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I was not all that excited about the idea of becoming the newest employee of the Grey Dog Coffee Company. Sure, I would get all the coffee that I wanted for free and I would mostly be working along with good looking hippie college students who could surely teach me a few tricks in the sack. But still, I was a graduate of the prestigious MFA program in creative writing of the University of Michigan. It simply seemed illogical that I would find myself sitting here in this small village coffee shop awaiting an interview.
But what is a brother to do? These are hard days and somehow I had to pay rent. Susan and Irena, my two lesbian roommates would not likely grant me an extension. Somehow I knew deep down in my bones, that if given the chance, Irena would be more than happy to jump my bones. She went both ways. But Susan was strictly butch. She never experienced the joy of a man and would likely argue that there were no such joys. Clearly, I could not fuck my way out of this one. There were less than seven hundred dollars left in my checking account and time was running out.
Her name was Ski and she was the assistant manager of the coffee shop and an undergraduate student at New York University. Before we sat down beneath those yellow chandelier lights all the way in the back of the coffee shop, she wanted to know if I would like anything to drink and of course, it would be on the house.
“Sure, I will take a cup of coffee, black, two sugars.”
“Give me a moment,” and then she returned with two cups of coffee and a friendly smile. She took out my application from a tall stack of papers and quickly glanced over my credentials.
“So tell me Greg, I see that you worked in a bunch of coffee shops back in Ann Harbor, Common Cup, Caribou Coffee and Foggy Bottom Coffee House. I also see that you have an undergraduate degree in American literature and an MA in creative writing. So I take it that you are a writer.”
“Well, that all depends on who you ask. I published a few short stories in The Believer and the Chelsea Literary Journal but I doubt that you ever ran across my works.”
“That sounds really cool, I would love to read one of your stories.”
“Why, are you the reading type Ski?”
“Are you kidding me, I love books. You will always find a good book at my bedside. Without books, what is the point, right?”
“Hell yea. But you and I are in the minority on this one, most people prefer reality television.”
“’Hey, forget most people,” she smiled “most people suck.”
“I could not agree more Ski. Tell me, who is your favorite author?”
“Oh, that’s a good one, I could not say, I am torn between Hemingway and Truman Capote, how about you?”
“Hard one, I would be torn between Henry Miller and Philip Roth.” We went back and forth for a while. Suddenly, one of the employees yelled Ski’s name out. She excused herself for a moment and left me with a sweet taste in my mouth.
I looked around at the people who were quickly filling up the place. It was eleven O’clock in the morning on Tuesday in December and none of these people were at work. Were these people independently wealthy? Were they tourists? Students? Or were they as unemployed as I? It did not really matter, the place had a good vibe to it and no one seemed to differentiate between a Sunday and a Tuesday. Everyone just seemed more than content to be here in New York City and away from the cold winds that were running around the tall city buildings.
“Sorry about that,” she apologized when she returned “there was a bit of a mix up with a customer but now it is all taken care of. So where were we?” She smiled.
“You were about to tell me whether you were single or had a boyfriend.”
“I don’t recall that conversation.” She laughed. “I recall something about Hemingway.”
“So what is the answer?” I insisted.
“Do you always ask such questions during a job interview?”
“Only when the person who interviews me is a good looking woman who likes books.”
“You realize of course that now things are too awkward for me to offer you the position.” She apologized.
“Yes, I know, I fully realize that. But I will take your phone number any day over a job. There are many places were I can earn a buck but not too many women in New York City who can put a smile on my face.”
“So I put a smile on your face?” She bashfully laughed.
“You did and you do. So what do you say Ski, do you have a man in your life?”
“Not at the moment. But I am not sure that I am taking applications at the moment.”
“I think you should reconsider, just look at my resume, I am more than qualified.”
“Oh yea? And what exactly do you think qualifies you for the position?”
“Well Ski, I am a very hard worker, I take my job seriously and promise to show up for work on time, every time and to stay late at work when ever is required. I tell you Ski, a man with strong work ethics is hard to find around these parts.”
“Trust me Greg, I already know that by now.“ She smiled.
She would not acquiesce and instead of her telephone number she instructed me to add her on Facebook which I did just an hour after I came back home.
Irena walked in on me just as began to jerk off under my sheets. She did not seem embarrassed at all, rather, she seemed aroused. The idea went through her head for a quick moment but instead of jumping into my bed with that tiny Russian body of hers’, she demanded the long overdue rent. I told her that I needed another few days before
I would have the money.
“Yea, well, I heard that one before. Maybe you should consider getting yourself a job instead of sitting around here and jerking off all day like some damn teenager.”
A few days later I emailed Ski a PDF copy of “Red Wine Wonders”, a story that I published in Literal Latte, a local publication off of 10th street down around the corner. From her reply, I could tell that she really liked it.
We agreed to meet up for a drink a few days later in the Vig Bar, a trendy little join off of Elizabeth Street. When thinking about it, I was not in any position to pay for all of the martinis that she ordered that night. Ski had enough dirty martinis in her to piss out olive oil and I was the one who laid out more than a hundred bucks at the end of the night.
A single man of limited means living here in New York City was an exercise in idiocy. I could have opened the gym.
Maybe it was time for me to listen to my brother’s advice and to move back home to Nebraska where the beer was cheap and the spare bedroom available. But let’s be honest now. Great writers don’t come from the wheat fields of the Midwest; they did not thrive in silence.
Women like Ski, long literary streets and a constant headache are the hallmarks of New York City, a city that will always offer a man a good kick in the ass.
Ski could not come despite my many attempts. More than thirty-five minutes down between her thighs and my tongue was growing numb. Maybe it had to do with a lack of technique, maybe it was the vodka. I never got a second chance.
Standing out on that cold empty road that connected Sioux City and Omaha, I held on to my backpack and a copy of Jack Kerouac's The Dharma Bums and wondered just how long he would have stuck around the streets of New York before he would give up on his literary dreams.
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