Things I Can't Explain (Ch. 1)

Chapter 1

Was it Malcolm Gladwell who said, "Where you're standing now is not where you're going to be"? Maybe it was Lady Gaga. All I know is that it's true. Whatever you think your prob- lems are now, by the time you solve them you're in some newplace with new problems. I think Einstein tried to adjust for this with his theory of relativity and Heisenberg had some special principle about it, but I don't think anyone has ever explained it. Where I'm standing now is on an Upper East Side sidewalk, shaking off the residual effects of another pointless job interview,thanks to Lou at the Unemployment Office, who, if you ask me, is lucky he has a job. They should really think about chang- ing the name of that place to something more upbeat, like the"You Will Be Settling into Your Own Cozy Little Cubicle Any Day Now" Office. Otherwise simply tag it "The Unenjoyment Office,"because that's what it is.

Like a lot of people my age, in my situation, burdened with college debt and overqualified, I prefer not to think of myself as "unemployed." What I really am is an aspiring, highly trained journalist-whatever that means in the age of BuzzFeed. Sooner or later, some editor in chief or web czar is going to recognize me for what I can do. I'm hoping for sooner.

This afternoon's interview was more miserable than most; they were considering me as the faculty advisor for the school paper at a private academy for overprivileged and underdisciplined girls. The headmistress, Mrs. Rippington, really seemed to like me. Although this job is not exactly a career booster, a paycheck of any kind is an urgent priority, so I was thinking I'd sign up for this gig. Besides, it might be amusing, catering to the pampered progeny of the 1 per- cent while trying to catch up on my back rent. But that thought lasted about twelve seconds. That's when I heard fourteen-year-old Marissa, the seventh-grade, ahem, head editor, whisper to her sportswriter and BFF, Gwenyth, that as soon as she got her braces off she was planning to bop and drop handsome Mr. Lithicum, their twenty-something science teacher. I still have enough Ohio in me to be appalled by this. Exactly how much extra credit in biology is brace-face hop- ing to earn here? I flash back to my own seventh-grade sci- ence teacher, who wore a toupee and smelled perpetually of formaldehyde.

Mrs. Rippington was just opening her mouth to offer me the position when I overheard Miss Metal Mouth's bestie propose in a fast-talking addy rant that they make the little independent study in science a three-way, with a very specific graphic de- scription of the contours of Mr. L's anatomical assets. How do they know that much detail?

I couldn't help myself. I thought the headmistress would ap- preciate knowing what's going on behind her back, so I ratted out the little Lolitas, thinking it might actually endear me to the woman by showcasing responsibility and moral fortitude, but apparently, headmistresses at posh Upper East Side girls' schools prefer to be ignorant of such sordid scandals-even those that threaten to become statutory, if you know what I mean. Who knew?

Guess who's still out of a job?

Now do you blame me if I'm in need of a little comfort? And for me, in New York City, comfort is spelled c-o-f-f-e-e.

I head to the downtown subway because that's where the cof- fee is. Not all of it, of course, but the kind I'm jonesing for right this minute. I don't have full-blown trainophobia, which is a fear of subways and other trains (not to be confused with trannyphobia, which I also don't have), but I admit, however, that in eight years I've never become quite comfortable with speeding underground on a rickety train through a pitch-black tunnel filled with elec- trical wires, water pipes, and rats, while enormous skyscrapers hover overhead.

Back home in Ohio we commuted at street level with plenty of available oxygen circulating among the minivans, punch bug- gies, and SUVs. But since the subway is the most expedient means of getting from "where I am standing now" to "where I would like to be," I plunge. Mr. Gladwell would be proud. Lady Gaga would probably want to know why I hadn't worn taller stilettos.