Gallatin IV

The words sounded alien, like something out of Star Trek or a comic book. But Gallatin IV was the name of a voting district in North Kansas City only ten miles from where I lived. I stood in front of our next house. It was pale green and sat in the center of a cul-de-sac. All the houses around me were shades of olive or beige. The cloudy sky made the colors vivid. It looked like it should have rained hours ago. It was about three o'clock, and the neighborhood was almost deserted. There were no leaves on the young trees planted in the yards. I wore a black fall jacket. I was too cold without it, but too warm with it, and so I was sweating a little in the breeze.

It was election day, 2004. I had taken the day off to volunteer for an organization that targeted unreliable democratic voters and tried to get them to the polls. I had never volunteered before, but I couldn't stand the war. I felt that I already hadn't done enough, that I hadn't really protested, that I had been complicit in a horrible mistake. I didn't think I had any power, but the gesture needed to be made. I was like a kid throwing sand at the waves about to crush his sand castle.

Considering how little distance I'd traveled from home, I felt very out of place. I couldn't understand how anyone could live somewhere without trees or sidewalks. The subdivision must have been built in the 1980s. I'm from the northeast. I grew up in houses from the early part of the 20th century, in neighborhoods where no two houses were alike, where the streets all met at right angles with names that weren't variations on the same developer's theme. We had little town centers with shops that weren't in strip malls. I had sought out a neighborhood like that in Kansas City, too. I lived in Volker, a glorious mess of houses from the 10s adjacent to awful, horrid apartment buildings crammed in during the 1960s or 70s, when the zoning must have changed. The people who live where I live are as mottled as the streets.

The car idled behind me. A white civic. Bob and Elizabeth sat inside. Elizabeth, whose curly hair seemed to reflect the coiled drive within her, had instigated. She had polled our work group looking for volunteers. She sought out people she knew were like-minded. She knew all the right things to say. If you debated her, you didn't stand a chance. Bob was different. He could spot the downsides and upsides in anything. He believed in complexity and in the importance of not simplifying things. He sought well chosen words, and he encouraged debate. He wanted people to make their own, informed choices. When he spoke to the people of Gallatin IV, the people who for some reason weren't at work, maybe because it was too hard for them to face the world every day, or on this day, I felt like it was hard for him to connect. He was just too much for them. Elizabeth had no trouble making her pitch, though I think people agreed with her sometimes just to get her to go away. I was somewhere in the middle. I could see all of the complexity that Bob could, but I couldn't face it. I couldn't analyze it and come out with an answer I was comfortable with. And unlike Elizabeth, I couldn't really support Kerry. I couldn't see how he'd get us out of Iraq, and I didn't think it was right to withdraw before things stabilized. But Bush had started this mess, and I was frightened to see what he could do in four more years. So I came along, but I thanked my lucky stars when my houses said "Kerry," which they usually did, because I was off the hook.

I hopped up the flight of concrete steps to the front door of this olive house and rang the glowing doorbell. Nobody came. The place looked deserted. I waited a few minutes, then left a packet containing a map to the polling place and info on identity requirements, etc. I ran back down to the car, hopped in the back seat and shut the door, but I didn't bother putting on my seat belt. Bob already had the next place picked out. He held a map, a clipboard and a pen in his hands.

Even though we were going door-to-door, we had to drive. It seemed like we had about one target per five blocks. Did that mean that there weren't many democrats in this part of town, or were the rest of them just more reliable? Or was I just seeing the physical manifestation of the reality of American Elections, that only about a third of the people actually vote, with half of those going to either side? All I knew for sure was I was hungry and a little carsick. We left the subdivision and turned on to one of the main surface roads. After a few blocks, Elizabeth pulled up at our next stop.

This house was light blue. It had a white SUV in the drive, and a glass outer door covered with a grate. As I got out of the car, traffic continued to whiz behind me on the two lane road. I felt like a kid on Halloween approaching a house with an ambiguous number of lights on. Did that one porch bulb mean I was welcome, or was I about to get shouted at? I grabbed my pile of papers from the back seat, shut the car door, and started towards the steps. The glass door was closed, but the wooden door behind it was open: odd on a such a dreary day, especially since no breeze was getting through that glass.

