Gould - Friendship

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To R.C.

I knew, sitting there, that I might be a real nihilist, that it wasnt always just a hip pose. That I drifted and quit because nothing meant anything, no one choice was really better. That I was, in a way, too free, or that this kind of freedom wasnt actually realI was free to choose whatever because it didnt really matter. But that this, too, was because of something I choseI had somehow chosen to have nothing matter The point was that, through making this choice, I didnt matter, either. I didnt stand for anything. If I wanted to mattereven just to myselfI would have to be less free, by deciding to choose in some kind of definite way. Even if it was nothing more than an act of will.

DAVID FOSTER WALLACE, The Pale King

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

STEVIE NICKS, Landslide

Contents

The temp agencys application was only four pages long, but somehow Bev hadnt managed to fill it out. Shed told herself that she would do it on the subway on the morning of the interview, but then the train was so crowded that it was impossible even to reach into her bag to get the form. Also, J. R. Pinkman was in her subway car, waving to her from his own packed corner. She smiledit was nice to see someone she knew, in this context, to be reminded of who she was underneath her costume. Dress corporately, the woman at the temp agency had told her in an email, and now she was riding the B train at 8:30 a.m. in a taupe trench coat over a jacket and skirt that were slightly different shades of black. But while it was good to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, she didnt want to actually talk to J.R. She wanted to grab a seat when the train let half its passengers off at Grand Street and then use the remaining ten minutes of the commute to fill out her form. She waved back at him, but dropped her gaze and dipped her head down, conveying preoccupied busyness and giving him tacit permission to do the same.

The train stopped at Grand Street, and J.R. bumped and pushed down the length of car between himself and Bev. Theyd worked together at Warwicke Smythe, a literary agency, and Bev had even maybe had a slight crush on him when shed first met him. But in this morning subway light no one looked too great. J.R. was also carrying several dingy tote bags, presumably containing several different shitty manuscripts, in addition to the one in his hand.

Where are you headed? he asked, gesturing at Bevs outfit.

Im temping, she said. It felt good to admit it and then, in the silence that followed, less good to have done so.

I thought you were in grad school!

I was, for a year. She smile-winced. It, uh, it just started seeming like this huge waste of money. But now I have to start paying back the huge amount of money I already wasted. She pointed at the manuscript he was holding, desperate to redirect the conversation and to remind him (and herself) that shed left the literary agency for a good reason. Reading anything good?

J.R. shook the sheaf of printed-out pages in his hand. Ha, are you kidding? Its just more of Warwickes memoirs. J.R. was one of a team of assistants employed mostly to type up and copyedit their ancient bosss never-to-be-published memoirs, and also to roll him to the restroom every half hour or so. You must be so thrilled that you dont have to think about any of this bullshit anymore.

Ha, yeah. Thrilled. Unemployment is thrilling.

The train shuddered to a halt at Broadway-Lafayette. Well, tell everyone I say hi! Bev said as J.R. gathered his tote bags and prepared to disembark.

I will. Ill make an announcement about it in the morning meeting, he shouted over the mechanized command to stand clear of the closing doors.

Dont tell them Im temping! she called after him as he left the train, but he didnt turn around and Bev wasnt sure whether hed heard her.

She climbed up out of the subway into Bryant Park five minutes before the interview was supposed to start and looked around for a spot where she could huddle and fill out the application. The first raindrops of a sudden storm were falling just as she got aboveground, and her taupe trench coat immediately developed ugly dark blotches. She was going to have to buy one of those street vendor umbrellas. They cost only five dollars, but they were pretty much worthless, so it always seemed like a shame, and five dollars represented a depressingly large percentage of Bevs current net worth. Ducking under an overhang by the library steps, she checked the ledge at her elbow for pigeon poop before putting the form down on it. The standard stuffreferences, employment historyshe completed quickly, then found herself unexpectedly stymied, with only a minute left, by a question on the last page.

What are your grandest aspirations?

There were spaces for three grand aspirations, each space about half a line long. Not even long enough for a full sentence. Bev glanced at her watch, then spent an infinite frozen moment watching a pair of finches hopping around in the grass, yelling their little heads off over a scrap of chain-caf cookie. The last time shed confronted this stupid question had probably been in high school, or in church as a teenager. She imagined teen Bev filling in the blanks with zero hesitation: 1. Serve God. 2. Marry a good Christian. 3. Raise children in the ways of the Lord. Had she believed these were her true goals, even then? By freshman year of college, the grand aspirations would already have shifted to 1. Read every book. 2. Live as far away from the Midwest as possible. 3. Never turn down an opportunity to get shitfaced.

But what were her grandest aspirations now, and more important, what could she pretend they were so that the last page of this godforsaken form wouldnt be empty? She peeked at her cracked old iPhone to make sure her watch was correct, saw the time, and then hurriedly began to write. The truth, as usual, came to her more easily than fiction.

1. Achieve financial stability was real, if obvious.

2. Find community was vague, but who cared, and

3. Feel like Im playing an important role in life was maybe too weird, but it was the first thing that popped into her head, and better than a blank line.

Ten minutes later she was sitting across a small table from a sweet-faced woman in a miniature windowless room with blank walls. It looked like an interrogation room. Bev resisted the temptation to make a joke about requesting that her lawyer be present. The application was on the table between them, and the woman flipped through it. She nodded, nodded, nodded, then wrinkled her forehead.

Theres a little gap in employment here, Beverly. Can I ask why?

Oh, yes, sorry. I didnt know how to indicate what happened there.

The interviewer made a little mm-hmm noise, tilted her chin up, and widened her eyes, as though she were generously trying to keep an open mind.

When I left the publishing house, it was because I moved to Madison to be with my boyfriend, who was going to law school there. I lived there for a year, and I had a service job, working in a wine bar. I didnt think it was worth mentioning, and I dont have the information for the manager or anything.