apparently things i write on receipt tape at michael's are more interesting than my life.
So, Brendan is fine. For the sake of his privacy I won't go into what happened, but his appendix didn't explode, he didn't die of stomach cramps, and he came home later that night.
There are many more TMI-y details that he felt the need to share with me both the other night as I drove him to a friend's house and tonight as we ate dinner. I will spare you, however.
Tomorrow he goes back to UConn.
Really freaky, serious conversation we just had that totally lacked our usual humor:
Kait: If I don't see you before you leave... you know, good luck.
Bren: Yeah, you too, Ms. Last Semester in College.
Kait: Shut up. Seriously. Please.
Bren: Yeah. Okay. Sorry.
It was kind of a frightening moment, and a concept I am thinking about more and more as things wind down. I was talking to Sam at work today. At first it was the same bitching about how I never get to work on the floor anymore and I find it really irritating, but it melted into... I don't know. We were talking about a complaint I filed with Ken and we got interrupted. Afterwards, Sam said to me, "We were talking about how you're unsuccessfully trying to change the system."
I said, "Fuck it, anyway. I'm not coming back after next week. I don't even care. I mean, hopefully by the next time I'd be available to work I'll have a college degree and... I don't know. A real job."
"May, right?" Sam said. "I know! Me too! But I don't know if I'll quit! I mean, I don't want to work here forever and... I guess I'll quit eventually... and I don't even like it that much, but the people aren't bad."
"Yeah," I said. "The ones who stick. They're cool."
"Right!" Sam looked like he wasn't sure what he was trying to say. "I don't even like the work, it's just that... I've been doing it for so long."
"It's comfortable," I said.
Because it is.
"Yeah!" he said. "Yeah, it's just... I don't know what else to do."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It's not good work, it doesn't pay well, but it's been four years and it's comfortable."
And, I mean, it's never easy. Not... ever, really. I have this sort of built-in... need to please, I guess. And I'm always nervous, even though I do know my job better than anything, nervous about what customers think and what my co-workers think and what my bosses think. If I'm doing a better job this time around or worse or if they trust me more or less or if I'm not exerting enough effort or... whatever. But despite that, I sort of know what I'm doing and I sort of know who I'm working with and it's a set routine that's not really the real world and doesn't have to be.
But in a week it will, quite possibly, be over for good. And I keep saying that to people--"Last week at Michael's! Maybe forever!"--but the more I say it, the more I don't want it to be over, in a way, because of what that represents. I also don't want to fall back into it when I graduate, just because it's something I know. That's not healthy, either.
So I really don't know WHAT to do, and I've sort of gone on a tangent and I really only wanted to post that quote from Brendan and me.
***
Anyway, here's what I wrote on receipt tape at Michael's today:
"I don't understand how we got to board games at eleven o'clock at night, is all," Tristan said, scratching his head. He was still staring at Alan in a way that made Danny feel a twinge of possessiveness in his chest, even though he knew that Tristan was straight and that the look had more to do with morbid curiosity than lust.
"Sometimes," Danny said, leaning his elbows on his knees and grinning at Felicity, who was already rolling her eyes, "when Alan gets drunk, he remembers that he's a genius with an IQ through the roof and more random knowledge than anyone else on the planet. And he's wasting it all teaching sixteen year olds what a covalent bond is. He suggests trivia-based games so that he can prove that he is, in fact, the smartest fucking person on the planet. By the end of the night, he's usually yammering on about astrophysics and how he wants another PhD because two bachelor's degrees, two master's degrees and one PhD isn't enough. He's lucky I find post-graduate degrees to be incredibly sexy."
Tristan nodded slowly, as if he was filing all of this away for future reference. Laura and Felicity both rolled their eyes, and Doug smirked just a little. Alan was in full on pout mode as he dropped Trivial Pursuit onto the table.
"Shut up or I won't let you be on my team," he said, punching Danny's arm.
"He's not allowed anyway!" Felicity said quickly. "It's in the rules!"
"There are rules about Alan and Danny being on the same team?" Laura asked, one eyebrow perfectly arched.