I rang the bell. I could see a TV inside, but it was off. A woman came to the door, and I could immediately tell that she had been crying. Her cheeks were puffy, and her eyes were red. "I'm sorry," I said, as she opened the door. "Yes?" she said, wiping her eyes. "I was just here to see if you'd had the chance to vote," I replied, already backing away towards the stairs. "No, I don't think I'm going to do that," she said, her voice breaking, "it's been a bad day." "It's OK," I said, "just take care of yourself." She closed the door, and I went back to the waiting car.

We worked for a few more hours. It was strangely exhausting. I had spent the whole day in the car, climbing stairs here and there, mostly to arrive at empty homes. Finally, we went to a Panera to get some food. I sat down and ate two bagels: an everything with cream cheese, and a cinnamon raisin with nothing on it. I didn't have the stomach for anything more complicated. Elizabeth typed feverishly on her laptop, and Bob sat reading the paper, occasionally commenting on something that caught his eye. Apparently Bush had been leading in Missouri for some time. The Kerry campaign had abandoned the state two weeks earlier. I laid my head on the table and looked at the space under my arms. By my count, I had probably gotten three voters to the polls. I didn't understand how this was supposed to work.

That night, I sat in the Uptown Theater with the rest of the volunteers as we watched the election results come in. It didn't look good. Larry King was saying CNN would have called the election already if it hadn't been for the fiasco in 2000, when Gore won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College.

The Uptown was dark and cavernous. The only real light came from the TV projection. People's voices echoed upwards and bounced back down from the ceiling and alcoves. But as the night wore on, we stopped talking to one-another. We began to dissolve. Suddenly there were fewer people around me, then fewer still. Soon I was one of maybe twenty people in a theater built to seat 2,300. I decided to go home.

I drove down 39th street towards my house, stopping at the stark intersection at Southwest Trafficway to wait for a red light. I didn't have the radio on. I prayed, though I'm not religious.

The next day, at work, nothing was said. Bob was on a conference call. Elizabeth wasn't around. Maybe she called in sick. The sky was still gray, and it still hadn't rained. I sat in the break room by the windows and looked out at the tops of the trees. I sipped a cup of tea. The room was quiet and the air was still. People came and went to get coffee, to wash their hands. I heard the refrigerator kick on. Out the window, the green of the trees was vivid and bold, but I was still on the streets of Gallatin IV, wondering where I was.

Cottage Cheese: A Letter of Passion

Dear Cottage Cheese,

I know it’s been years since we’ve been together but I have a confession. Please do not think that this is presumptuous of me but I can’t hide this any longer. Cottage cheese, I love you. Please forget the years where I claimed to be lactose intolerant; I was a fool. I’ll admit, I didn’t think of you much and I thought you’d be out of my life forever. I just want you to know, I’m glad you’re back.

I saw you this summer for the first time in years. I didn’t think much of you at first, but I was going through a rough patch with food. I chose you basically because I was tired of eating side salads, potato chips, and baked beans. I skimmed off a layer of your creamy goodness and scooped it onto my plate. With the first bite, I knew you were something different, something special. My taste buds erupted with a passion I have experienced only a few times before. I tried to deny my feelings and chalk it up to a one-time fling. The moment was right, you and I were right, but how could I? You’re just a carton of cottage cheese and I‘m just a starving woman! I tried to get you off my mind but my stomach was just so full. One evening at dinner, I caved. I searched through the refrigerator and you were gone. Where did you go? I knew then it would be impossible. I can’t put up with something that leaves me so soon. Even though I was upset, I still couldn’t forget you or our passionate dinner.

I started to add you to my grocery list and then I’d cross you off the list. There’s no way I could eat a whole carton of cottage cheese, I’d think. I would go to the grocery store and pass by the milk, dip, and yogurt aisle. I saw other women shopping you, checking your expiration date. I admit I was a little jealous. That’s probably why I never picked you up. How can I compete with those women?

But tonight, oh the brilliance of tonight! Tonight, when I was least expecting it, you showed up on my dinner table. I thought I was starting to get over you but I knew when I saw you on the dinner table that I would never get over you. You were lounging in your plastic purple and white Belfonte tub, slightly sweating from being left out of the refrigerator for a few minutes. I knew, I just knew that I had to have you. I’m not one to take rejection lightly so I only go after what I know I can have and I knew, oh I knew, you would be mine. During the dinner prayer, I could feel myself salivate as I looked at you, as I thought about what I wanted to do to you. Sweet Jesus, I must have you, I silently prayed.

