Slush Fund

 Life Isn’t Divided into Neatly Titled Chapters

I Overheard the Worst Teacher I Ever Had Mechanically Repeat “When I Stop Learning, I’ll Die” to Every Parent at Conferences.  It Was All a Joke Anyway; He Was Already Dead.

1

Never Underestimate the Stupidity of an Educated Fool.  Today I will completely torpedo another job interview, discover my father-figure Uncle Frank is on borrowed time, and see the failings in my decaying love life like cracks growing in my basement walls.  I have six years of college education, two degrees, a six-figure student loan debt, so, natch’, I think I’m smarter than I am, I owe more than I should, I know less than I think, and I have an acute case of Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome which is just a fancy way of saying I excel in saying the wrong thing at the worst time.  It might even be terminal.

But I do avoid the repo man again today!  So, there’s that.  (Who knew a master’s degree in psychology would pay off?!)

This morning I’m sitting in the HR office at the state university.  There are three other professor-aged schleps sitting near me whom I can only guess are here to interview for the same professorship I desperately want.  But I know they don’t stand a chance against me and my giant brain.  I’m aware of every detail in the place: the cars in the labeled parking spaces, the secretary chatting intimately with some guy named Marcus, and the purpleheart wood table with the sailing magazines on it. You never know when mentioning some insignificant detail will pay off in an interview:

“I see by the picture in the lobby you’re a big football fan…”

“Is that your Boxster in the parking lot?”

“Great sailing weather today, huh?”

Being a good interviewee is like being an actor in improvisational theater.  In improv you make everything up as you go.  Whatever the other guy says, your response is “Yes, and…”  Keep it snappy, fun, and entertaining.  I am ready to make this scene electrifying.

The HR Director, Mr. Holmes, emerges and calls me into his office.  I leave the three schleps in the lobby and I’m sure he’ll send them all home after he talks to me.

“Did my secretary give you the itinerary for the interviews today, Mr. Bishop?”

She didn’t.  She was too busy blushing on the phone.  So, natch’, with my Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome, instead of just saying No, my response is, “No, she was on the phone the whole time.  Sounds like she’s talking to her boyfriend.”

His face goes ashen white, a look of irresistible worry fixes on his otherwise aristocratic face.  “Really?”

“Yeah, she’s whispering something about a motel with some guy named Marcus.”

“Oh?”

She knocks and enters, “Here’s the interview itinerary for Mr. Bishop.”

“Thank you.”  He takes it and turns to me.  “Mr. Bishop, I’d like you to meet my wife, Ms. Holmes.”

Oh, shit.

Do I even bother sitting down?  I point to the itinerary still in his hand.  “I…uh…probably won’t be needing that anymore, will I?”

“No.  But thanks for coming in,” and he motions me to the door.

Well, hell, since all bets are off now, I might as well have a little laugh.  As I pass the philandering Ms. Holmes on my way out the door, I whisper to her, “Goodluck with Marcus.”  And as if that isn’t enough to prevent me from ever working at the state U in the future, I reach for the door, look back, and say to her, “By the way, I heard Marcus has VD,” and give her a knowing wink.  Now, I don’t know her.  I don’t know Marcus.  I only know that every time she gets intimate with Marcus from now on, there’ll be a shadow of doubt in her mind.  There certainly will be for her husband. 

Instead of 86-ing my application, Mr. Holmes should thank me.  For all he knows Marcus does have VD!  But, whatever.

I have to walk across the beautiful campus I’ll never work on to find my car—Creeper—hidden in an alley behind a neighborhood garage—completely out of sight.

I call Lilli to tell her.  She skips the hello and says, “How’d the interview go?”  I don’t say anything; I can tell by her voice she already knows.  “Oh, Bish.”  She calls me Bish.  When we were younger, she used to call me Ricardo, or if she was feeling frisky, the Amazing Ricardo.  It was my “stage name” as a kid-birthday party magician.  But that was eight years ago.  I haven’t pulled a rabbit out of a hat since I graduated.  She started using my real name about a year ago.  Occasionally, she abbreviates to “Bish” to add a mild affection to it.  She calls me Bishop when she’s anxious or frightened.  Which is to say, often, but I’ll tell you about that later.  “How many have you been turned down for now?” 

“I stopped counting at eight.”

“Maybe you have Foreign Accent Syndrome.  Did you suddenly start talking in a foreign accent?”

“That’s usually connected to some brain damage.  Do you think I have brain damage?”

