Free The Genius of Little Things by Larry Buhl Page A

wrote my resignation letter in fresh guacamole on the side of a stainless steel refrigerator. It read, simply, Tyler quits . The guacamole letters began running seconds after I wrote them. I left anyway. Mr. Ferguson would have to figure it out.
     

 
 
EIGHT
     
I started my job hunt at Starbucks. Their rest rooms were cleaner than any food establishment I had ever encountered, and they were open early. A downside was their essay question. Tell us about yourself . It occurred to me that I should write and memorize one essay for Starbucks, for Caltech, for Rachel, and for everyone who wanted the Quick-and-Easy Guide to Tyler.
The manager, a very pale white guy with a nose ring and asymmetrical hair, kept glancing at me as I struggled to produce an essay, which was becoming a mess of crossed-out sentences. I gave up after twenty minutes. I told him that I spilled coffee on the application, even though there were no liquids anywhere near me, and even though spilling coffee would suggest clumsiness or carelessness, which should be disqualifying traits for a barista. I requested a fresh application for the road, but the manager said he couldn’t allow them to leave the store. I told him I would be back.
The other businesses on my list served up no such application dilemmas. That’s because not one was hiring.
I returned to the house at three. It was a good thing I didn’t stay out longer, because Janet had planned a party for me. Though it was technically not a surprise party, I was surprised that she was going through with it. No FoPa had ever thrown me a party for any occasion. None had given me an iPod, or a cake, or anything. Occasionally, I would receive a birthday card from whatever case manager was assigned to me, often with my name misspelled on the envelope.
A week earlier, Janet had brought up the possibility of a birthday party. “We’re thinking of throwing you a party. What would you like?” I laughed a little bit and said, “enchiladas and strawberry cake.” These were the first things to come to mind. I don’t like enchiladas or strawberry cake. I assumed by the use of the word thinking that Janet had asked a hypothetical question. For example, if I said, I’m thinking of doing sexual things with Zoe from my Creative Soul class , that wouldn’t mean I was planning to act on those thoughts. Because I didn’t believe Janet had been serious, and because I was busy working on my science fair proposal—it was not easy to save the bees—I invited nobody to this “party.”
As I entered, Carl saw me from the living room and pointed, as if I were a fugitive or a celebrity. “There he is!”
Janet shouted from the kitchen. “Carl, put on that song.”
He shouted back. “Can you be more specific?”
“The woman who sings about being seventeen.”
“Janis Ian? The song is about how she has no friends. Isn’t it?”
“Put on something . I’m grating cheese.”
Carl cursed at his CD collection and finally decided on sitar music.
In the kitchen there was a large cake, stacks of paper party plates and trays of rolled up things with cheese. Janet was chopping, stirring, pounding, tossing and rinsing. “I’m making fifty enchiladas, in case your friends are hungry,” she said.
I told her she didn’t have to go to all the trouble.
Janet stopped grating. “I know that. We discussed this.”
Technically we had not discussed it. The previous day, she had asked, via the refrigerator white board, how many friends I might invite. I wrote back. Twenty . As with the original query about the party, I thought it was a theoretical question.
“I don’t think that many enchiladas are necessary,” I said.
“How many friends did you invite?”
I said nothing. I detected her lip curl.
“Your sister will be here,” Carl said, somewhat optimistically, to Janet.
They shared one of those married couple looks. In this case their thoughts were easy to discern. Tyler has no friends, so cue up that pathetic