Well, Im here to interview you.
That statement was a bit of a shock. The visit was a bit of a shock. Jeff is a good friend but he keeps to himself. So why did he suddenly show up at my door?
Youre not enthused about your job. Right?
I think : I dont love my job. But it wont kill me. Get to the point, man.
Jeffs eyes were Star Trek blasters set on stun. Its his usual look. When he was a barista at the Rue de la Course, pulling coffee for the local yokels, his constantly sweat-stained thin t-shirt and his wide-eyed _expression set him apart, a strong contrast to the immaculate threads and smooth dead looks that the ultrahipster mods and punks favored.
Jeff, just tell me what youve got in mind. Ill decide then if it would be a better fit for me.
Turns out that hes started an internship downtown, a low-overhead tax software outfit, two computer jockeys and a salesman, and theyre in need of another programmer. With Visual Basic and Microsoft database experience. Access 2000, probably. I can do that.
Im young and therefore I come cheap. I have the experience. Its downtown and I could bust up St. Charles Avenue on my bike each morning no more fat-assed commute in a car. I would get to leave the overinflated egos in the semi-corrupt, weve-got-some-swampland-in-Florida operation that pays my bills right now. If I dont get a job offer, big deal. Im still gainfully employed.
Sounds like a fit. As Jeff is leaving Im wondering exactly how to say goodbye I am seized with the urge to shake his hand. Not because Im grateful I am grateful, but that is not the reason my right hand is suddenly trying to grasp his. Its that a friend has suddenly morphed, one-two-three-dont-look, into a business partner of sorts. And he needed to be treated accordingly. The reptilian part of my brain that apparently governs both blush response and business sense was saying, hey, theres a hand that needs shaking.
I reached out to shake his hand. Jeff took it with discomfort and smiled awkwardly. That was fine. Jeff always looks awkward. He gives people the impression that, no matter what the task, his body is simply not meant to be doing it. If he is doing something mundane, say, unscrewing a jar of pickles, you wonder how people such an ill-formed idea like a screw-on lid ever became popular its obviously not meant for anyone to actually use. If he is simply sitting and relaxing you think that relaxation is the clumsiest thing since Gerald Ford. He is not a clumsy man but he simply gives that impression.
Jeff smiled awkwardly and left.
The man behind the counter wore two tags. One was his name Warren. The other was a large orange button that stated If I dont offer you orange juice, you get a glass free! Apparently, even old-time, anti-chain institutions like the Clover Grill arent immune from the pressure to add flair.
Then again, you could say that flair is what the Clover Grill is all about. People go there expecting a self-proclaimed Nellie to sashay up and bossily inform them that the meat went bad and the hot dogs are all too limp and a roving pack of beavers ate the rest of the food so all thats left is three jugs of butter substitute, and gosh darn it, that was what they were getting so they better like it. And then they expect a disco ball to drop and for the waitstaff to jump into a faux pole-dance routine. Its sort of a homosexual T.G.I. Fridays.
I wouldnt have gone there, but I awoke thinking it was Friday, and so La Peniche would be open. No dice. I didnt feel like driving back uptown it was either the Clover Grill or prepackaged pastries from an interstate rest-stop. I chose the Clover.
Warren was doing his level best, at 4:30 AM, to provide a floor show for the drunken revelers. He repeated the clichs the restaurant is known for (If you are not served in 5 minutes, relax, it may be another 5. This is not New York City.) but the delivery had a slight sigh and lacked enthusiasm and snap. The Southern Decadence accent he sported was spot-on, however, as was his method for taking your order : sticking a leg up on a nearby stool and leaning in, breathing out a Whacha wan, honeh? He looked strained but part of the persona that the servers adopt there involves a stereotypical limp-wristed bitchiness; it allowed him to complain about the job and the customers and all the shit that comes with working on Bourbon Street at 4:30 in the morning. It helped, I believe.
A group of knackered Englishmen and women were arguing with a bemused American. The Englishmen were enamored of America in general and New Orleans in particular. They seemed to hate the French. The American was enamored to France in general and Paris in particular. And he, like many who live here, detests New Orleans. The debate was lively, if slurred on one side, but no resolution was reached.
Someone put on the obligatory jukebox number, some nameless song chosen for a rote four-on-the-floor beat, and an Englishwomen stood up and began a one-person diner-aisle dance party. Warren, come on! she begged but all Warren could do was tap his foot while he worked four orders on the griddle. It requires intense concentration and prime coordination to both flip bacon and do the West-Coast Hustle, and that was beyond the poor boy at that point.
I paid and left as three more late-night revelers entered, and I think I heard Warren swear under his breath. And then the floor show continued.