"Made up rules," Felicity elaborated. "Our rules. It's not fair to put them on the same team because Alan knows fucking everything and he and Danny can communicate like, psychically or something. Even when Danny doesn't know the answer--" Danny opens his mouth to protest, but Felicity shoves him before he can defend himself. "Okay, you know what? You did NOT know the answer to that question about the Manhattan Project, alright? I know it's been like four years and I should be over it, but I'm not and you didn't know it and he just looked at you and you could read 'b' as the answer from like, his posture or something."
"I swear, Felicity, we weren't cheating!" Danny insisted. He paused. "Also, it was four years ago and you were on Richie's team and you guys somehow won, even though Alan answered the most questions right. If anyone should be pissed--" This time it was Alan who tried to interrupt.
"If we just got rid of that stupid rule about exact rolling--"
"If anyone should be pissed," Danny repeated, "it should be me because you fleeced me out of fifty dollars!" Alan huffed noisily at being cut off and then draped himself over Danny's side.
"You guys bet while playing Trivial Pursuit?" Tristan asked.
"Alan's family bets on everything," Danny said. "I'm surprised they're not all addicted to gambling."
"Stupid dice rule," Alan muttered.
"Is he going to be okay to play?" Tristan's concern and confusion really was kind of charming, in an awkward, twenty-five-year-old way. "He looks kind of... out of it."
"Alan, what year did Einstein present the Theory of Relativity?"
"Special relativity was 1905 in 'On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies,'" Alan said without moving his head from Danny's shoulder. "General relativity was developed over eight years, starting in 1907."
"I'm about to have my ass handed to me, aren't I?" Tristan asked, mouth hanging open.
Danny shrugged. "Who knows, maybe you'll end up on his team."
"I want another beer," Alan murmured.
From something longer. Or at least, it will be longer in my head. I think what it really wants to be, more than a Danny story, is a Tristan story, so we'll see what happens when I'm done with everything else in my life.
***
It's now officially both my Dad's and Alan's birthdays. My dad is 49 and Alan is 37. My dad gets presents and a cake. Alan is fictional and thus doesn't get anything unless I miraculously become unbusy tomorrow and feel like writing something, which I probably won't.
There are many more TMI-y details that he felt the need to share with me both the other night as I drove him to a friend's house and tonight as we ate dinner. I will spare you, however.
Tomorrow he goes back to UConn.
Really freaky, serious conversation we just had that totally lacked our usual humor:
Kait: If I don't see you before you leave... you know, good luck.
Bren: Yeah, you too, Ms. Last Semester in College.
Kait: Shut up. Seriously. Please.
Bren: Yeah. Okay. Sorry.
It was kind of a frightening moment, and a concept I am thinking about more and more as things wind down. I was talking to Sam at work today. At first it was the same bitching about how I never get to work on the floor anymore and I find it really irritating, but it melted into... I don't know. We were talking about a complaint I filed with Ken and we got interrupted. Afterwards, Sam said to me, "We were talking about how you're unsuccessfully trying to change the system."
I said, "Fuck it, anyway. I'm not coming back after next week. I don't even care. I mean, hopefully by the next time I'd be available to work I'll have a college degree and... I don't know. A real job."
"May, right?" Sam said. "I know! Me too! But I don't know if I'll quit! I mean, I don't want to work here forever and... I guess I'll quit eventually... and I don't even like it that much, but the people aren't bad."
"Yeah," I said. "The ones who stick. They're cool."
"Right!" Sam looked like he wasn't sure what he was trying to say. "I don't even like the work, it's just that... I've been doing it for so long."
"It's comfortable," I said.
Because it is.
"Yeah!" he said. "Yeah, it's just... I don't know what else to do."
"Yeah," I agreed. "It's not good work, it doesn't pay well, but it's been four years and it's comfortable."
And, I mean, it's never easy. Not... ever, really. I have this sort of built-in... need to please, I guess. And I'm always nervous, even though I do know my job better than anything, nervous about what customers think and what my co-workers think and what my bosses think. If I'm doing a better job this time around or worse or if they trust me more or less or if I'm not exerting enough effort or... whatever. But despite that, I sort of know what I'm doing and I sort of know who I'm working with and it's a set routine that's not really the real world and doesn't have to be.
