Thursday, April 7, 2011

I make the rules here, Joe. See. See!

This is a prose exercise I wrote for class. The assignment was to write two paragraphs about something you keep in your desk drawer. I feel like its cheating to post this here (cheating on my blog, not on my class assignment), because I just happen to have this, I didn't actually write this for the blog. I feel guilty about not writing in the blog. I'm sorry, blog.


Before I begin these paragraphs, I must admit to the reader something definitive. I’m going to talk about an object that I keep in my desk drawer, but I must admit that I keep most of my stuff out. Out on the desk, out on the floor, out on the walls. My drawers are filled with edges of photographs, the middles of which are pasted onto my dorm walls. Old prescriptions, tools and tape. But I keep old receipts, magazines, business cards, Magic Hat beer caps and rubber bands out. Books stay out, too. There isn’t any logic to in-the-drawer or out-of-drawer status. I guess I keep out those things I want to remain active, turned on. Putting something in a drawer turns it off. Who ever finished a book they put away in a drawer? There are 15 books on my nightstand right now, and I have hopes for all of them.
While rooting around in the top drawer of my desk, I found a letter that I had been carrying for a while in my day planner. It was a letter from my boss at the pizza restaurant where I’ve worked the past two summers, the Wild Tomato. Sara sends these letters out every February or so, inviting back old team members for the upcoming season, and updating the “Wild Tomato Family” on new additions and plans for the restaurant. I love these letters. The excitement I feel when reading about the new 6 beer tap system is akin to the relish with which a sixth grader picks out her notebooks for the new school year at Wal-Mart. After I graduate this Spring, I’ll be heading back to the Wild Tomato. I’m learning to fight the urge in this moment to say something self-deprecating about waitressing after getting your liberal arts degree. It’s good, honest work. Simple as that. I don’t feel awkward or depressed about it, though most people silently indicate that I should. I’m excited to see how they’ve streamlined the waitress station, and train 18 year olds to smile. And six months from now, when October is coming to a close, and the last of the die-hard weekenders have come and gone, the restaurant will close and I’ll be hungry for something else.

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