Monday, December 13, 2010
I dreamed of the man from the gallery, but remarkably I can’t remember the details. I know it was dark and delicious, the way a man like that is meant to be dreamed about. Why can I remember the nightmare of being plunged into the bay by way of trolley car and my dead mother, yet the dream about a sexy, powerful man just plain escapes me? Truly, I don’t know what is going on inside me right now, but I feel as if I am spinning out of control. It was enough to push me over the edge today, and I did what I said I wouldn’t do: I found the man I had the encounter with at the gallery. I mean, what’s the point in thinking that he’s potentially life-changing if I avoid him?
His name is Mark Compton and he’s the owner and manager of the gallery, and part of the family that owns Riptide, a famous auction house. That’s who asked me if I was applying for a job. The owner. This feels like a sign, the reason he felt so important when I met him. Because he can hire me for the gallery and my dream job. And as crazy as this is for me to even think, let alone write down, I think he wanted me to apply for the internship. I think he wanted to hire me.
I want so badly to go apply now, even though it’s probably too late. These jobs go so quickly and the competition would be fierce. To apply for the job and not get it would be devastating, yet I went so far as to see if I could get my hours cut at the bar to accommodate a second job. After all my years there, the new boss’s answer was “no.” The job market is tight and there are plenty of people willing to do my job without special scheduling. So unless I can find a more flexible second job, I couldn’t even take the internship anyway.
This is insanity. I can’t do it. I just can’t. Damn Mark Compton for tempting me and making me think that maybe, just maybe, I can chase this dream again.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
This time the nightmare was worse. This time I hit the water, the icy cold ocean claiming me as I was submerged, struggling to stop the trolley from crushing me. The splintering pain of drawing water into my lungs and trying to get to the surface. Pushing to the top with all my might to find my mother there, shoving me back down. I am angry, more angry than I’ve been in a long time—and I’ve been plenty angry. Angry at her for leaving me. Angry at her for lying to me. Angry at her for shoving me back into the water, and . . . and what? What the hell does this nightmare mean? This feeling of dread, of death, just won’t go away.
I have to go to work and perform a job I hate. Maybe I just won’t go. But damn it, I have to go. How else will I survive?
Friday, December 17, 2010
I’ve tried not to think about this being my first Christmas alone. I’ve tried to block out the trees, songs, and holiday cheer I used to embrace. It hasn’t worked. Next up, New Year’s resolutions. I’ve never made resolutions. I mean—why? Who really keeps them?
But I am thinking about next year, and my life in general. If life is short, why live it waiting tables at a bar? It’s all I can think of today. How did I become the one in my group of college friends who has done nothing with my life, when I was the only one who knew what I wanted to do with my life? Now all my friends have moved on to new things. Casey is married to a banker and barely has time for me. Darla’s in New York working for a television station. Susan is in Seattle working for a PR firm. Okay, there is Kirk, who still works at the Burger Palace and has absolutely no motivation to do anything different. Like me.
How have I become this? How have I let my dreams slip away? I have to do something. I have to fix this. I have to fix me. Being inside that gallery made me the happiest I have been in too long to remember.