically salivating.
“She’s hot. Is she a friend from school?”
“She is not hot and yes, I went to high school with her. She is always telling my how I am living my life wrong. She’s a total bitch.”
“Why did you agree to go get a drink with her then?”
“Because I have a mental problem, that’s why. No more questions!” I picked up a rag and went out to bus some tables to think about what just happened. How humiliating. I really needed that museum job. And a life. I should have told her I was busy but I was out of practice in the lying department. I could always call her and tell her that I was sick but I knew that I had to go through with meeting her. It was like fate was dragging me along its path.
When I got back to the counter, Kurt looked anxious.
“You aren’t mad at me are you?”
I smiled at him but not really feeling it. “No. You can’t possibly think she is hot, can you? She is such a bitch. I have known her since grade school.”
“I have people like that in my life, too.”
“I don’t have too many, but they pop up every once in a while to throw me for a loop.”
“Hannah never used to be like that,” Kurt continued as if I hadn’t spoke, unable to stop talking about himself for a minute. “B
efore we were married, we got along great and had a wonderful relationship.”
I stared at him in disbelief. I was surrounded by loons. Another realization dawned on me. I had to get away from this man.
“If your relationship was so great, why did you cheat on her with me?” I turned my back on him before he could answer. Talk about denial! I couldn’t deal with Kurt and his marital problems, really the whole situation seemed so foreign to me. I couldn’t believe I was actually in love with this guy once. I did have a mental problem it seemed and a more pressing issue. I didn’t want to go out with Julie, I couldn’t stand her after how she treated me, but I had an ulterior motive I had to find out why she threw my friendship away so casually after high school. As much as I hated to admit it, this was how my relationships with men and women had been, one after another. It was if my friendship wasn’t important enough for these people. I don’t think that it was because I hadn’t met “Mr. Right” yet; look at what happened with Amy. I had to find out what people saw in me that made them run the other way after a while.
I sighed and leaned up against the counter when a familiar voice said my name. I snapped to attention.
“Dr. Armiss! I am so glad that you stopped by. I was going to call you,” I said to my old college professor who was standing at the counter.
“Really?” Dr. Armiss smiled at me.
“Yes, it is about that job at the museum.”
“Well tomorrow is practically June, have you applied?”
“Yes, I did today. Is there anything else I have to do?” I know that I looked anxious.
He shook his head. “No. I will take care of it.”
I smiled the first real smile of the afternoon. “In that case, your latte is on me.”
I was in a serious frame of mind as I sat at a table in a neighborhood bar, drinking a beer, waiting for Julie. I was really going try and listen to what she said without getting defensive. Maybe I was reading too much into her “suggestions.” Maybe I was searching for the negativity in what she said. I wanted to get at the truth but without giving away anything in the process.
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