I’m sorry if I was a bit forward but I couldn’t resist digging my spoon deep into your container and laying you out on my dinner plate. I could tell that you enjoyed it as I noticed that your juices started to ooze across the plate towards my spoon. That’s all it took, mister. My spoon was magnetic to your curds. It took mere seconds for a spoonful of your curds, your milky curds, to be dancing on my taste buds. I could feel your simple, yet elegant, flavor move towards the back of my mouth and down my esophagus as I continued to crave more of you.

I knew that I could inhale all of you if I didn’t take it slow so I decided to move on to the spicy meat that presented itself on my plate. The cayenne pepper that decorated the meat only created a stronger desire to have you inside of me. I immediately shoveled another spoonful of your body into my mouth and the result was positively orgasmic. The spiciness of the meat fighting against your strong milky complexion was enough to send me over the edge. I had never experienced something so powerful in my life and I knew at that very moment that there is something real between us. I no longer lust after you. I love you. I want to devour you.

Of course, like all good things, our dinner-time ecstasy had to end. But I want you to know that I am positive we can make this work. I want to snack on you. I want to feast on you for dinner. I want to eat savory peaches off of your luscious body during breakfast. I want to open my refrigerator and see you happily waiting on the top shelf, anxiously yearning for my spoon to thrust into your carton. I want to see it in your eyes; I want to see you want my spoon.

There’s something magical about our relationship; I only hope you feel the same way about me. So if you love me, let me know. I’m dying to have my feelings reciprocated and to finally push this coyness aside. I love you and that’s what matters. I want you to know that I’m happy to have you in my life again and I hope you never leave. Even if we are only casual friends, I will still praise the gods that you and I have had this once in a lifetime experience.

Yours truly,

L

Interview for an internship

When I was 18 I had my first real job interview. I'm not counting the interviews that I had at places like Arby's or Planet Smoothie, which I aced. At Planet Smoothie, I didn't even have to talk to the manager. My "interview" consisted of the manager asking a friend of mine two questions: 1) "will he show up for shifts?" and 2) "will he steal?" All it took was a "yes" and a "no," respectively, and I had a job. But this was the real deal, now: a summer internship with Delta airlines making web pages. This was the stuff resumes were made of.

I had never made a web page until a week prior when I heard about the internship from an "older" gentleman in my digital art group. Today I wouldn't consider this man old, but at the time, he was ancient: he had a real job doing computer stuff, for one, and I think he might have had a steady girlfriend. His success in both the romantic and professional worlds intimidated me.

I decided to make an impressive, professional web page to wow Delta. So I found a picture of this girl I liked from a japanese cartoon and I stuck her in the background. Then I wrote a bunch of stuff about me, the most interesting subject I could think of. I talked about my work experience (none of which pertained to making web pages) and my intention to become either a creative writer or a musician. Did I really think this content was "on target?" I'd like to think I knew I was sabotaging myself, but I'm not so sure. At the time, I remember earnestly wanting the job, but also feeling that it was hopelessly out of my league.

On the day of the interview, I hopped into my stepmom's Toyota Corolla and began the journey from one side of Atlanta to the other. Delta, being an airline, was located near the airport. My interview was at 8am, and the drive was one hour each way, so I was on the road by about 6:50. As an 18-year old, I objected to the early hour on principle. It was a hot, smoggy, summer morning and the radio in the Corolla was dead, killed supposedly by lightning that struck nearby as my stepmom was driving. So I listened to the growl of the road as I began to sweat and stick to the driver's seat through my ill-fitting dress shirt.

My stepmother is a wonderful woman, but not a fantastic driver. Highways make her nervous, and the Corolla is underpowered which doesn't help. On long drives, she finds a truck and drives about 10 feet behind it the whole way, making for limited scenery (how's my driving?) and a misguided sense of security. It's sort of like a toddler hiding by covering his eyes; if she can't see the road, the road can't see her. When I inherited the car, I also inherited the bottle of Midol in the glove compartment. My friend Kevin used to throw the pills at unhappy looking people from the car window. Maybe a Midol would help. On my drive, I didn't find a truck to hide behind, and I didn't take a Midol, but I didn't drive very aggressively, either. I was a new driver, and the massive Atlanta highways frightened me.

