Zeus Strikes the Penurious

Sometimes in this languid life, the gods speak to me. It’s usually in the little things: the crisp brush of wind against my cheek, a glorious storm, the gentle braying of a sheep. Often the messages are so small, so minute, that I hardly recognize them as they shimmer by, little wisps of ephemeral missives that vanish like bubbles when poked. But on beauteous and rare occasions, the voice is so vividly clear that I cannot help but be still, and listen, and know.

Like when a bird shat on my face.

When I say a bird shat on my face, I am not lisping in hypertext. A bird did not sit on my face. A bird shit on my face. To clear up any lingering uncertainty, let me be blunt: from the rectum of a small and impertinent bird came excrement onto my upturned, unsuspecting upper lip.

If it weren’t for the particular course of events leading up to the incident, I wouldn’t attribute this to divine intervention. After all, millions of people get shit on every day, literally and figuratively. In all likelihood, the gods or God or “the higher power” (if you’re in AA) have very little to do with it. But my bird-shit-on-face experience came with a particularly poignant moral lesson attached. It was no coincidence, no arbitrary cosmic occurrence, and certainly no gentle nudging from the big guy above. There was nothing subtle about it; the whole method was very (pardon the pun) in-your-face. It was a blatant wake-up call, a more environmentally conscious and cost-effective alternative to a burning bush.

We’ve all heard that God will “smite the faithless” and “burn the wicked” and so on. There’s a whole assortment of action-packed mandates for all those poor, unfortunately-adjectived souls. Well here’s one you may not have heard: God will birdshit the penurious.


I was walking out of the Boston bus station with a slice of sizzling pizza in hand, suitcase trailing behind me. What a lovely day, I thought, enjoying the warm sea breeze on my skin. Sauntering into a seductive sliver of sunshine, I nestled myself on a park bench to munch my vegetarian delight in pleasant solitude.

No sooner had I sat down than a couple approached me. They were young—not much older than I—and the man was semi-supporting the woman’s weight. She looked unwell and distracted, her disheveled hair pulled back into an oily ponytail. They were both dressed in ill-fitting flannel shirts. He held her hand tightly, and she gripped his to the bone.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, stopping in front of me. “I’m trying to get my girlfriend home to Springfield on a bus. Do you have $4.80 you could spare us?”

For a moment I experienced a dichotomous tug in my chest. $4.80 wasn’t that much—I had a few bucks, right? She really did look sick, and he seemed so earnest…

But then I remembered the last time I’d given money to someone who asked for it. A woman had begged me for a few dollars to buy food, and after I’d emptied my pockets, I continued across the street for a bowl of soup. From the restaurant’s window I watched as the woman walked directly into a liquor store and emerged with a brown paper bag in hand. I nearly choked on my clam chowder. At that moment, I swore I would never give money to a beggar again.

That was it: I was going to stick to my guns. I would say no. I swallowed my heart and looked the man straight in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to master a chilly nonchalance in my voice. “I’d like to help you, but a woman cheated me a few years ago and I promised myself I wouldn’t give money to anyone again.”

As I was pronouncing my edict, I had the most curious sensation. It wasn’t that I felt free, or even that I was consumed by guilt. Rather, the sensation was physical: it was warm and wet.

The expression on the man’s face was undergoing a strange transformation, too. Before he had looked beseeching; now he looked mildly horrified. I felt a pang of regret. I must have truly offended him. So much so that he and his girlfriend were slowly backing away, continuing to gape at me as if I were some kind of cruel and merciless Medusa.

Strange, I thought to myself. I feel like part of my pizza is on my face.

I reached up to try and wipe away what I thought was a wayward piece of cheese or tomato on my upper lip. But upon examining my fingers, they came back covered in sabulous green gloop. What's green on my pizza? I mused. I didn't order pesto.

And then I knew.

A bird had just shit on my face. The couple had seen the bird shit on my face. They knew before I knew that a bird had shit on my face. Most of the shit was still sitting on my face, resting contentedly on my upper lip. I had no napkin. How mortifying.

My appetite vanished quite suddenly. I smeared the rest of the mess from my face onto the top of the pizza box and chucked the whole ensemble into the nearest trashcan. I tried to think about not throwing up.

