Ze Ron Joyce
Grace and I spent all day two days ago looking at apartments in Somerville, so I decided that the possibility of us living there was high enough to start looking for jobs there, as well as Boston-proper. But, because Grace had to go to work, that meant I was on my own when I went down to the city yesterday.
For those who don't know, when people around here say something's in Boston it can mean either the city or the surrounding cities that are relatively easy to get to, thanks to their handy public transportation. Everything within the city itself is called Boston-proper. I think. That's the impression I'm getting at least.
Before I left, Grace told me the story of why the subway passes are called Charlie cards: they're named after a fictional character named Charlie of the song "Charlie on the MTA". Back in the day, it cost a nickel to get on the subway and nickel to get off, and he only had one when he got on. Thus he was doomed to ride the subways and never get home again. I noticed that she told this story without giving me a single nickel, but decided I'd probably be okay.
Anyway, it doesn't take that much effort to get to the city from Somerville or to Somerville from the city, so I spent the whole day trying to track down some help wanted signs I saw the day before. Unfortunately, driving by didn't quite give me a good look at these places, which meant I had completely forgotten where/what these buildings were. Of the original places I set out to find, I found one: a hair salon. I walked in anyway, asking how necessary experience was, and let myself out pretty quickly after that.
I walked up and down the streets of Somerville all morning. Highland, Broadway and Holland Avenues were scoured from beginning to end. I met a lot of people passing out flyers on the street, most of which I took without looking, leading to learning about a few 5ks in the area and a few restaurants I plan to check out later. I also grabbed a flyer that said "Best in Show" on it and had a ribbon, thinking it was something about horses and that Grace might like it. After looking at it briefly, however, I realized it was a comedy burlesque flyer. Not wanting to throw it away right in front of the guy, I stuffed it at the bottom of my backpack and forgot about its existence.
While walking the streets, I "met" new female friends three times that day. The first was a British girl who asked me for directions shortly after the flyer incident. I told her I didn't know the area that well either, but then immediately remembered Grace gave me about a million maps today, convinced I'd get lost on the Subway or something. I showed her my maps and walked around a bit with her, mostly talking about cute babies we passed. Though, really, we could've been talking about anything and I'd be just fine; female British accents are kind of one of my weaknesses. The only thing I did wrong with this cutie was forget to ask for her name or phone number.
After we parted, I was too busy giggling and smiling at the thought of the cute British girl that I started to space out. And, unfortunately, when I really space out, I tend to stare in one direction, consequences be damned. I didn't really come to my senses again until I realized I was staring at another girl.
Now, normal social ques dictate that when someone catches you staring at them, you look away. That's the internationally recognized sign for "I'm not a pervert. I'm just wanted to look because you were pretty. But I'm done now, so don't worry." Due to me being a little late in the game with this common courtesy, the look registered on this poor girl's face was one of horror. I decided to make up for lost time and avert my eyes to the right, just so I wasn't looking directly at her. I would've known this had my space-out been more brief, but it just so happened that the store to my right was actually a Calvin Klein, meaning I traded my ogling stare in her direction to one in the direction of women's underwear and scantily clad women in photographs. Her look remained about the same, with slightly increased disgust.
Thinking it was time to end interactions with this person, I started to speed up my walk. Unfortunately, I think she was feeling the same way, because when I sped up she did the same. The girl was sufficiently looking freaked out at this point. I stop my walking at this point with a plan: just pull out your map! Wave your white flag and admit defeat! By showing you don't know your way around, confusion and miscommunications become far more excusable, right? Right? Well, I stop to fish through my backpack for my map, but because my luck just wasn't terrible enough yet I mistakenly pulled out of my backpack the flyer for the burlesque show. The girl turns around one last time to make sure that I'm not following her, sees me with a befuddled look on my face and a barely clothed woman in my hand, and then promptly hastens her pace towards the other direction.
Trying to move my mind away from my failure with women today, I look at my watch. It was 5:00, and I was in Boston Proper. My train from Somerville to Littleton (fifteen minutes from Grace's house and where I was to be picked up) left in an hour. That wasn't a whole lot of time, I thought, I better take the first subway I get to in order to save some walking time.
I had five dollars left on my debit card this morning, two of which was spent on the first subway ticket and two was to be spent on the last one. I haven't been able to put more money on my card due to the lack of Chase banks on this side of the country. Oh, and one more fun fact: the machines that distribute Charlie cards only took debit/credit - no cash. Why are all of these facts relevant? Because, when I got on the first outbound subway system out of Boston, I quickly realized I was on the green line, not the red line. This would take me out of Boston-proper all right, but it would also take me even farther from the train. And I was now out of subway money.
I had two options: ride this subway until it turns around and back to the place where the train station to Littleton was, or get out at the first stop try to run there. I looked at the schedule, and the subway had about five stops before it would even turn around. I was running.
