1. Choose your weapons wisely. The ones your father made you work best.
2. Blow on the blade then cut a hole in the universe.
3. Scrape out the mess. Or not.
4. Grin like the sun’s not coming up.
Sinbad’s Cafe and Deli on Nicollet Ave has been closed for months, maybe years now. The Middle East fare was smashing, a fond destination for foodage in the early-mid aughts. (Yes, that was me, involved in the unfortunate incident with the washroom bidet.)
They did rice right, man, in a way you’d want to fill up on that alone, as though the grape leaves, pita and baba ghannouj weren’t stunning, and then you’d feel foolish, did you not feel amazing.
It’s a shell now. Sad and ghastly. Arabic-inscribed drop ceiling still intact, but shambles within. Growing a jinn.
It is October, unseasonably warm, and I am slave to a fat knee, twisted from dancing, naturally, in the clutches of crutches and bicycle envy.
Otherwise… life is great. I recently started a job I love. I am a real librarian, doing real librarian things with real librarian colleagues using my real librarian education.
This is where I work (!)
I must say, though… there were dark days, this past year plus of under- and unemployment. Cut corners and concerts, downgraded internets, rationing minutes and passing Totino’s Pizzas off as meals.
It’s laughable, kinda really. However stressful financial uncertainty, I was more secure than many In This Economy, and I’m used to living like a student: poor. But that didn’t make undermined confidence in my product—me, my degree, my passion and intellect—any easier to stomach. Proper Midwestern, ethnic Lutheran, to most everyone around me I was upbeat and a better days believer.
But removed from the weight of long-term joblessness, I know now I was sick to death every minute of running out of money or of getting sick or in an accident. It wasn’t supposed to be this way—take so long and hurt so hard—even now knowing yes, I am qualified and awesome and excelling at library science, insight and amiability but I’m also really really really really lucky. And others aren’t. Yet.
In short, it sucked. The now forty hours killed per week has been a shock, but I feel normal now, finally, making some money, breathing easy, the future brighter and eating better.
To everyone to whom for so many months I lied to—family, friends, classmates and colleagues—I’m sorry, and thank you so much for all of your support.