take this job hunt seriously.”
“I am, Todd. Believe me, I am.”
“OK, then, how many resumes have you sent out?”
“Fifty,” I say, which is true. I don’t mention that this number includes the resumes I sent to the Barnum & Bailey Circus, Hershey’s Chocolate factory, and NASA.
“Well,” Todd says, momentarily taken aback by my efficiency. “Maybe you need to network more. You know that 99 percent of jobs are never advertised.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” Only about a hundred times. “Todd, maybe you want to be looking for another job.”
“What?”
“Well, you seem so consumed with my job search, maybe subconsciously you want to be looking for a job.”
“Me? No. I’ve got my own office with a door. If I went to work somewhere else, I’d have to start at the bottom, all over again.”
The thought of this, I can tell, makes my older brother shiver with fear. He’s always walked a straight line in one direction. In life, he never developed a reverse gear. Me, on the other hand, I spend half my time driving backward.
“So I’ll see you tonight?” Todd says. “I can’t pick you up, because I’ve got to work late.”
Todd is always so industrious. He’s always working late.
“Todd, don’t even pretend that you’re going to be late,” I say. Todd is physically incapable of getting anywhere late. He simply cannot do it. It’s like trying to make someone with an obsessive-compulsive disorder step on a crack in the sidewalk. If you held Todd and made him late, he’d start foaming at the mouth.
“Jane, if you really need a ride,” he says, relenting a bit.
“No, no, I don’t need your charity,” I joke.
“Jane, I’ll pick you up, all right?” Todd says. “I’ve just got to pick up Deena first.”
“Deena?”
“My girlfriend,” Todd says.
“Girlfriend — that sounds serious,” I say. Todd usually doesn’t add “friend” to the word “girl.” He generally just refers to the women he’s slept with as Girls. That girl, or this girl. “I went out last night with this girl,” he’ll say. He rarely even uses first names.
“Don’t even start,” Todd says.
“Forget about the ride. I’ll take the train.”
I don’t begrudge Todd’s attempts at helping me walk the straight and narrow path to financial solvency. I understand he’s doing it because he thinks it’s a good way to show he cares, and because he thinks he can run my life better than I can. I appreciate this, and see it for what it is, a show of brotherly affection. It is better than my dad, whose stoic, stubborn silence on the issue of my joblessness is proof of his disapproval. He hasn’t once asked me about the job search, except to drop heavy hints that I should move into a smaller apartment.
I call my parents, trying to get a vibe about how open they’d be to me asking for a loan.
Dad’s first response is not a positive one.
“So, are you eating lunch at your grand dining-room table? Must be a lot of echoes in that mansion of yours,” Dad says when I call that afternoon.
“I’m not eating lunch, Dad, it’s three in the afternoon,” I say.
“Well, since you don’t really have a schedule to keep, I figured you’d be eating at odd hours.”
“I eat at regular times,” I say.
Dad and I have nothing to say to each other, which is why Mom insists that we speak. She’s the one who’s always dragging Dad away from his Barcalounger and demanding that he “speak to his daughter.” It’s the same thing she used to do when I was a kid, and she’d demand that Dad spend quality time with Todd and me on Sundays. After enough nagging, Dad would take us into the office with him, so he could catch up on work, and we could run around making paperclip ropes.
“You really ought to get a smaller apartment,” he says. This has been his sole piece of advice since he saw the place four years ago.
“I’ll think about it, Dad,” I say. It’s impossible to explain to Dad the
“I am, Todd. Believe me, I am.”
“OK, then, how many resumes have you sent out?”
“Fifty,” I say, which is true. I don’t mention that this number includes the resumes I sent to the Barnum & Bailey Circus, Hershey’s Chocolate factory, and NASA.
“Well,” Todd says, momentarily taken aback by my efficiency. “Maybe you need to network more. You know that 99 percent of jobs are never advertised.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” Only about a hundred times. “Todd, maybe you want to be looking for another job.”
“What?”
“Well, you seem so consumed with my job search, maybe subconsciously you want to be looking for a job.”
“Me? No. I’ve got my own office with a door. If I went to work somewhere else, I’d have to start at the bottom, all over again.”
The thought of this, I can tell, makes my older brother shiver with fear. He’s always walked a straight line in one direction. In life, he never developed a reverse gear. Me, on the other hand, I spend half my time driving backward.
“So I’ll see you tonight?” Todd says. “I can’t pick you up, because I’ve got to work late.”
Todd is always so industrious. He’s always working late.
“Todd, don’t even pretend that you’re going to be late,” I say. Todd is physically incapable of getting anywhere late. He simply cannot do it. It’s like trying to make someone with an obsessive-compulsive disorder step on a crack in the sidewalk. If you held Todd and made him late, he’d start foaming at the mouth.
“Jane, if you really need a ride,” he says, relenting a bit.
“No, no, I don’t need your charity,” I joke.
“Jane, I’ll pick you up, all right?” Todd says. “I’ve just got to pick up Deena first.”
“Deena?”
“My girlfriend,” Todd says.
“Girlfriend — that sounds serious,” I say. Todd usually doesn’t add “friend” to the word “girl.” He generally just refers to the women he’s slept with as Girls. That girl, or this girl. “I went out last night with this girl,” he’ll say. He rarely even uses first names.
“Don’t even start,” Todd says.
“Forget about the ride. I’ll take the train.”
I don’t begrudge Todd’s attempts at helping me walk the straight and narrow path to financial solvency. I understand he’s doing it because he thinks it’s a good way to show he cares, and because he thinks he can run my life better than I can. I appreciate this, and see it for what it is, a show of brotherly affection. It is better than my dad, whose stoic, stubborn silence on the issue of my joblessness is proof of his disapproval. He hasn’t once asked me about the job search, except to drop heavy hints that I should move into a smaller apartment.
I call my parents, trying to get a vibe about how open they’d be to me asking for a loan.
Dad’s first response is not a positive one.
“So, are you eating lunch at your grand dining-room table? Must be a lot of echoes in that mansion of yours,” Dad says when I call that afternoon.
“I’m not eating lunch, Dad, it’s three in the afternoon,” I say.
“Well, since you don’t really have a schedule to keep, I figured you’d be eating at odd hours.”
“I eat at regular times,” I say.
Dad and I have nothing to say to each other, which is why Mom insists that we speak. She’s the one who’s always dragging Dad away from his Barcalounger and demanding that he “speak to his daughter.” It’s the same thing she used to do when I was a kid, and she’d demand that Dad spend quality time with Todd and me on Sundays. After enough nagging, Dad would take us into the office with him, so he could catch up on work, and we could run around making paperclip ropes.
“You really ought to get a smaller apartment,” he says. This has been his sole piece of advice since he saw the place four years ago.
“I’ll think about it, Dad,” I say. It’s impossible to explain to Dad the
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