Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: actuarial work, ambush predators, anchovy, assault, baby shark, carbon filters, conservation, dogfish, Dome Tank, Giant Pacific Octopus, gun waiting period, husbandry, Interview, Life sciences, sand filtration, Seattle Aquarium, security guard, sharks, Window on Washington
Rising early this morning I got ready for my big job interview. It’s a job as a researcher/writer to compose dossiers on potential clients for an actuarial firm in downtown Seattle. As I sat eating my oatmeal this morning, Aria commented on my calm demeanor. “You don’t seem nervous,” She’d said. That’s because I don’t give a shit, I say, smiling. It was true, but not for the obvious reasons. I was interested in the job, but it was part time, which means I’d have to pick up another job or two to make ends meet. The change of scenery might be nice, but ultimately I just seemed like more running around to me. What’s more, I had convinced myself the night before that I could care less about the job because frankly, I perform better like that. I’ve done the twitchy-uptight eager-to-please interviewee bit and it doesn’t impress anyone. When I walk in with an air of interest rather than desperation, I’m more personable. I’m confident. Basically, I’m a dick and employers love it.
Riding the bus in, I read my magazine and get into the mind frame that this is little more than an appointment on my way to the coffee shop. And I just happen to be wearing a shirt and tie. It’s just a dress-up day.
Walking two blocks up and two blocks across from my stop I look up at the building in front of me and do my best not to panic. This isn’t a little firm. This place is huge. It’s prominent. This glass-and-concrete phallus thrusting up into the sky proclaims dominance, superiority, and a need for a constant stream of window washers.
As I enter the lobby I am struck by the starkness. There are no features on the walls, just three black plaques indicating the businesses contained in the towers. My appointment is on the top floor, lucky 38. I board the elevator, press the button, and hope that the suite numbers correspond with the floors. My ears pop as the lift rockets upwards and spits me out onto the 38th floor where I am greeted by a woman holding open a large glass door. “Bryan?” She asks. “Yes, I’m here to see Debbie.” The woman leads me in and has me fill out paperwork.
I now begin to appreciate the gravity of where I am. Across from the waiting area sits a large saltwater aquarium, and for lack of another way to calm myself, I start identifying fish. Whether the message was intentional or not, I have received it. All of the fish are extremely aggressive predators; they would make excellent villains in any Disney film. To my right is conference room with an enormous window overlooking the sound. Ferryboats silently criss-cross as I strain to hear a sound in the office. There isn’t one. It’s dead quiet except for the secretary who now tells me that Debbie is on her way up.
Before long a blonde woman appears at the glass doors and knocks, causing a security guard that I hadn’t even noticed to walk over. “What’s this about?” she asks. “Is this for you, Bryan?”
I’m not sure, I say. I can’t decide whether to be flattered or scared.
“Seriously though,” she gets serious, shaking my hand, “do you know what this is about?” How would I know?
I have no idea, I quip, my reputation shouldn’t be this well known on this coast yet.” She laughs and we enter the conference room with the dizzying view.
From there we interview. She tells me about the job and I do my best to not be boggled by the words she’s using. I can write, I can research, but in term of actuarial work, legal database searches, or litigation, I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Well that seems pretty straight forward,” I say when she’s finished. We make small talk while we wait for the second interviewer to come up from a lower floor. I’m out of practice. As a teacher I had to speak all day, every day. No exceptions. But I’ve been a painter and a bum for about 7 months now, and I realize just how far I’ve fallen when she stops her verbal onslaught long enough for me to slip in some monosyllabic reply, the kind a grandmother would use while being lectured on the politics of an MMORPG. Oh now interesting, I say. I need to get out of here.
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: Bombay Walla Walla, Chicken Masala, looking pathetic, Pike's Place Market, pneumonia, power walking, Rainier Square, raw eggs, running, Tully's, Under Armor
My decision to run today was ill-advised, I decided as I reached my 2nd mile. Instead of springing out of bed at 6am, drinking some raw eggs and knocking out 6 or 7 miles, I slumped up at 7:15, stared at the wall for about an hour, and eventually puttered out the door at 9:30 for a surprisingly disheartening display of ineptitude.
I decided to run to my new apartment—a little more than a mile away—and then loop around a few neighborhoods and run the way home lakeside. I did my best to keep my breathing slow, since every morning still brings a few gurgles from my lungs. In theory, this is a smart thing to do; in practice, it just makes you look pathetic. A slow pace after a 4-month hiatus is understandable, but couple that with congested lungs and you’ll only draw pity from onlookers. It’s particularly stupid to wear Under Armor during one of these outings; the aggressive advertising imagine defined by unnecessarily cut mannequins only works to make me look worse as I’m repeatedly lapped by power walking old ladies.
