*This story is a fictitious account of real-life events from a twenty-somethings adolescence that have stained his image of self-worth, and the restorative powers of expelling these occurrences on a New Years lover.*
*****
"Will I ever see you again?" Sarah sighed and looked down, stirring a rock candy swizzle stick around the edges of her coffee mug.
"After my reveal, I don't understand why you would want to, but even so—probably not," Daniel replied.
"I'm not so innocent myself, you know; I've had my fair share of partners." She brought the swizzle stick up to her mouth and smiled.
"Sarah, it's not even about the partners, although that's usually an effective enough deterrent. It's more than that."
"What else is it?"
"I'm not cut out for this society."
She looked up at him, confounded.
"The real-world," he continued. "It's been a year since I graduated and still, I've failed to land a decent job. I apply and apply, and for what? Ninety percent of the time I don't even get a 'Thank you for applying but...'—most companies just ghost you nowadays."
"Yeah, I hear it's tough. So, what have you been doing with your time? Other than looking for work."
"The funny thing is, even though I dedicate eight hours a day to 'work,' apart from getting distracted by other people's lives on social media, it's hard for me to give you a concrete answer. 'A whole lot of nothing,' is the best way I can describe it. My mother bought me a suit last Christmas. She really went in on this thing, had a tailor take measurements. It's a tweed suit with a Prince of Wales check pattern: black and white pinstripes. I wear the suit Monday through Friday—leave the house at eight-thirty and go to this fictitious place I call my job.
"And where exactly is that?"
"It's kind of messed up. My poor mother thinks I work on Wall Street. She never asks but probably thinks I'm stacking major dough."
"But where do you actually go?"
"I tour various cafes—sit on my computer, put on an air of importance, pretend I'm working."
"Well, you kinda are. Looking for jobs is work."
"To be honest, at first I was, but when I began to appreciate receiving rejection emails because at least I was getting some kind of response, that's when I registered the toxicity of the whole thing. I felt like I'd gain more just from sitting on a city bench and people-watching. I've given up on applying for the most part. The rejection, or lack of in my case, became too much—a couple days out of the week I clean up after a contractor, but otherwise I remain idle, waiting for a miracle. Although some days I do get the urge to stand on a crowded street corner waving my degree around. The funny thing is that if I actually did that, I'd make headlines and some wealthy individual would probably take me under his wing just for the sake of a story."
"Fortune does favor the bold. And plus there are physically handicapped and intellectually disabled people in the workforce that are thriving. On the basis of last night, I'd say you're a spring fucking chicken."
"That actually reminds me of something that happened while I was still in high school—"
"Sure that you've left high school?"
"Look, I acknowledge that I may not be the most competent and driven individual—crippling anxiety has caused me to sprint out of offices mid-interview. But I still show up. I mean eventually some sympathetic interviewer will put aside protocol and pursue a shine she spotted in the rubble of my self-esteem. I'm aware that I'm currently in a position where I can replace my suit with a chicken costume and, apart from a couple of mixed reactions, nothing would change. I'm not proud of the fact that nothing depends on me."
"Actually, Planet Wings might hire you—you'd have an auspicious start in the industry. He already comes with a costume. You could even become the face of the company, like Jared and Subway or Colonel Sanders and KFC...I can see it now," she said looking up, waving her hand into space. "Daniel, the Planet Wings Chicken."
"And I would be the best fucking mascot around if they just gave me a chance!"
"You gotta take chances like that. Like I said: fortune favors the bold. Walk up to a restaurant and demand a position as a mascot, say you'll give out free samples and twirl a sign. Soon enough, they'd put you in commercials, and that's when the money starts pouring in. Eventually, they'd make a documentary about you, your bold start credited to me."
"Ok. I probably deserved that."
"No—but I'm serious, if you market yourself daringly, offers will come. Look at the music industry nowadays. One of the most popular rappers of our time has rainbow colored hair and teeth, and tattoos on his face. That's what it takes to get yourself noticed. You need to give zero fucks in order to make a million bucks."
"Would you still be attracted to me if I had rainbow colored hair and tattoos on my face?"
"No, no one respects a blatant copy-cat. Face tattoos are trending, so it may be hard to omit them. I'll design them. We can do that ever-glum, pessimistic donkey from Winnie-the-Pooh."
"Eeyore?"
"Yes!"
"But before my parents discommunicate me for all the heinous things I'll start doing to myself in hopes to get rich, will you let me buy you a drink? A final toast to normality, blending in, and abiding to bland social constructs."
Daniel looked out across the heads of people sitting at their booths conversing about New Year's resolutions. He began to wave at a waitress hovering in an aisle a couple sections away.