Through the parks and through the rain I sprinted, a little winded from having already run once that day (and unlike Michigan, everywhere in Boston has hills). As luck would have it, I arrived at 5:49 at the train station. Also as luck would have it, the train left early. I watched it pull away as I rounded the final corner.
Also as luck would have it, I was joined by two other ladies. One was from the Netherlands and barely spoke English, and the other was a marathon runner. We had a lot of time to kill before the next train, so I had a lot of time to get these basic facts down. But, with all desire to give ladies the wrong idea completely beaten out of me from the last girl, I played my cards pretty close to my chest and didn't really let things get too deep. Marathon girl and I talked about our training. I said I was training to hopefully run one marathon in my life, but I needed a running partner to help train. She said she just had her last running partner bail on her, and she may not keep running if she can't train either. Dutch girl tugs my arm at this point, muttering something like "hu fo noba," which I didn't really understand. She said it again, but when I didn't get it she got frustrated and went back to the actual conversation.
We moved onto philosophy after I said I was a philosophy minor in college, and marathon girl expressed interest in philosophy as well. "I like to think it'll tell me the right thing to do," she said. "I never really know what choice is the right choice, and I'm often really stupid about it - rather than make a decision, I get freaked out at the choices and just don't do anything. But that's always worse, so I've decided that from now on I'd rather make the wrong choice than no choice at all."
"Well, there's a big difference between the choice that isn't the right one and the choice that's the wrong choice," I said, thinking about all my talks over the summer about making mistakes and gaining experience. "I'd agree that not-right choices are sometimes pretty great."
"Yeah," she said.
Silence. Dutch girl tugs my arm and mutters "hu fo noba!" again. Frustrated, I ignored her and went back to talking to the marathon girl.
Eventually, the train stopped at Waltham, where the marathon girl was getting off. She thanked me for pleasant conversation, then got up and left. Right before she hopped off the train, she looked at me for about three seconds, and then left. "What was that about?" I ask the Dutch girl.
She shakes her head and says, "Not asking fo hu fo noba, zat vas ze ron joyce."
Then I realized what she was saying, and then I taught Dutch girl all sorts of American profanities.
Now, in terms of job hunting - you know, the actual reason I was in town - today was pretty productive. I picked up applications for about six places and turned four back in that same day - one to a pier one, one to an iParty, and two to Gamestops in Boston-proper. The other two job openings were for temp services, which I will probably ignore due to my history with Vector. Temp jobs without regular schedules may be unprofitable, especially when you have to buy your uniform and travel on subways all day in a city you don't know very well yet.
All things aside, it wasn't a bad day.
until next time,
Chalkey
For those who don't know, when people around here say something's in Boston it can mean either the city or the surrounding cities that are relatively easy to get to, thanks to their handy public transportation. Everything within the city itself is called Boston-proper. I think. That's the impression I'm getting at least.
Before I left, Grace told me the story of why the subway passes are called Charlie cards: they're named after a fictional character named Charlie of the song "Charlie on the MTA". Back in the day, it cost a nickel to get on the subway and nickel to get off, and he only had one when he got on. Thus he was doomed to ride the subways and never get home again. I noticed that she told this story without giving me a single nickel, but decided I'd probably be okay.
Anyway, it doesn't take that much effort to get to the city from Somerville or to Somerville from the city, so I spent the whole day trying to track down some help wanted signs I saw the day before. Unfortunately, driving by didn't quite give me a good look at these places, which meant I had completely forgotten where/what these buildings were. Of the original places I set out to find, I found one: a hair salon. I walked in anyway, asking how necessary experience was, and let myself out pretty quickly after that.
I walked up and down the streets of Somerville all morning. Highland, Broadway and Holland Avenues were scoured from beginning to end. I met a lot of people passing out flyers on the street, most of which I took without looking, leading to learning about a few 5ks in the area and a few restaurants I plan to check out later. I also grabbed a flyer that said "Best in Show" on it and had a ribbon, thinking it was something about horses and that Grace might like it. After looking at it briefly, however, I realized it was a comedy burlesque flyer. Not wanting to throw it away right in front of the guy, I stuffed it at the bottom of my backpack and forgot about its existence.
While walking the streets, I "met" new female friends three times that day. The first was a British girl who asked me for directions shortly after the flyer incident. I told her I didn't know the area that well either, but then immediately remembered Grace gave me about a million maps today, convinced I'd get lost on the Subway or something. I showed her my maps and walked around a bit with her, mostly talking about cute babies we passed. Though, really, we could've been talking about anything and I'd be just fine; female British accents are kind of one of my weaknesses. The only thing I did wrong with this cutie was forget to ask for her name or phone number.
After we parted, I was too busy giggling and smiling at the thought of the cute British girl that I started to space out. And, unfortunately, when I really space out, I tend to stare in one direction, consequences be damned. I didn't really come to my senses again until I realized I was staring at another girl.