I am a stingy and parsimonious bitch, I realized with sudden immediacy. And I am being punished for it.

Next time someone asks for money, I think I’ll give it. Nothing like a little birdshit to bring generosity back with a splat.

The Temp Agency: Tales of a Business Suit Deflowered

I only own one business suit. It’s a difficult thing to admit; at twenty-three, my wardrobe should be brimming with executive pinstripes and tailored attire. Instead, my dresser drawers reveal a host of screen tees, low-rise jeans and cotton hoodies, not to mention the matching sweatpants/sweatshirt section that’s eerily reminiscent of a JLo music video gone horribly wrong. My closet reeks of “card me, I’m underage.” Or worse: “I can’t even buy porn and cigarettes.”

So when I first decided to go into the temp agency, it’s not like I spent an hour in front of the mirror trying on outfits. Upon peering into my closet, I quickly realized my personal clothing collection is divided neatly into two parts: business suit, and everything else. For that professional touch, fuzzy pink where’s-the-bling combos don’t quite cut it.

Enter business suit Exhibit One (and only one): trim, black, lightly pinstriped, and very dashing. The white blouse needed ironing and the skirt was a little long—the story of my short-legged life—but regardless, the ensemble was oozing with polished appeal. In it I became cool, confident, and uncomfortably corporate. Gone was my quirky and bohemian self; in her place a soulless sycophant, slithering in serious silk.

Don’t worry, I told myself. It’s only temporary.

On my first trip to the agency, I arrived precisely at 4:58 pm. The office was closed.

As any cubicled member of society knows, the concept of “9-5” is somewhat fluid. The 9 and the 5 are only loose parameters, ultimately mutable in either direction. The 9 may be 9, but 9 may just as well be 8 or 10:30. As for the 5, there’s no way to know for sure. On dreadful days, 5 isn’t 5 at all, but rather 6, or 7, or so on until all possibilities of catching happy hour are totally extinguished. But on a good day, 5 pm can be averted by preemptive measures and rearranged for the greater good, now occurring somewhere in the 4:40 to 4:59 block. This typically results in blissful triumph for those inside the office, and embittered frustration for those who aren't.

After sitting in a hot and sticky car for a thirty minute commute, I was part of the second group. Despite the teasing fluorescent glow leaking out from the windows, the office for temporary employment was decidedly closed a full two minutes early. Resume still clutched in hand, I huffed across the parking lot, threw myself behind the wheel, and spent another half hour edging my way along a highway full of other 9-5ers who, most fortuitously, had also left the office at 4:58 pm.

The following day I decided to make a second attempt. Again I donned my business suit, slightly crumpled from yesterday's wear but still screaming "hire me! I'm a young professional!" This time I made it inside.

Bathed in blinding white lights, the office was sterilely spacious. Everything appeared in shades of black and white, the carpet an emphatic dull gray. I was greeted by a woman in a business suit strikingly similar to mine. She smiled wanly and handed me a formidable stack of paperwork.

"If you'll just fill these out," she said, directing me to a table on the far wall. A whole stack of sorrowful Bic pens taunted me from the corner; I went through two before I found one with ink.

For forty-five minutes I sat filling out papers. Green papers, pink papers, papers on residency, employment history, sexual harassment, references, computer competency, former felonies, wpm...after a while I was signing papers about the other papers I had just signed. The whole experience was becoming very meta, and by the time I was done, I was sweating underneath my jacket.

"Here you go," I said, handing the papers to the woman. I noticed she had shocking red lipstick on, possibly the only non-monochrome hue in the room.

"Great," she replied, looking up from her desk. "Now what's your experience with Data Entry?"

I froze. Data Entry? What was Data Entry? Surely this was some complex, technical term. What was my experience with Data Entry? It must require some knowledge of a certain program, a highly developed skill. In short, I was screwed. Nervously I wracked my brain for something, anything that might reflect my extensive experience with Data Entry.

Focus on the positive, I thought. Focus on what you have done. "I've done a lot of writing for websites..." I swallowed the end of the sentence. Clearly, my confusion showed. The woman looked at me strangely. Only later did I realize that, much to my chagrin, the mysterious and arcane Data Entry was merely data entry, also known as the entering of data.

