Dumpsters in My Peripheral

I once created a spreadsheet to help narrow down the places I would move to next. Instead of putting it to any real use, I threw it out the window of my sedan, where the road noise was covered only by the shifting of my belongings in the back seat, and drove overnight to North Carolina.

Two interviews were waiting for me: one for an internship with a local publisher and the other for a sales job with a beautiful view of the town and an empty validated parking lot. My time in that city was short, and looking back on my hazy recollections of the first day, the drive into city limits was a disgustingly accurate foreshadowing.

I circled the downtown area for far too long, searching for free parking before pulling on a blazer more crumpled than I was after the 19-hour drive—making it right on time for my first appointment. The downtown was cute enough, and there was a coffee shop across the street from the multi-unit storefront I walked into.

Before making introductions, the editor graciously let me know that the press was not currently in need of any interns, despite their setting up a meeting with me in response to my inquiry. They were “interested in why I was interested.”

What I thought would be my next step into the literary world immediately became an uncomfortable chitchat in a sweaty jacket that was too tight on my upper arms. A hardback plastic chair without armrests. And a backroom full of paper and books, only a couple of surfaces available to use as intended. The wood floors more damaged and gouged than scratched and charming.

For 30 minutes, I politely received recommendations for restaurants and neighborhoods while picturing the field of dumpsters behind a chain-link fence that welcomed me into town, smelling the scene all over again. I was exhausted.

The interview for the paid position in the building with the view went better than I could have hoped for, but I still left town 3 days later and never looked back. I wasn’t as brave as the entire floor of folk who were OK working for commission only with no base salary or guarantee.

So, I drove back in the direction I’d come from. I’m not sure I completely recovered from that exhaustion. The experience was either far too defeating and depleting, or I matured all at once and lost the last bit of childlike naivete I’d held for the world into my mid-twenties.

I’m not recounting all of this to be sad, or to pretend I learned anything from it. I needed something to write about, and this has been on my mind for the past month.

It’s time to drive somewhere again, but the direction is unclear. I haven’t opened Excel yet.