After 36 minutes of pure hell I take a cool down lap, have a little cry, hit the showers, and head into town. Even though I’ve already had a sandwich at the house, I decide that I’m hungry and head into Rainier Square, uncharted territory for me. Searching around I realize that few, if any, of the restaurants are independents—this will violate my ‘no chain’ policy that I’ve adopted. After an internal struggle that ended with the rational that I had already eaten at Dick’s several times, I decide on Bombay Walla Walla, an Indian restaurant with chicken masala on special. Sold.
Waddling out of Rainier Square with a gut full or rice and chicken, I decide to change things up and go to the Tully’s on Virginia and 1st street rather than the one by Pike’s place. It’s an amazing change to write exactly two blocks east of your normal location. I can’t decide if it speaks more to the pervasiveness of the company or to the habitual nature of its unemployed customer base.
Here I sit and work. This Tully’s is less remarkable than the other one, but the genuine happiness on the part of the baristas makes up for the lack of fireplace. I’m sure it’s company policy, but they play it so well that they really seem to mean it. It’s weird, but it makes me want to spend more money. How about that.
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: Seattle, Paseo, cousins, second cousins, Paco, pulled pork, Fremont, ASPCA, animal hoarding, Iowa, New Hampshire, Cuban Restaurants
I stayed in today to apply to jobs. It occurred to me as I sat up in my pjs that I could sit at the kitchen table in the house and work on resumes just as easily as I could downtown, which was a bus ride and a two dollar cup of coffee away. If I stayed here, I wouldn’t even have to wear pants. I did though. The house is cold.
That was my day. In it’s entirety. Highlights include showering, and eating a mango at lunch time.
The really wild stuff began when I met my cousin, Jill, for dinner that evening. Things to know before venturing into this story: I don’t really have any cousins. Those who I have usurped from other families as my own flesh and blood are really second cousins, or perhaps even just people that I really like. Jill is one of these people. She’s been one of the few cousins close to my age, and sadly, has been one that I have been terrible about keeping touch with.
It’s been 20 years since I’ve seen Jill as I greet her in front of Paseo, one of Seattle’s famed Cuban restaurants. “Actually, I saw you in 2000 or so, so it’s been about 8,” she tells me, putting her book away. So it’s going to be that kind of meeting, is it?
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: DVD player, Google, Once, personal meaning, spanish subtitles, universal remote codes
Little victories make the difference in my life, and today I had one. The unemployed status is starting to get a little old, and being the type of person who defines himself by what he creates, I am losing a sense of self. If there is nothing to create, what am I doing? If there is nothing to fix, what is my purpose? Like a parting of the skies, I got my answer today.
I got up at 7:30, talked to Beckers and Erik, and then caught the bus to stake my place at Tully’s for the day. I’ve gotten to be such a regular that the cashier nods at me as though we’re both not supposed to recognize the other, but we both smirk when we do. I sit, a internet scouring rock, for 5 hours. I apply for jobs I’d love, jobs I’d tolerate, and jobs I’m not even close to qualified for. It’s a little fun to try, because if nothing else, you know you’re making someone on the receiving end laugh, and isn’t humor the glue that binds us as a society? I’m not a bum; I’m an adhesive. After a remarkably unproductive day, I go home to make history.
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: Boundary Bay Brewery, falling asleep, getting lost, hungover, sweet potato enchiladas
For a hung over group, we clean up well (in the literal sense). What I had thought would be the lost cause of cleaning actually turned out to be an exercise in teamwork than any corporate trainer would be proud of.
As a brief treat we decide that to take some pictures on the stairs, which turns into a photoshoot for an unwritten 80s sitcom. After a raucous debate about who should go where, the women take pictures of the men, and we decide where we going to be going for the rest of the day. Sape makes the suggestion that we head to a waterfall 30 minutes in the opposite direction. This is immediately shot down. Everyone is hung over, tired, and ready to get home. “How about Boundary Bay Brewery,” says someone. Illustrating the character of this group, we all agree on this destination.
The drive to Boundary Bay is a short one. Somewhere in Belingham, it’s a small brewery with an overabundance of character and really tasty food. While we’re not the only group enjoying the restaurant today, we’re certainly the loudest. Taking up nearly three tables, we’re most likely tolerated because drop money with reckless abandon. Entrees, appetizers, and—surprise—more beer make up our orders, which increase as Sape, Tuppence, and Juice show up 30 minutes late. “We got lost,” Sape says. “It’s one fucking road!” replies Den.
The food was amazing. Nachos and such are standard fare, but my entrée—sweet potato enchiladas—was simply amazing. The fearless departure from the norm is what makes me want to sample more cuisine out here. I could care less about pretentiousness when there’s so many interesting things to try.
