The Bathroom Is That Way
7/13/20264 min read
I'm really on a roll when it comes to disastrous things happening to me lately. Guess what happened to me?
I got a job.
Not just any job. I got a nice job at a respectable place that pays well. What a clusterfuck, am I right? I also got it less than four weeks after landing back in NYC, and at that point I had only actually been here for around 15 days. It's kind of crazy how fast it happened. I thought I had a whole summer ahead of me.
Not that I hadn't just had a four-month-long summer traveling around the world, swimming in various seas and pools. But subconsciously, I was ready for the other summer. The NYC summer. And then—boom. Job. Not out of nowhere, obviously. I did apply for it. That's what's kind of crazy about jobs. When you desperately need one and are applying to places that don't deserve you, losing sleep and hoping someone will at least let you pick up dog poop at a local park for minimum wage—I don't know if that's a real job—you will not get hired. It's some sort of rule.
But I came back from traveling fully expecting to struggle for a while. I had spent a good chunk of my savings, but I wasn't broke. I figured I'd use up some more of it while job hunting, get a little desperate, maybe have a minor breakdown. Normal stuff. Instead, for the first two weeks, I was mostly catching up with friends and eating American delicacies. Whenever I got bored, I'd apply to jobs here and there—mostly ones I assumed I was underqualified for.
And then people started calling me. At one point, I went through three rounds of interviews for a restaurant at the top of one of the tallest buildings in NYC. And because going up there normally costs money, I attended all three interviews mostly for the view. Skip the “inter,” leave the “view.” Terrible dad joke. Sorry.
Anyways, they offered me the job. Good money too. And that's when it hit me: if I accepted it, my summer would be over. So I declined.
I had some other interviews. Some went well. Some were a complete waste of time. Some people could probably tell I'd be a personality hire, and apparently they weren't looking for one at the moment.
Then one interview went very well. The schedule seemed doable. The responsibilities seemed easy enough. I still felt slightly underqualified, so I was pretty blunt about that, but my personality seemed to sway everyone in favor of hiring me. And listen, I have no shame in being a personality hire. My personality is a damn good one. Companies need personality hires. Proud to be one.
So I accepted the offer. Then regretted it. Then got excited. Then got cold feet again. You get the drill. The job is kind of sick. Like, they-gave-me-clothes-to-get-tailored-and-will-reimburse-me kind of sick. But during my first shift, standing there in my freshly tailored clothes, it hit me:
I have a job now. Fuck. What did I do?
Obviously, remaining unemployed forever wasn't really an option. But maybe I could've waited until summer was over? Especially since my schedule is not exactly what I was originally made to believe it would be. Maybe that will change with time.
Am I ever going to see my friends again? Can't tell you for sure. I'm being dramatic. The job itself is good. I'm a manager in the service industry again, which means a surprising amount of my day consists of telling people where the bathroom is. I walk around. I smile. I nod. I ask if everything is okay. If everything is not okay, I send a free dessert. Obviously there's more to it than that, but you'd be shocked how far smiling, nodding and knowing where the bathroom is can take you in hospitality.
The problem is, I miss having time to write.
I haven't really been able to sit down and work on any of my screenwriting projects since getting back from traveling. Sometimes I beat myself up thinking I should've just gotten a server job. More flexibility. Probably more money per hour. Less responsibility. Clock out and disappear. But what's done is done.
And honestly, I don't even know what my ideal alternative is. I'd like to sell a script one day. Maybe create a TV show. That's supposedly the dream. Except then I think about actually being a TV writer: living in LA, going to a writers' room every day, sitting inside for hours, answering to people, having deadlines and meetings...
Wait. That sounds suspiciously like a job.
I used to live in LA and liked it. Maybe I just love NYC more. Or maybe having my car stolen in LA made me turn against the entire city. I really don't know. Does anyone actually know what they want?
Maybe this job is good for me. Maybe I'll learn enough that one day I can get one of those fake-sounding adult jobs like Director of Guest Experience or VP of Walking Around Looking Approachable. Make good money, have a vague enough title that nobody really knows what I do, and focus the rest of my energy on traveling, making wine bottles and writing scripts that hopefully one day get made.
That doesn't sound terrible.
Until then, the bathroom is that way.