Three days into the new job and I'm content. I have a desk with a window view, a snazzy Mac and a stupidly shallow drawer that cuts into my knees and HAS TO GO. I am being treated like an adult again, which is lovely. I get to stretch my brain a bit. But best of all are the little things -- being able to go to the loo whenever I want, not just during designated breaks; helping myself to coffee as I wish and keeping a cup full on my desk; taking a lunch break without worrying about the clock.
The last shift at the bookstore was a blessed relief. I sold one membership card (you'll save 40 percent on bestsellers, 20 percent on adult hardcovers, and 10 percent on everything else in store!), almost stuffed up a busy executive type's change and counted it back to her like a five-year-old (sheesh, American bills all look the same), helped a mum find suitable books for her voracious nine-year-old (convinced her to try Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzburgh -- love that book), and very nearly stepped in a plate of cheesecake some slob had left under a chair near the kiddy train set. The usual.
Afterwards, a few of us went to a tiki lounge in Piedmont, a ritzy little town literally encircled by grubby old Oakland, and drank to our expanding horizons. It was the coolest place -- hula girls and velvet paintings all over the walls, taxidermied blowfish for lampshades, black sand glued to table tops. It reminded me of that Brady Bunch episode when the whole family goes to Hawaii and a tarantula climbs into Marcia's tote bag. Or was it Jan's? Cheesy, cheesy fabulousness.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Thank you for the music
BART station, Berkeley, 5.20pm, Tuesday
A middle-aged busker sits on an instrument case, an accordion draped across his lap, a black beret atop his head. He is waiting for . . . Shattuck Avenue to shape-shift into the Champs d'Elysses, perhaps? Minutes later, as if on cue, he springs to action, foot tapping, head listing from side to side, arms madly pumping away on the accordion. The tune: Money, Money, Money by ABBA.
BART station, downtown San Francisco, 8.28am, Wednesday
A paunchy punk with a cherry red mohawk strums a classical guitar and channels Johnny Cash: And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire.
A middle-aged busker sits on an instrument case, an accordion draped across his lap, a black beret atop his head. He is waiting for . . . Shattuck Avenue to shape-shift into the Champs d'Elysses, perhaps? Minutes later, as if on cue, he springs to action, foot tapping, head listing from side to side, arms madly pumping away on the accordion. The tune: Money, Money, Money by ABBA.
BART station, downtown San Francisco, 8.28am, Wednesday
A paunchy punk with a cherry red mohawk strums a classical guitar and channels Johnny Cash: And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire.
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