The drive home is a little harder. With full bellies and 5 hours of sleep, we have trouble staying focused on the long road back to 138. Scooter, wake up, I scream at one point. “I am awake,” he says, wincing. Yeah I know, I say, I was just bored.
I’m one of the first ones home and take advantage of the free shower. The smell of burger-saturated campfire is one that will stay with me for some time, but I’m happy to at least be able to cover some of it up with the smell of a good washing. Next is laundry followed by making dinner, and sorting through the hundreds of pictures I’d taken. Halfway through I lose ambition and fall into the couch next to Aria to watch the Oscars, soon after which I go to bed. It’s a sad paradox; the best weekends are the ones that I’m too tired to write about.
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: burgers, Camelbak, drunken negotiation, energy policy, flashing, George Bush, grilling, Helly Hanson, Mt. Baker, Nalgenes, pressure-treated, pyromaniac, skiing powder, Survivor Suit
The morning began so early that I was sure that some people had stayed up. But everyone claimed to have slept. And after a breakfast of pancakes and—surprise—bacon we head off to the mountain, camelpacks and Nalgenes at the ready. C
We were not looking good this morning. Even I was feeling a little woozy from the moderate drinking I had done last night, so many rockstars were lost alone the way. Some stopped on the side of the road to vomit. Others rocked back and forth in the car, refusing to succumb like a rookie. “I don’t see what the big fucking deal is,” said Eche as she cracked a beer—her second—in the parking lot “just drink another beer and the hangover does away.”
Red-eyed and wobbly, we sloughed to the chair lift. Having eaten a granola bar and had some water in the car, I was feeling pretty good. Morning isn’t a great time for me anyway, so I decided my feeling lousy was mostly due to the hour, not the hangover. There is little snowball throwing on the ride up, which is a good thing given that a balance test is not something that should be administered to most of the group right now.
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: Alpaca, asshole, Black Rain, Broken Arrow, cabin, hanging glaciers, Indiana Jones, Michael Bolton, Mt. Baker, Mt. Shuksun, shotgun, Skiing, snowboarding
The big morning arrives and instead of 6am departure time, the consensus is that an 8am departure time would be a better than leaving at 6 and showing up at the mountain two hours before it opened. After we agree on 8am, we get on the road at 9. There’s nothing like make planning to lower the stress of a situation. “Well, can we buy a half-day pass?” Asks Mick. “I think so,” says Brian. Good enough. We leave.
I drive up to Baker with Scooter. I’ve always thought Seattle was beautiful, but the true majesty of Washington unfolds when the eastern sun folds back the rainshadow and reveals the mighty mountains that surround us. It takes us a while to get to them, but each time we see them peeking through the trees, Scooter and I get a little more excited.
One of the nicest things about road trips in Washington is that there is no shortage of things to look at. As we speed down the highway, Scooter and I notice an alpaca farm. In front of the farm is a 10’X20’ sign reading “Free Alpacas (to qualified persons).” Looking behind us into the spare hatchback crammed with food, beer, sleeping bags, skis, and snowboards, Scoot and I can conclude fairly certainly that we would not be considered “qualified” but the idea was a nice one. It also raised the question of what a “qualified” alpaca caretaker looked like. Was it someone with a trailer? A farm? How was this place even staying in business if they were just giving out alpacas like fun-sized candy bars? We decided it was a front for a drug smuggling operation and left it at that.
“You guys see that alpaca meth lab back a few miles?” Scoot asks Mick who nods his head in a way that shows he has no idea what we’re talking about but that’s not going to stop him. “Yep. One-stop shopping for all your alpaca and meth needs.”
Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: Central Market, Kashi, Marshalls, murder, Nabisco, newscast, organic, organic food, The Blade
It’s 5am and I am lying awake as though I have a secret. I’m conscious and no one else is, and for some reason I find this hilarious. Tiptoeing out to watch the sunrise I can hardly contain my laughter, which is difficult since all my energy is being spent trying not to let my limbs go numb.
When I slip back inside I go back to my nook and think about yesterday evening. I’d been almost out of food again, and Aria had offered to take me to Central Market, which was her favorite grocery store (and also happened to be on the way to Marshall’s). Good deal.
Cruising down he highway in Aria’s Honda all the neon in the state converges on one area—a several-mile-long strip of shopping malls, motels, strip clubs, and pawn shops. This area, Aria tells me as we drive past a smack-addicted Santa Claus, is colorfully known as “The Blade”.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. This is where you come if you want drugs or prostitutes.”
“What if I want both?”
“Good odds here. Hey, we can say you saw your first Washington hooker here!” This idea seems to please Aria, as if this right of passage were one that most transplants had come here to experience. Then she adds sadly “I don’t see any tonight.”