When I finally arrived at the scene of my interview, I was surprised at how nondescript the building was. This was before I learned that corporations often have many offices, and they typically aren't very themed. I didn't know of the sea of beige that waits in most workplaces, and I don't think I even knew the word cubicle. But I went inside and was somehow directed to the interview room.

Once there, I was seated across the table from three Delta employees, none of whom I had ever spoken to. They were wearing light shirts and dark pants in blue tones, classic business casual, and one of them had a briefcase with gold buckles on it. I was immediatley conscious of the fact that my sleeves were too short. To make matters worse, though my friend in the art group had suggested I apply for the job, he was not invovled with the hiring, so nobody would be throwing me softballs or better yet answering the questions for me. I also realized pretty quickly that my connection did not make me a shoe-in for the job. They jumped in, one after the other, piling on like a congressional panel. They asked tough questions, questions I had not foreseen, like "why do you want this job?" and "have you ever coded a web page before?" The real zinger, though, the one that sticks with me to this day, was "why did you choose Carnegie Mellon?"

The man who asked the question sat at the center of the table. I don't know how old he was. At the time, he had the aura, again, of somebody "old" - somebody with their life in order. Somebody with a job and a car of their own, with an apartment and a fridge with their own milk in it and the breakfast cereal of their choice. He looked at me with intensity. I could imagine his leather-soled foot tapping. I had done a terrible job of answering his questions, which might have explained his testy tone. After all, why was I wasting his time?

Why did I choose Carnegie Mellon? The real answers seemed absurd: because I missed snow. Because there were more women there than at Georgia Tech. Because I had fond memories of going places in New York with my grandmother that were named after Carnegie. Because I had a fascination with number-two anythings, with slight underdogs. Carnegie Mellon was probably every bit as good a school as MIT, but it didn't have the name, or the money, or maybe it had a slight inferiority complex and a need to prove itself, like I did. When I visited, I walked to class during a blizzard, and I stayed in a co-ed dorm. I loved the hunger, the passion of students willing to walk through snow to sit in a lecture hall and learn about physics, which I also loved. And I loved the idea of a co-ed dorm half full of incredibly brainy women and half full of guys who wouldn't be more athletic than me. I was sold.

The decision to go to Carnegie Mellon was not an easy one. That place is expensive. My parents objected to the debt I would be taking on, and intially refused to co-sign on my loans, an effective veto over my desire to attend. I wouldn't have had the courage to go had it not been for my 12th grade english teacher, who said, simply and emphatically, "You go, Jesse. You go there and you make yourself indispensable to them." And that's exactly what I did.

But that day, in Atlanta, when asked the question "Why did you choose Carnegie Mellon?," I didn't have a good answer. After a second or so of silence, my interviewer supplied an answer for me. "I guess you wanted to spend a lot of money for no reason," he said.

Needless to say I didn't get the job. But I'd like to think the experience taught me a few things. That one hour was too far to commute, especially in Atlanta. That car stereos are very important, and should be repaired when they break. That in life, the truism "it's not just what you know, but who you know" does actually apply. That corporate buildings are not theme parks, and that some of the people who work in them are bitter enough to snipe at a nervous eighteen year-old in way over his head. But most of all, this interview affirmed a belief that I hold to this day: the belief that things work out the way they're meant to, and that a little self-sabotage can protect you from people, things and places that aren't right for you.

Today, I can shuck and jive. I know how to answer questions to give people the impression that they want so I can get the results I want. I don't talk about my band during job interviews, unless I'm trying to demonstrate my creativity, or my ability to maintain a healhty work-life balance, or unless I'm explaining how I channel my passion towards non-work activities so that I can maintain the expected level of professional detachment in the workplace. I know what to say, and when to say it, but I often wonder if I should bother. After all, in many cases I'm the one asking the questions, now. I'm the one who's had the girlfriend, the apartment, my own box of fruity pebbles. And now it's a wife, a house, a kid and a hot cup of lapsang suchong. But what I envy most, what I miss, what I hunger to recreate is the intuitive sense of self, the audacious confidence and the inate courage that inspired an 18-year old, however subconsciously, to bomb the interview for an on-paper dream job that wasn't right for him, that he just really didn't need.