Silence.  Then, “How about Alice in Wonderland Syndrome?”

“No.”

“Black Urine Disease?”

“Definitely not.”

“Persistent Sexual Arousal Syndrome?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Walking Corpse Syndrome?” 

“Maybe.”

 “Have you considered bribing any of them?”

“I’d offer to sleep with some of them.”

“That wouldn’t help.” 

“I was joking.”

“Oh.  Yeah.”  She goes silent.  “Well, you obviously aren’t very concerned about it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re making sense.   When you get nervous or angry or when you know you’re wrong or when you’re about to say something stupid you spew out these unpunctuated train of thought ramblings.”

“I do?”

She goes silent again.  Probably crying.  “You’re never going to get a real job,” she says through her tears.  “We’ll never pay off our student loans.  We’ll always be looking behind us for the repo man.  We can’t buy a house.  We can’t even get a stupid credit card.  People with horrifying credit can get credit cards, but we can’t.  Drug dealers can get credit cards.”

“Yeah, but they’re too afraid to use them.  And they’re drug dealers.”

She goes silent again.

She’s right—my mouth gets me into trouble a lot.  I talk too much.  I think too much. I worry too much.

“This is never going to end, Bishop.”

We’ve talked and dreamed of marriage and children as long as we’ve been together. But college degrees don’t provide wisdom.  They don’t cure anxiety.  Even well-educated people drift apart like two rowboats on a calm lake—an inch at a time.  I can hear the speaker for the Circus Burger drive-thru window in the background.  Our apartment overlooks an alley that is the drive thru-window of a crappy fast-food burger joint—the Circus Burger.  All throughout the day and late into the night we overhear people ordering, changing their orders, getting angry, being mean to the workers, and all introduced with, “Welcome to Circus Burger, home of the Big Top Triple; go ahead with your order.”  I know if I ever have to work a drive-thru window, my life is over.

So, now, I don’t have the dream job I wanted.  My girlfriend is nearing the end of her patience with our relationship.  We’re still barely living check-to-check, but I have Creeper and I’m still a part-time lecturer at Dinkus College.  I want to celebrate those tiny victories and the best way to do that is ice cream.  I dig out some change from under the seat and I’m good to go.

My Uncle Roscoe owns the local Softee-Freez across from the U—soft-serve ice cream.  I stop by hoping Aunt Patty is running the window.  Roscoe never gives anyone a free cone.  Ever.  Aunt Patty, on the other hand, will give free cones to really cute little kids.  The ugly ones still have to pay, however, but on most occasions she’ll hit me up with a freebie.  I’ve always thought it was because she felt bad my parents died when I was so young, but it’s just as likely due to the fact that I never harassed her for not being able to make the cute curlie-Q to top off the cones.  She’s been doing this for years.  Cannot get the curly-Q.  The closest she gets is having the little point lean over like the tip of an elf’s shoe. 

I’m in luck.  Sort of.  Patty is there, but she’s with Bibby—my Uncle’s son from prom night. 

So, about that.  Roscoe and Patty are sitting at home one night with their two babies, Allie and Maurice, and this fifteen-year-old kid knocks on the door—Bibby.  “What do you want kid?”

“I want to live with you, Dad.”   Roscoe had no idea that he’d even put the puck in the net!  Can you imagine?!  His bewilderment was only matched by Patty’s fury!  I mean, she got over it; it happened long before he even met Patty, and Bibby may be the only other person on the planet who can’t do the curly-Q.  It’s their secret shame.  To this day neither one can do it…and Bibby is 45!  Still living with them.  Still working the Softee-Freez. 

Anyway, Patty is in a good mood and hooks me up—free cone—even gives me one in a cup to take to Lilli.

I want to take Lilli’s mind off my interview failure, so I call her on the drive home to let her know I’m bringing her ice cream.  “Hey,” she says.

I know that voice.  “Stop biting your nails.”

“How did you know I’m biting my nails?”

“Because nobody knows you like I do.”  I mean that in a sweet, romantic way, but if you really examine it, it’s not necessarily romantic or even sweet.   Regardless, before I can tell her I’m bringing home a treat, a giant glob of chocolate ice cream lands on my sport coat.  Driving, eating a cone, and talking on the phone are a bad combo.  The dry-cleaning bill will be more than I can dig out from under my seats.  Sheepdip!  “I’ll call you back.”

I don’t know it yet, but the Magical Mystery Tour has begun.