the sweat of my brow
Spent much of yesterday and today wrestling a big article into shape; finally, at 4:30 this afternoon, I was done and headed out to check my post office box and do a celebratory lap through the art supply store on Van Ness.
Which is where I was headed when some little pair of naked wires crossed in my brain and I remembered that I was scheduled to cater this afternoon. Or was I? I couldn't remember what my call time was, or where I was supposed to be, but I was sure that I was late. Probably real late. Captains usually come in between 1 and 4:30 for dinner events, and my cell said it was 4:54 and I was completely unshowered, meaning that I was at least an hour away from showing up to the job clean and tuxedoed. So I called the recorded message to get the job's location as I loped through the Tenderloin, sweating and cursing myself and trying to figure out what I was going to say when I did finally get to work. While I've been late to jobs in the past, never by this much. And I have never pulled a no-call no-show on a catering job.
What is going ON with me? I thought as I listened to my supervisor's recorded voice droning out the directions to the site, which turned out to be the Ferry Building. Not a difficult place to get to, at least. But still. How did I let this slip? Am I hating the work that much? Or am I that sad? And more insidious yet, even if I can make it, why bother? Call in with a faked injury. Say the graft in your knee just gave out. Say you were hit by a car. Just lie; they can do without you. Meanwhile a car trying to make the light on Geary nearly made it unnecessary for me to lie about an accident, and people made disgruntled noises as I streamed past.
Burst into my apartment, throwing off my purse, scarf, jacket, and sweatshirt in pretty much one motion in preparation to shower. Grabbed my datebook off the floor and saw
this is the date I got taken off of last week.
So I put my clothes back on, switching out the completely sodden sweatshirt for something else, and went to the library to look for travel guides. And as I walked down Market Street to see if there was anything good playing at the Castro Theater's Berlin and Beyond, I thought long and hard about how worked up I'd gotten. For a job that gives me so little pleasure these days.
I think it's time I did something rash. I haven't done anything really rash in a while; people are going to start calling me "grounded" and shit.
I think it's time to look for a day job.