My shoulders relax. “Oh! No. I mean, yes. I mean…” In my angst and despair over the job fair planning meeting, I forgot about having dinner with Colin, my buddy, my pal.
Standing in front of my desk, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then slides his hands into the pockets of his fleece pullover before taking them out again.
After a deep, cleansing breath, I say, “I did forget, but I have no other plans. I’m just— I’m a little scattered right now. Let me get my things.”
I pat the papers on my desk, trying to locate my still-buried phone, which has chirped and vibrated a few times throughout the day but has remained largely ignored, since I’ve been too busy to check it. Even now, it goes straight into my purse without a glance from me.
Smiling mildly, he says, “Excellent. Because I have some interesting stories to relay regarding the Blue Rinse Brigade.”
I laugh at his colorful description of the clientele at his new place of employment. “I can’t wait to hear all about it. Who’s driving?” When he points to me, I dig my keys from my coat pocket and jingle them. “Let’s go.”
Once in the car, having determined our destination to be the “Irish” pub we often patronize relatively close to my office, he asks, “If you could try any job for a day, regardless of qualifications or location or pay or any of that, what would it be?”
“What?”
He repeats his question, then urges, “Come on. Anything. No limits.”
I glance over at him and laugh at his eager expression. “I don’t know!”
He lets that stand while I consider the question more seriously at a stoplight. Then it hits me.
“You’ve got something!” he says triumphantly. “I can tell. Come on, then. What is it?”
In spite of my best efforts not to, I blush and squirm.
He rubs his hands together. “Ooh, what is it? Pole dancer?”
“No!”
“Then come out with it already.”
“Movie critic,” I say, pressing on the gas when the light turns green. “With my own syndicated column. Or blog. Or whatever is the most modern thing with the biggest reach.”
He hums approvingly.
“What about you?”
Seemingly surprised I’ve asked, he opens his mouth, then closes it.
“It’s only fair that you play along, too.”
“Promise not to laugh?”
Already cracking up, I say, “No way. This is you we’re talking about. It’s hilarious, whatever it is.”
He rolls his eyes like a recalcitrant child. “Okay, fine. Taste-tester at the Boulevard Brewery.”
I chuckle. “That would be a fantastic job!”
“I’d settle for tour guide, in a pinch, because you’d get to sample the finished product, I bet. If anything like that comes up at The Career Center, you must give me a ring.”
“Will do.”
“Promise?”
“Absolutely.”
“Right, then. Well, thanks for indulging my little game.”
“Was there a point to it?” Having arrived at the pub, I pull the car into an open spot and slide the shifter into “Park.”
He shrugs while unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door. “I simply wanted to see what you would pick if you weren’t telling yourself you’re not good enough.” With that, he exits the vehicle and walks ahead of me to the pub’s entrance, holding open the door for me.
Hurrying to catch up, I say on my way past him into the warm, dim bar, “Listen, Mr. Miyagi, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t need a philosophical ego boost from you.”
We’re early enough that there’s no wait for a booth, so after we’ve been seated and have ordered our first drinks, he picks up our conversation like there’s been no interruption. “I’m not trying to inflate your ego. That suggests a certain level of insincerity. I’m simply trying to convince you to consider your worth. Or decide you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
Hoping to convey an air of boredom, I examine my ragged cuticles.
He takes that as a sign to continue. “Take Jet when he was… well, a Jet.”
The concept of Colin knowing anything about American football, much less Jet’s NFL résumé, piques my interest. “What do you know about that?”
Pointing to the ceiling, he answers, “Plenty, thanks to the almighty Internet. I know he was drafted by the New York Jets, and they made a huge deal about ‘Jet the Jet’ with billboards and promotions and gimmicks, but they were more in love with his name than the type of captain—”
“Quarterback.”
“—he is, so he didn’t fit their system. At all. He was doomed for failure the minute he stepped foot in the changing room—”
“Locker room.”
“—his first season. But the fans were led to believe he would be the next Joe Namath, so they pinned all their World Cup—”
“Super Bowl.”
“—hopes on him, and when he couldn’t deliver, they very publicly demoted him after one-and-a-half seasons and promoted the backup capt— quarterback whose style better fit the team. Jet rode the bench as the Jets’ backup for more than two years. At one point, when he was brought in to sub for the injured starter, and he threw an interception—which, after the fact, everyone said was his receiver’s fault—he was benched again, in favor of the third-stringer.”
He pauses to breathe, so I take the opportunity to ask, “Who are you, and what have you done with Colin?”
He laughs, banging his fist on the table. “I’m your friend! And after we talked at the bookshop Saturday, I decided a true mate would research someone his friend thought was so high above her.”
“Well, Jet’s not a loser, either, if that’s what you’re implying.”
He wags his finger and pooches out his lower lip. “On the contrary. My point is, for the first five years of his professional career, Jet Knox was told over and over again that he was shite. But what was his response to that?”
I shake my head, not having a clue. I do remember the Chiefs got a great deal on him and that his first contract
