by Dwayne Phillips
It was
unmistakable. The calendar read mid-June and this young man was
spending an
inordinate amount of time trying to decide which toothpaste to buy. He
fumbled
four different kinds in his left had while his right pulled another off
those
irritating little metal rods that display products to the masses. He
peered at
the ingredients of the product in his right hand as if he were trying
to read a
Supreme Court decision on a matter of life and death.
This young man
had to be a recent college graduate. That meant he was educated in the
finer
points of commas and semi-colons, or was it semi-colons and em
dashes, but couldn't distinguish fluoride from candy. What is worse, he
felt
the distinction worthy of his time and mental faculties.
I did the same
thirty years earlier. I wandered through that first summer of adulthood
and a
real adult jobÑthat horrible time in between knowing a college campus
and
knowing an office building.
It was a Saturday
when I moved into my first real, adult apartment. I rented a fully
furnished
apartment in a high-rise building. The fully furnished part was
something that
wise people had suggested. Perhaps it was wise thirty years earlier in
their
day, but in mine it was another of a long list of foolish things I did.
An
unfurnished apartment would have been adequate for the six months I
bumped from
figurative wall to wall. The apartment building had a loading dock. It
was
reasonable that a reservation system was in order for who used to
loading dock
first. Reasonableness took me to the building office to reserve my spot
in line.
"First come,
first serve," was the reply of the polite elderly lady who enriched her
empty-nest weekends by working the reception desk.
She reminded me of
those college department secretaries who delighted in sending students
walking
about campus in search of the correct form needed to fill out so that a
student
could then fill out the next correct form. Perhaps, just perhaps, she
held such
a job in a prior life before becoming an empty-nest weekend warrior.
A trip back to
the loading dock showed that I was now far enough back in line to have
to wait
until noon before it was my turn. No problem, the U-Haul I rented had
an AM
radio in it. I glued myself to the vinyl U-Haul bench seat while
wasting the
hours.
With everything
in my apartment by mid-afternoon, I noticed that I had not eaten
anything all
day. I put some potatoes on the stove to boil. My mother insisted I
bring a
sack of potatoes with me along with half a dozen cooking pans she no
longer
wanted. Unpacking busied my tired mind so that I boiled away the water
and
burned the potatoes.
Let's
seeÑone day at my apartment and I had wasted half a day and permanently
burned potatoes to a pan. I had two big stupid accomplishments to my
credit,
but the summer had only begun.
To my dismay, the
high-rise "luxury" apartment building had an international clientele.
I call it luxury because that is what the large sign out front called
it. I
suppose luxury was fair as the building was new and all the paint
smelled like
new paint. Perhaps they sprayed air freshener with that new paint odor.
The international
fair was most difficult to stomach. I had gone through engineering
school in
the last four years of the 1970s. The Shah of Iran had funded every
Iranian
male who wanted to study engineering in the US. They were nice enough
guys if
you could hold your breath in class and hide your paper during tests.
If one of
those things bothered you, and both of them bothered me to no end,
exiting
college could not come soon enough. I had a US government job and hoped
that
meant US citizens only in the office. That came true at work, but the
Washington D.C. suburbs had plenty of immigrants.
The cool summer
eveningsÑI learned that northerners called the Washington-area summers
oppressiveÑwere pleasant. The apartment dwellers from the Middle East
shared my assessment of the weather and sat or stood, or whatever
describes
that squat they do, in front of the building each evening. They shared
the
Iranian student fondness for avoiding showers and soap. The aroma,
while
somewhat a reminder of college, rose and floated into my sixth-floor
apartment
window. Oh, the wonder of a view.
At least I had a
job, or something that resembled a job. I worked for the government,
and that
was a charitable description. My job was to work in an out-of-town
location.
Schedules dictated that I would spend the summer in the office before
visiting
the out-of-town location. My job in the office for the Summer
was simple: wait until the Fall. I could have waited in bed in my
luxury
apartment, but that violated some sense of fairness or work regulation.
