September 16, 2010

22 Sep

I had gotten an e-mail the night before asking me to come to a training at noon for my new job. I obviously have nothing else to do yet, so I agreed. Travis works only five blocks from my restaurant, so we made plans to meet for lunch.

He told me what subways to take, and to get out at Grand Central. He told me about a quick exit out of the station. I was to call him once I was up on the street, and he would give me directions. I called him, and he told me to head east.
“Which way is East?”
“Head away from Grand Central Station.”
“Which building is Grand Central Station?”
“It’s the monstrous looking one.” I look around me at the steel, glass, and concrete behemoths that all stand 40 stories high.
“Travis, they are all monstrous looking.”

Eventually I figure it out and meet up with him in Bryant Park which is right in front of his building. We went and got some gyros and ate them in the park together.

Afterwards, I headed to my “training” which turned out to be only about 15 minutes long. It was disorganized, and I ended up just meeting the chef and talking to Brett in more detail about the restaurant. This all should have been big flashing warning signs of what was to come. But the story of Restaurant 1945 and Mr. Fancy Pants is a story for another day.

For fifteen minutes while Brett left me alone in the restaurant to try and find me a W-4 to fill out, I quickly snapped some pictures of the view. It was amazing. I could see Travis’ office from where I was. I could see all of Bryant Park where I had just sat.

I am wildly proud of my boyfriend. He is so smart and ambitious, and he is very successful in his job. But I can’t help but sometimes envy his success. I haven’t found anything yet that uses my degree and my experience, and I often wish I had a job that was interesting and where I was respected for what I have to offer. For one moment, even though I’m nothing but a waitress right now, I could see his office has a small space way below me. And for a moment, it felt really good.


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