But in a week it will, quite possibly, be over for good. And I keep saying that to people--"Last week at Michael's! Maybe forever!"--but the more I say it, the more I don't want it to be over, in a way, because of what that represents. I also don't want to fall back into it when I graduate, just because it's something I know. That's not healthy, either.
So I really don't know WHAT to do, and I've sort of gone on a tangent and I really only wanted to post that quote from Brendan and me.
***
Anyway, here's what I wrote on receipt tape at Michael's today:
"I don't understand how we got to board games at eleven o'clock at night, is all," Tristan said, scratching his head. He was still staring at Alan in a way that made Danny feel a twinge of possessiveness in his chest, even though he knew that Tristan was straight and that the look had more to do with morbid curiosity than lust.
"Sometimes," Danny said, leaning his elbows on his knees and grinning at Felicity, who was already rolling her eyes, "when Alan gets drunk, he remembers that he's a genius with an IQ through the roof and more random knowledge than anyone else on the planet. And he's wasting it all teaching sixteen year olds what a covalent bond is. He suggests trivia-based games so that he can prove that he is, in fact, the smartest fucking person on the planet. By the end of the night, he's usually yammering on about astrophysics and how he wants another PhD because two bachelor's degrees, two master's degrees and one PhD isn't enough. He's lucky I find post-graduate degrees to be incredibly sexy."
Tristan nodded slowly, as if he was filing all of this away for future reference. Laura and Felicity both rolled their eyes, and Doug smirked just a little. Alan was in full on pout mode as he dropped Trivial Pursuit onto the table.
"Shut up or I won't let you be on my team," he said, punching Danny's arm.
"He's not allowed anyway!" Felicity said quickly. "It's in the rules!"
"There are rules about Alan and Danny being on the same team?" Laura asked, one eyebrow perfectly arched.
"Made up rules," Felicity elaborated. "Our rules. It's not fair to put them on the same team because Alan knows fucking everything and he and Danny can communicate like, psychically or something. Even when Danny doesn't know the answer--" Danny opens his mouth to protest, but Felicity shoves him before he can defend himself. "Okay, you know what? You did NOT know the answer to that question about the Manhattan Project, alright? I know it's been like four years and I should be over it, but I'm not and you didn't know it and he just looked at you and you could read 'b' as the answer from like, his posture or something."
"I swear, Felicity, we weren't cheating!" Danny insisted. He paused. "Also, it was four years ago and you were on Richie's team and you guys somehow won, even though Alan answered the most questions right. If anyone should be pissed--" This time it was Alan who tried to interrupt.
"If we just got rid of that stupid rule about exact rolling--"
"If anyone should be pissed," Danny repeated, "it should be me because you fleeced me out of fifty dollars!" Alan huffed noisily at being cut off and then draped himself over Danny's side.
"You guys bet while playing Trivial Pursuit?" Tristan asked.
"Alan's family bets on everything," Danny said. "I'm surprised they're not all addicted to gambling."
"Stupid dice rule," Alan muttered.
"Is he going to be okay to play?" Tristan's concern and confusion really was kind of charming, in an awkward, twenty-five-year-old way. "He looks kind of... out of it."
"Alan, what year did Einstein present the Theory of Relativity?"
"Special relativity was 1905 in 'On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies,'" Alan said without moving his head from Danny's shoulder. "General relativity was developed over eight years, starting in 1907."
"I'm about to have my ass handed to me, aren't I?" Tristan asked, mouth hanging open.
Danny shrugged. "Who knows, maybe you'll end up on his team."
"I want another beer," Alan murmured.
From something longer. Or at least, it will be longer in my head. I think what it really wants to be, more than a Danny story, is a Tristan story, so we'll see what happens when I'm done with everything else in my life.
***
It's now officially both my Dad's and Alan's birthdays. My dad is 49 and Alan is 37. My dad gets presents and a cake. Alan is fictional and thus doesn't get anything unless I miraculously become unbusy tomorrow and feel like writing something, which I probably won't.