Now, normal social ques dictate that when someone catches you staring at them, you look away. That's the internationally recognized sign for "I'm not a pervert. I'm just wanted to look because you were pretty. But I'm done now, so don't worry." Due to me being a little late in the game with this common courtesy, the look registered on this poor girl's face was one of horror. I decided to make up for lost time and avert my eyes to the right, just so I wasn't looking directly at her. I would've known this had my space-out been more brief, but it just so happened that the store to my right was actually a Calvin Klein, meaning I traded my ogling stare in her direction to one in the direction of women's underwear and scantily clad women in photographs. Her look remained about the same, with slightly increased disgust.
Thinking it was time to end interactions with this person, I started to speed up my walk. Unfortunately, I think she was feeling the same way, because when I sped up she did the same. The girl was sufficiently looking freaked out at this point. I stop my walking at this point with a plan: just pull out your map! Wave your white flag and admit defeat! By showing you don't know your way around, confusion and miscommunications become far more excusable, right? Right? Well, I stop to fish through my backpack for my map, but because my luck just wasn't terrible enough yet I mistakenly pulled out of my backpack the flyer for the burlesque show. The girl turns around one last time to make sure that I'm not following her, sees me with a befuddled look on my face and a barely clothed woman in my hand, and then promptly hastens her pace towards the other direction.
Trying to move my mind away from my failure with women today, I look at my watch. It was 5:00, and I was in Boston Proper. My train from Somerville to Littleton (fifteen minutes from Grace's house and where I was to be picked up) left in an hour. That wasn't a whole lot of time, I thought, I better take the first subway I get to in order to save some walking time.
I had five dollars left on my debit card this morning, two of which was spent on the first subway ticket and two was to be spent on the last one. I haven't been able to put more money on my card due to the lack of Chase banks on this side of the country. Oh, and one more fun fact: the machines that distribute Charlie cards only took debit/credit - no cash. Why are all of these facts relevant? Because, when I got on the first outbound subway system out of Boston, I quickly realized I was on the green line, not the red line. This would take me out of Boston-proper all right, but it would also take me even farther from the train. And I was now out of subway money.
I had two options: ride this subway until it turns around and back to the place where the train station to Littleton was, or get out at the first stop try to run there. I looked at the schedule, and the subway had about five stops before it would even turn around. I was running.
Through the parks and through the rain I sprinted, a little winded from having already run once that day (and unlike Michigan, everywhere in Boston has hills). As luck would have it, I arrived at 5:49 at the train station. Also as luck would have it, the train left early. I watched it pull away as I rounded the final corner.
Also as luck would have it, I was joined by two other ladies. One was from the Netherlands and barely spoke English, and the other was a marathon runner. We had a lot of time to kill before the next train, so I had a lot of time to get these basic facts down. But, with all desire to give ladies the wrong idea completely beaten out of me from the last girl, I played my cards pretty close to my chest and didn't really let things get too deep. Marathon girl and I talked about our training. I said I was training to hopefully run one marathon in my life, but I needed a running partner to help train. She said she just had her last running partner bail on her, and she may not keep running if she can't train either. Dutch girl tugs my arm at this point, muttering something like "hu fo noba," which I didn't really understand. She said it again, but when I didn't get it she got frustrated and went back to the actual conversation.
We moved onto philosophy after I said I was a philosophy minor in college, and marathon girl expressed interest in philosophy as well. "I like to think it'll tell me the right thing to do," she said. "I never really know what choice is the right choice, and I'm often really stupid about it - rather than make a decision, I get freaked out at the choices and just don't do anything. But that's always worse, so I've decided that from now on I'd rather make the wrong choice than no choice at all."
"Well, there's a big difference between the choice that isn't the right one and the choice that's the wrong choice," I said, thinking about all my talks over the summer about making mistakes and gaining experience. "I'd agree that not-right choices are sometimes pretty great."
"Yeah," she said.
Silence. Dutch girl tugs my arm and mutters "hu fo noba!" again. Frustrated, I ignored her and went back to talking to the marathon girl.
Eventually, the train stopped at Waltham, where the marathon girl was getting off. She thanked me for pleasant conversation, then got up and left. Right before she hopped off the train, she looked at me for about three seconds, and then left. "What was that about?" I ask the Dutch girl.
She shakes her head and says, "Not asking fo hu fo noba, zat vas ze ron joyce."
Then I realized what she was saying, and then I taught Dutch girl all sorts of American profanities.
Now, in terms of job hunting - you know, the actual reason I was in town - today was pretty productive. I picked up applications for about six places and turned four back in that same day - one to a pier one, one to an iParty, and two to Gamestops in Boston-proper. The other two job openings were for temp services, which I will probably ignore due to my history with Vector. Temp jobs without regular schedules may be unprofitable, especially when you have to buy your uniform and travel on subways all day in a city you don't know very well yet.
All things aside, it wasn't a bad day.
until next time,
Chalkey