That statement was a bit of a shock. The visit was a bit of a shock. Jeff is a good friend but he keeps to himself. So why did he suddenly show up at my door?
Youre not enthused about your job. Right?
I think : I dont love my job. But it wont kill me. Get to the point, man.
Jeffs eyes were Star Trek blasters set on stun. Its his usual look. When he was a barista at the Rue de la Course, pulling coffee for the local yokels, his constantly sweat-stained thin t-shirt and his wide-eyed _expression set him apart, a strong contrast to the immaculate threads and smooth dead looks that the ultrahipster mods and punks favored.
Jeff, just tell me what youve got in mind. Ill decide then if it would be a better fit for me.
Turns out that hes started an internship downtown, a low-overhead tax software outfit, two computer jockeys and a salesman, and theyre in need of another programmer. With Visual Basic and Microsoft database experience. Access 2000, probably. I can do that.
Im young and therefore I come cheap. I have the experience. Its downtown and I could bust up St. Charles Avenue on my bike each morning no more fat-assed commute in a car. I would get to leave the overinflated egos in the semi-corrupt, weve-got-some-swampland-in-Florida operation that pays my bills right now. If I dont get a job offer, big deal. Im still gainfully employed.
Sounds like a fit. As Jeff is leaving Im wondering exactly how to say goodbye I am seized with the urge to shake his hand. Not because Im grateful I am grateful, but that is not the reason my right hand is suddenly trying to grasp his. Its that a friend has suddenly morphed, one-two-three-dont-look, into a business partner of sorts. And he needed to be treated accordingly. The reptilian part of my brain that apparently governs both blush response and business sense was saying, hey, theres a hand that needs shaking.
I reached out to shake his hand. Jeff took it with discomfort and smiled awkwardly. That was fine. Jeff always looks awkward. He gives people the impression that, no matter what the task, his body is simply not meant to be doing it. If he is doing something mundane, say, unscrewing a jar of pickles, you wonder how people such an ill-formed idea like a screw-on lid ever became popular its obviously not meant for anyone to actually use. If he is simply sitting and relaxing you think that relaxation is the clumsiest thing since Gerald Ford. He is not a clumsy man but he simply gives that impression.
Jeff smiled awkwardly and left.
The man behind the counter wore two tags. One was his name Warren. The other was a large orange button that stated If I dont offer you orange juice, you get a glass free! Apparently, even old-time, anti-chain institutions like the Clover Grill arent immune from the pressure to add flair.
Then again, you could say that flair is what the Clover Grill is all about. People go there expecting a self-proclaimed Nellie to sashay up and bossily inform them that the meat went bad and the hot dogs are all too limp and a roving pack of beavers ate the rest of the food so all thats left is three jugs of butter substitute, and gosh darn it, that was what they were getting so they better like it. And then they expect a disco ball to drop and for the waitstaff to jump into a faux pole-dance routine. Its sort of a homosexual T.G.I. Fridays.
I wouldnt have gone there, but I awoke thinking it was Friday, and so La Peniche would be open. No dice. I didnt feel like driving back uptown it was either the Clover Grill or prepackaged pastries from an interstate rest-stop. I chose the Clover.
Warren was doing his level best, at 4:30 AM, to provide a floor show for the drunken revelers. He repeated the clichs the restaurant is known for (If you are not served in 5 minutes, relax, it may be another 5. This is not New York City.) but the delivery had a slight sigh and lacked enthusiasm and snap. The Southern Decadence accent he sported was spot-on, however, as was his method for taking your order : sticking a leg up on a nearby stool and leaning in, breathing out a Whacha wan, honeh? He looked strained but part of the persona that the servers adopt there involves a stereotypical limp-wristed bitchiness; it allowed him to complain about the job and the customers and all the shit that comes with working on Bourbon Street at 4:30 in the morning. It helped, I believe.
A group of knackered Englishmen and women were arguing with a bemused American. The Englishmen were enamored of America in general and New Orleans in particular. They seemed to hate the French. The American was enamored to France in general and Paris in particular. And he, like many who live here, detests New Orleans. The debate was lively, if slurred on one side, but no resolution was reached.
Someone put on the obligatory jukebox number, some nameless song chosen for a rote four-on-the-floor beat, and an Englishwomen stood up and began a one-person diner-aisle dance party. Warren, come on! she begged but all Warren could do was tap his foot while he worked four orders on the griddle. It requires intense concentration and prime coordination to both flip bacon and do the West-Coast Hustle, and that was beyond the poor boy at that point.
I paid and left as three more late-night revelers entered, and I think I heard Warren swear under his breath. And then the floor show continued.
thee_blacklisted:
more.