summer internship here, with him....” I trail off, before mentioning the part where I gave up the internship back in April, when I agreed to go to Duke for the anatomy course instead. It’s not really lying, I tell myself, just omitting a part of the truth.
If I ever write my autobiography, that will be the title: Lies of Omission by Grant Blue.
Barb—which I can only assume is short for Barbara, which has seven letters in it, so this approach has to work—stares at me like she’s waiting for the punch line. I slide my hands into my pockets and stare back, smiling expectantly, like I already told it. I’m just waiting for her to laugh. I learned that a long time ago, that if you stay quiet long enough, it makes people uncomfortable. Even if the conversation ball is in your court, they’ll forget because the urge to keep playing is stronger.
That’s how I usually end up winning arguments with Tash, because she gets irritated and talks herself out of things, while waiting for me to respond.
I’m hoping that will be the case with last night’s non-argument, but I’m not really sure. It’s the first time she hasn’t just broken down and yelled at me about what’s bothering her. Almost eleven hours have passed, and still no yelling. No angry voice mails, no text message apologies. No confessions. Just silence. The discomfort I’m feeling after not hearing from Tash for 635 minutes in a row is probably similar to what Barb is feeling now.
Finally, she breaks. “The office is on the fourth floor, kid. What are you waiting for?”
“Oh.” I look behind me, toward the elevator. But then I look back, dismayed. “Don’t I need an ID card or something?”
“No, you don’t get a badge,” she says, kind of bitterly. “Those are only for actual employees, not interns. You guys just pretty much come and go freely, as far as I can tell.”
I smile, already backing away. “Thanks, Barb. That’s all I needed to know.”
As I head for the elevator, I feel kind of victorious, like I’ve wrestled a dragon or something. Being the son of a doctor has taught me a lot about things I never wanted to know, but it’s also taught me that getting people to respect you is 90% about acting like you know what you’re doing. Which is why my plan for getting into the mayor’s office is simple: I’m just going to walk in there and pretend like I belong there. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m an intern. If they ask me about missing the deadline to accept, I’ll just act like I don’t know what they’re talking about. Like it was a clerical error on someone’s part, and I’ve been planning on interning this whole time, but no one ever called me to tell me when to start work. Again, not lying. Not dishonest. Just using the convoluted and notoriously disorganized bureaucracy of government to my advantage.
Nixon would be proud.
I hit a slight snag when I realize that the elevator is empty, and one is an odd number of course, so that’s not going to work. Luckily, I spy a stairwell at the end of the hallway. Even better, it’s got those bar handles on the doors, the ones you can open by leaning on them with your hip instead of touching them with your hands.
I’m going to fit right in here .
As I enthusiastically tackle all eight flights of stairs leading to the fourth floor, I have a brief moment of concern over the invincible euphoria I seem to be feeling, but then it passes. Confidence is a very important trait to have in politics, even if it comes from a place of uncertainty. The important thing, I tell myself, is to fake it until I make it.
Maybe if I tell myself I can do anything, I’ll start to believe it. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong my whole life. Maybe my OCD is like a superpower, something I can use to my advantage. I can replace the bad thoughts with useful thoughts. Inconvenient rituals like counting and sanitizing can be replaced with organization and punctuality, charm, success.
If I ever write my autobiography, that will be the title: Lies of Omission by Grant Blue.
Barb—which I can only assume is short for Barbara, which has seven letters in it, so this approach has to work—stares at me like she’s waiting for the punch line. I slide my hands into my pockets and stare back, smiling expectantly, like I already told it. I’m just waiting for her to laugh. I learned that a long time ago, that if you stay quiet long enough, it makes people uncomfortable. Even if the conversation ball is in your court, they’ll forget because the urge to keep playing is stronger.
That’s how I usually end up winning arguments with Tash, because she gets irritated and talks herself out of things, while waiting for me to respond.
I’m hoping that will be the case with last night’s non-argument, but I’m not really sure. It’s the first time she hasn’t just broken down and yelled at me about what’s bothering her. Almost eleven hours have passed, and still no yelling. No angry voice mails, no text message apologies. No confessions. Just silence. The discomfort I’m feeling after not hearing from Tash for 635 minutes in a row is probably similar to what Barb is feeling now.
Finally, she breaks. “The office is on the fourth floor, kid. What are you waiting for?”
“Oh.” I look behind me, toward the elevator. But then I look back, dismayed. “Don’t I need an ID card or something?”
“No, you don’t get a badge,” she says, kind of bitterly. “Those are only for actual employees, not interns. You guys just pretty much come and go freely, as far as I can tell.”
I smile, already backing away. “Thanks, Barb. That’s all I needed to know.”
As I head for the elevator, I feel kind of victorious, like I’ve wrestled a dragon or something. Being the son of a doctor has taught me a lot about things I never wanted to know, but it’s also taught me that getting people to respect you is 90% about acting like you know what you’re doing. Which is why my plan for getting into the mayor’s office is simple: I’m just going to walk in there and pretend like I belong there. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m an intern. If they ask me about missing the deadline to accept, I’ll just act like I don’t know what they’re talking about. Like it was a clerical error on someone’s part, and I’ve been planning on interning this whole time, but no one ever called me to tell me when to start work. Again, not lying. Not dishonest. Just using the convoluted and notoriously disorganized bureaucracy of government to my advantage.
Nixon would be proud.
I hit a slight snag when I realize that the elevator is empty, and one is an odd number of course, so that’s not going to work. Luckily, I spy a stairwell at the end of the hallway. Even better, it’s got those bar handles on the doors, the ones you can open by leaning on them with your hip instead of touching them with your hands.
I’m going to fit right in here .
As I enthusiastically tackle all eight flights of stairs leading to the fourth floor, I have a brief moment of concern over the invincible euphoria I seem to be feeling, but then it passes. Confidence is a very important trait to have in politics, even if it comes from a place of uncertainty. The important thing, I tell myself, is to fake it until I make it.
Maybe if I tell myself I can do anything, I’ll start to believe it. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong my whole life. Maybe my OCD is like a superpower, something I can use to my advantage. I can replace the bad thoughts with useful thoughts. Inconvenient rituals like counting and sanitizing can be replaced with organization and punctuality, charm, success.
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