"With what money?"
"With my deceased grandmother's." After a tense silence, he continued, "Now back to what I was saying earlier. I worked at a supermarket briefly while I was in highschool. There was a group of intellectually disabled workers. I'm not exactly sure what they did at the store, perhaps retrieve loose carts around the parking lot, but I know that they were the most productive employees there; you could just tell by their artlessness and spirit. As I get off for lunch one afternoon, I greet one of them, asking him how everything's going. He says to me, 'Another day, another dollar.' He tried to sound nonchalant, but from his eyes and that fantastical smile across his face I could tell that he was loving every minute of it. There was something about him—like happiness flooded his being all hours of the day. He could've easily looked around and thought—Look at all these stoned ungrateful scumbags—but something so vile could've never crossed his mind. He held the same level of love and respect for all, and was even seen as a leader among the disabled group.
"Another day, another dollar," Daniel sniggered in reminiscence. "You know what happened to me later that day, at the end of my shift? One of the managers pulls me aside—Greg. Picture a massive egg containing a baby chick six feet tall at birth who had managed to poke only its legs out while its upper half remains encapsulated in the egg, running around blind. So, Greg sits me down in his office. 'How's everything going?' he asks contemptuously. Of course I say, 'Another day, another dollar.' 'Looks like it,' he responds. 'For your past three shifts your register has been coming up short. Now, I'm not accusing you of anything, and I can't confirm malicious activity but take this as a warning.' I'm fed up at this point. At myself, not Greg. I can't even properly give out change. Easiest job in the world; requirements: be able to scan items and translate digits on an electronic panel into bills and coins. I can't even do that. At this point I'm about to ask if I could join the intellectually disabled guys, doing whatever they do, thankfully minding my response, realizing that had I pursued the thought, I'd be offending both myself and the only ones who've kept my sanity taut. 'I'm sorry, it won't happen again,' I assure. I never came back after that meeting. Didn't even respond to their phone calls, couldn't bring myself to it. I was top of my class back in elementary school, now I can't even correctly count out change. What happened?"
"Aw—honey. When we get the check, give me your money so I can count out the correct amount."
"Yeah, yeah—joke now—cause in a couple more years I may not even trust myself retrieving carts. I may spot one at the far end of the parking lot, get to it, then have little recollection of how I ended up there in the first place, let alone what my intentions were with said cart."
"Are you saying you have Alzheimer's? That's not a joke."
"I'm saying that I probably will. It's genetics. That's how my grandmother went. My father shows symptoms of it as well; he's more far gone than I am. For example, he wanted to sell his car recently. He needed the money—we needed the money. Problem was, he couldn't find the title to it. For days, he seemingly searched every nook and cranny in our home. One day I ask him, 'Did you check the closet at the top of the stairs?' That's where he keeps his accordian folder with all his important documents. My room is next to this closet and for many years I've sat at my desk, plugging numbers into formulas that I've been told to trust blindly while my father rummages through the folder angrily, desperately trying to find proof that credit card companies are finagling him. When I asked him, almost sarcastically, if he checked the closet, he stared at me blankly. This man had no recollection.
"He stomped upstairs to check. Sure enough, that forest green folder sat in the bottom corner, all tattered and neglected.
"He spent a good while flipping through each section. But it wasn't in the folder. That's when I knew my old man had lost it. Both the title and his mind."
"You still live at home, right?"
"Yeah. Unfortunately."
"You should move out. It's like you're embracing his shortcomings. If you were away from him I think it might help, perhaps move in with a memorist. They say you become like the people that you hang around."
"I'd like to, but I have no income or even savings. If I move out now, I'll be homeless in a couple of months."
"See, that's your problem. No confidence. Don't you think that independence would force you to make it work? And besides, don't you have any friends that would take you in—in case all falls down?"
"I'd hope so."
"So stop fucking worrying and take a chance. It's attractive when men take chances; it's a turn off when they make excuses."
"I also worry that I'll get stuck doing something I won't excel in."
"Will decides what you excel in. And I assume that by now you've discovered things that interest you?"
"My interests are shifty and obsessive. For a couple months I'll pour all my time and energy into one thing only for it to be replaced by something else. I don't see results quick enough and it turns me off."
"You probably picture yourself at point Z and don't consider that you have to go through A, B, C, D, E—"
"I get it. No, you're right. I romanticize about things; I fall in love with ideals rather than the actual things."
"There's nothing that has held your interest?"
"Sex and boozing."
"But everybody loves those."
"Yeah, but I love them a lot, and they have me contemplating."
"Suicide?"
