“Don’t give a monkey’s.”
“Figured as much.” I give up on updating the book as I make my way to the seasonal retail section of the folder.
He nods toward the docked laptop on my desk. “Any reason you’re shunning technology today?”
“Network’s down. I’ve been telling IT for months that the system is sluggish and seems like it’s always on the verge of crashing, but do they listen to me? No.”
Hmmm… Maybe I should go back to school to study computers. Nah. Too tedious. Although, the IT people make double what I do. Obviously, job performance isn’t a factor in those earnings.
“Right. Well, whatcha got there?” Colin prods me after I’ve stared into space, fuming for a while.
“Oh! Uh, sorry.” My eyes snap down to the page in front of me. “Do you have any engraving experience?”
He looks bemused. “You mean like etching inscriptions on lockets and pocket watches and things?”
I nod and tell him about a position for a clerk at a kiosk in the mall, where a computer does all the engraving, in fact. We both cringe at the minimum wage pay rate, but he likes the flexible hours.
After giving him a few seconds to mull it over, I take a deep breath and smile. “What do you think? You’ll probably have to wear a Santa hat.”
“Is that in the job description?” He sounds almost hopeful as he half-stands and tries to read the paper from upside down.
I laugh. “No. But I recall seeing people wearing hats there when I was—” I remember at the last second that I was having a watch engraved for Jamie, my boyfriend at the time, nearly a year ago. “Anyway. I did some shopping there last year.”
Time stands still when I’m with you.
Well, it did. Unfortunately. And that sucks, when you’re biding your time, because you don’t have the heart to dump someone during the dreaded Christmas/New Year’s/Valentine’s stretch. I wonder if he still has that watch. It was nice. I spent more than I wanted to spend, but that was the guilt talking.
Retaking his seat and shooting me a knowing look, Colin mercifully chooses not to comment on my sudden caginess but says about the possible holiday head-wear requirement at the kiosk, “I’m not bothered. It’s no sillier than some of the other uniforms I’ve worn in the past.” He taps his lips with his fingertips. Perhaps he’s thinking about the hat he wore as a “copper,” what probably seems like a lifetime ago. “I was hoping I could be one of those blokes who flies toy helicopters in people’s faces. But this will do.”
As I fill out the paperwork for him to take with him, he stands and wanders around my tiny, dingy office, then squints at the framed diploma on my wall.
He peers at the calligraphy, then looks at me. “Tell me again, Ms. Richards, what, exactly, does one study to get a film studies degree? What does one do with such a degree?”
In a snooty voice to match his, I reply, “One studies films, Mr. Bennett. Obviously, one subsequently becomes a job counselor.”
Because watching hours and hours of Hitchcock, Scorsese, and the Coen brothers and writing papers about point-of-view, the long shot versus the medium shot, and the significance of the well-placed jump cut don’t have many practical applications around here. Heck, I’d have taken a projectionist job at one of the local movie theaters, if it had included benefits not in the form of free admission, popcorn, and candy.
Colin nods earnestly. “Ah, yes. It has served you well, then, that degree.”
“I think so.”
This conversation—or a version of it—is the longest-running joke of our friendship. It actually started it all, during an ordinary appointment. The first time he asked the question, I thought he was being what my dad would call a “wisenheimer.” So my stiff reply wasn’t said in jest, like today’s.
He could tell right away he’d offended me and stuttered, “Right. Oh. Sorry. I-I didn’t mean any offense. I was merely curious—”
Embarrassed I’d spoken to him so unprofessionally, I flushed. “No, I’m sorry. I-it’s sort of a raw nerve for me.”
At my college graduation party, the ink was barely dry on my highly impractical degree when my dad asked, “What’s next, Mo?”
My older brother, Greg, jumped practically mid-sentence from another conversation to join Dad and me. “Yeah, Maura. I’ve been wondering the same thing. Are you going out to Hollyweird now?”
I couldn’t bear to tell him, “No,” flat-out, so I said, “Eventually. Probably. Maybe.” At his disappointment with that noncommittal statement, I clarified, “I don’t have a job yet, so it would be irresponsible to go out there without a plan.”
Now, I was speaking his language. He nodded pensively.
“I still have my job at the Career Center, so I’ll stay there for a while, save up some money, then relocate to L.A. or New York City.”
When I stopped there, the two of them glanced at each other before Dad smiled and said, “Oh. That’s nice, Sweetie. Good plan.”
Greg was less diplomatic. “That’s not really a plan, though. It’s half a plan. What are you going to do when you get to New York or L.A.?”
I tried to lend a mysterious, carefree air to the half-shrug and eye roll that preceded my response, but I’m afraid the gesture betrayed my cluelessness more than anything. “Whatever. I’ll apply for jobs in the industry.”
“What industry?”
“Film-making,” I answered, using the tone one would use with a child. “Or critique. Or teaching.” By then, it was obvious I was reaching.
Greg lectured, “You don’t want to wait too long, though. Nobody will hire you if you’ve been out of the business for any length of time. You’d be better off moving there right now, interning somewhere so you can get some experience, and taking any job you can find that pays the bills.”
“But—”
“Really, Mo. You wait too long, and you’ll lose your nerve.”
Dad placed a gentle hand on