Hence,
the days were spent sitting at a metal, battleship gray desk that was
aligned
with twelve other metal, battleship-gray
desks in a
long, narrow room. My colleagues and I filled the day reading the
newspaper and
unofficially solving the world's problems. Our official duties were to
sit at
the desks and not cause anyone any grief. At least I had "colleagues"
and not fellow students.
Boredom affects
peopleÑat least it affected me. Life was hours of nothing to do. When
something to do arrived, I fell into it without thought. Anything was
better
than nothing, so my course of action didn't seem to matter.
The first
something to do away from the office was washing my clothes. My college
life
was a bit odd in that I never washed my clothes. I went home every
weekend to
work a part-time job. Hence, my mother washed my clothes the four years
of
college.
Now, educated as
I was, I was ready to wash my own clothes in that modern invention
called the
washing machine. First, however, there was an alternative to test.
Someone, who
had gone through this first summer of adulthood some thirty years
earlier,
advised me to check on a laundry service. It seems that at some point
in the
mid-twentieth century America laundry services existed that were
convenient and inexpensive. My problem was that it was now the latter
half of
the century. Still, advised by a wise older person, I tried a laundry
service I
found in the yellow pages (we used the yellow pages in those days as
Google
didn't exist). The round trip drive took an hour, the service required
three
days, and the cost was triple of a coin-operated washing machine.
It was time for
Plan B. I was so smart that I had a Plan B. The apartment building had
washing
machines and dryers on the ground floor. How hard could this be for
someone
with an engineering degree so new that the sheepskin hadn't yet arrived
in the
mail? Washing machines had no user manual, and that led to another fall
into a
pit of stupidity.
My first load of
laundry found me pulling soaking wet clothes from the washing machine
that was
full of water. Well, I thought, the clothes are clean and there is this
dryer
that will dry them. All worked well enough, and no one saw me to laugh
or
instruct.
My second load of
laundry came a week later. I had been distracted by something and took
much
longer to look in the washing machine. This time the spin cycle had
completed
and the clothes were glued to the sides of the washing machine and, to
my
surprise, they were much drier. Oh, I thoughtÑat least I was thinking a
littleÑthis is how it is supposed to work.
Having mastered
or mustered laundry, I moved on to another daily task: eating.
I ate out. My
early experience with burning potatoes improved a bit, but only a bit.
I knew
how to cook several things, but didnÕt know how to cook for one person.
One
cooking episode per week was the norm leaving me eating leftovers six
days in
seven. People had microwave ovens at the time, but they were not
standard
equipment even in a luxury apartment. Heating on the stove was normal.
The rate
at which I burned leftovers would have put me in the baseball hall of
fame if I
were attempting to hit major league pitching. I was not attempting
baseball and
I was not liking home cooking.
Roy Rogers still
existed in those days. They had hamburgers like everyone else. Roy,
however,
had a Òfixins barÓ where I could put all
the onions,
pickles, bar-be-que sauce, and mustard I
wanted on my
burger. Roy also had fried chicken, pretty good fried chicken, much better than I would ever attempt in my
apartment.
Breakfast was
simpler. I bought a pint of chocolate milk at the vending machine where
I
worked. I donÕt know what I did for lunch. I suppose the vending
machine was my
most frequented place, but that might have been half the days.
A diet of
chocolate milk, hamburgers, and fried chicken is deadly when consumed
over long
periods of time. A summer of fried, grilled, and imbibed fat, however,
especially with a man too young to be affected by such, is survivable.
It is
stupid, but survivable.
Lost in my
oblivion of that Summer was that people
noticed.
People saw me drink chocolate milk each morning for breakfast.
ChildrenÑsmall, young, really young childrenÑdrink chocolate milk
in the morning. The vending machine operator was about to remove
chocolate milk
from the machineÕs rotation until I arrived. The teenagers who usually
stared
at the ceiling while working behind the counter at Roy Rogers knew me.