After a long and sustained pause filled primarily with my discomfort, the woman thought it best to move on. Out of the Data Entry disaster, onto more pressing concerns. "We just need a copy of your driver's license and social security card," she said reassuringly.

Now, in today's age of pilfered identities and Citibank's worrisome (yet amusing) commercials, I don't typically go around with my social security card in my wallet. Not to mention the fact that it's practically disintegrated. (For some reason the card itself explicitly precludes the one course of action that might prevent this: lamination.) Was I carrying my well-worn social security card on me on the day in question? Of course not. You can see where this is going.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Except this little piggy did not say "weeeeeeee" all the way home. This little piggy was thinking of a somewhat different verbal response, one that might make Mother Goose roll over in the Granary Burying Ground in which she rests.

Temp agency, round 3: I arrive in business suit which now clings damply to my body. I have social security card in hand. I give to woman. Woman is all grateful smiles.

"Thank you so much for coming back in today—I know it's a trip."

Lady, I think to myself. If I came back another day you'd realize I have only one suit.

"We've got all your info on file, so we'll call you when we have an open position, okay?"

She still hasn't called. Maybe it was my inability to deconstruct the conceptually complex "data entry." Who knows? Whatever the case, my business suit is back on its hanger, dejected, deflowered, depressed.

Corporate America, I've evaded you for at least a little while yet.

B.A. or B.S.?

There’s a conversation that’s becoming uncomfortably common in my daily interactions, and it usually starts something like this:

“So, whatcha studyin’?” Picture a well-meaning resident of a small Texan town with southern twang in full swing—context is key.

“Oh, I just graduated,” I say, waiting for the inevitable next question.

“Where from?” They’re no doubt expecting one of three answers: Texas A&M, UT, or maybe, just maybe, Texas Tech. The thought that universities and colleges might exist beyond the state border is a non-thought for most Texans; to cross the Mason-Dixon Line itself is sheer treachery.

“Amherst,” I respond, careful not to pronounce the “h,” ever the mark of the plebeian. Oh, the shame of those early Amherst days when, in my humble ignorance, I dropped so many audible h’s I was at risk of hyperventilating.

“Uh huh,” is the ineluctable response, which means they have no idea where Amherst is or even what it is—maybe a nursing school in the panhandle? Undaunted, they shift subjects slightly.

“Well what’s your degree?"

Here’s where it gets tricky. There is always a small temptation to invent something truly outrageous, something that might elicit “oohs” and “ahhs” and a pat on the back for my solid career choices. I relish the thought of sighing a casual “engineering” or tossing out a glib “computer science.” Even simply “economics” would suffice, sure to evoke pleasing mental images of the well-trod road to my successful business future. But I’m not much of a liar, and as is usually the case, the truth prevails.

“I double majored,” I say, with a strange blend of pride and sheepishness. “English and European Studies."

To this there is either no response, at least not a verbal one—it’s something akin to an embarrassed expulsion of air and a way of shaking the head without visibly moving the head—or there is a brief statement, always a variation on the same theme. It should be a question, really, but it’s always pronounced with the utmost definitiveness, a terrifying certainty that brings shivers to my spine.

“So you want to teach.”

No, actually. I don’t.

The problem is, I can’t really blame these well-meaning conversationalists for jumping to conclusions. My academic choices put me on a track headed straight for the gilded doors of academia. But suddenly, I’m not sure I want to be there, and I can’t remember when the course of events began that led me here. I never wanted to teach; on the contrary, I swore I’d never do it. Yet somehow, my academic interests were such that, over my time as an undergrad, my future began to echo in the present, carving itself in the very language of academia. The GRE, grad school, MAs, PhDs, the long struggle for tenure—all seemed the natural components of my expected future. And it's a future I don't think I want.

For now, I harbor no ill-will towards my lovely little liberal arts college. On the contrary: I miss it like hell. But I'm wondering, what do I do with my B.A.? my indecipherable Latin honors on an elegant roll of terribly un-pc sheepskin? my troubling questions about life, literature, and those damned French theorists? What does all this get me in life? And where do I go from here?

Answer: temp agency. See next blog.

Sigh. Sometimes I wish I was an ibanker.