I had my chance. In college back in the seventies, streaking was all the rage. I’m not sure how the trend started, but after one brave and possibly deranged man streaked the Academy Awards on live TV, it was open season everywhere. In my freshman year, a guy who lived down the hall from me appeared in my doorway one afternoon and said, “Hey, the whole 8th floor is streaking tonight, wanna come?”
There was no threat of YouTube yet, no cell phones with cameras, and we weren’t even a major campus, but somehow the idea struck me as unworthy of my talents. I know Daughter would tell me I passed up a chance to be part of history, but it was one of those times that my instinct told me to take a raincheck and wait for the next big thing. Learning to trust your instincts is a huge accomplishment all on its own, whether it involves shedding clothes, jobs, relationships, or directions.
A few years ago I was at a job I really enjoyed at a company that seemed to be going down faster than an overcooked matzoh ball. To test the waters should the worst come to pass and I was suddenly unemployed, I answered some want ads and went on a few interviews. One of them was for a small financial company that seemed upbeat and upscale. How could so much up not be good?
The first interview went very well, and I was asked back for a second. At the second one, the owner’s assistant gave me more insight into the tempo of the office. She said that I needed to be aware that when things were going smoothly, the owner/president was just a sweetheart. But at times of stress, he could be difficult. I said, “Difficult in what way?”
“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “he might call you names or throw something. He curses. Slams doors. You know, stuff like that.”
I just stared at her. “And you’re still here?” “Oh, yeah,” she laughed, shrugging it off. “I’ve been here ten years. He always gets over it, but you need to know it happens and not to take it personally.”
The whole conversation called to mind abused women who say, “He only hits me when he’s drunk and he’s always sorry after.” I waited for her to add, “If he calls you names you probably have it coming,” but her next words were, “He’s really a great guy, just, you know, intense.”
I didn’t take the job. If I wanted intense I’d go rent Sophie’s Choice. Or, you know, run naked down Broadway.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos are Watchable as always
performance art
into the woods
leaving governor’s island
lost
katydid