They
knew I was about to order fried chicken because they had served me a
hamburger
and french
fries the day
before. They were jealous of the combination of immaturity and the air
of
maturity that I had. I had the power of a little money in my pocket, no
parents
to chide my selection, and enough stupidity to order the things they
wished
they could eat.
As if I didnÕt
have enough fat at Òdinner,Ó and that is a charitable description of my
evening
food, I then ate movie theater popcorn. Cable TV didnÕt exist yet. Home
video
machines were new, and they cost a weekÕs pay. I had a nine-inch black
and
white Sanyo TV. It worked great for what it was with its shiny rabbit
ears
antenna. If I placed it next to the window of my apartment I could
receive four
channels. We used to call television networks ÒchannelsÓ in those days.
The movie theater
became my second home. I saw two to four movies a week. I drove a half
hour to
a theater for several weeks. This was fine. Having grown up in a rural
area, a
half-hour drive to town to see a movie was normal, and besides, what
was I
supposed to do with my evenings? Then one day I learned that a bigger
and
better theater was ten minutes from my apartment. In addition, that
theater was
a short walk from a Roy Rogers. I had fried chicken, fried
potatoes, and
that frying oil they put on popcorn.
The most
important news of the week was the Friday morning paper that listed all
the
movies in the theaters. That gave me an excuse to buy the Washington
Post one
morning a week and carry it into the office. Several people were
impressed by
my maturity at buying the newspaper. People back then bought the
newspaper
daily. Single, young guys like me, however, never bought the newspaper.
I was,
at least one day a week, more mature than the average, below-average
young
person.
This was life for
the three-and-a-half months of that summer. There was no single event
that
defined it. There was no girl to borrow my heart and crush it while
crushing
the fallen leaves of Autumn on a gentle
"it's not
you, it's me" walk. There was no enlightenment at my
do-nothing-just-stay-out-of-trouble job. The Summer
was one silly decision after another. I bought the wrong clothes at the
wrong
store; I ran out into quickly passing rainstorms instead of waiting,
and I
didn't repair my car when necessary (another long story that I skip
from
embarrassment). I found some solace in going to the wrong laundry
service and
the wrong movie theater. At least those stupid choices led me to learn
how to
drive about the suburban sprawl.
No, the Summer
was a time for awkwardly trying my adult legs through
a shifting obstacle course. I bruised the shin of my psyche daily, but
didn't
break anything. I was alone, and the consolation of a lone existence is
that I
didn't hurt anyone else.
The great
uncertain in between ended on September 30th. I boarded an airplane for
that
out-of-office work place and didnÕt return for seventy-five days. The
remote
job location provided a place to liveÑno decision. The remote job
location provided three meals a day in a cafeteriaÑno decision. The job
also meant I lived and worked in the same buildingÑno decision on cars
and driving. The no decisions came one after another and brought with
them no
stupid decisions. The bumbling ended.
My out-of-office
job was a real job with something real to do everyday. This forced me
to know
everything about the place where I lived and worked. I stopped wearing
a
question mark on my face and joined the world of people who knew what
they are
doing.
The young man
selected one kind of toothpaste. Instead of setting the half-dozen
rejected
brands on the shelf for a professional to place them back on the little
metal
irritating rods, he struggled in vain to return the aisle to its
previous
perfection.
"Excuse
me," I said.
He turned toward
me in a hands-caught-in-the-cookie-jar twitch. His mouth opened, but
repeated
huffs uttered no words.
"Just place
them here on the shelf," I continued. "They pay people to re-stock
everything."
"Oh,"
is all he managed to say, but with a look in his eyes that indicated a
real-life lesson taking hold in a fresh mind.
He then quickly
ran away from me. At least to me it looked like he was running away.
He, no
doubt, thought he was ambling towards the checkout counter with the
sophistication of James Bond or some post-modern day cosmopolitan
equivalent.
I never saw the
young man again. Admittedly, I scanned the obituaries more intently
until the
orange leaves of Autumn made their annual
appearance.
Absent all Summer was a young man who had
just moved
into the metropolitan suburbs from somewhere in real America. Yet
another
person had navigated the great in between.