Free Blues for Beginners: Stories and Obsessions by Bacon Press Books Page B

be in training for a respected profession.
    No one asked lawyers if they could type.
    “So what’s wrong with law school?” I
asked.
    “Imagine Hell Week that lasts forever.
Everyone in your pledge class is some new form of asshole. If you
graduate you get a chance to work with and for the scum of the
earth. I’m moving to San Francisco while there’s still time to be a
hippie.”
    “What about the draft?”
    Back then only med school got you out of the
draft. Med school, or a doctor’s note that testified to your
physical unfitness for army life. Richard Nixon, our new president,
had campaigned on the promise of having “a secret plan to end the
Viet Nam War.” The war seemed to be expanding, but Jake did not
appear concerned.
    “The family doctor swears I got a heart
murmur and any heavy lifting would kill me, so basic training is
out of the question, on account of the way they make you carry
things. You going to invite me for dinner or what?”
    .
    When I buzzed Jake into 270 6th Avenue, it
was as though I was noticing all its awfulness for the first time:
the buzzing of the overhead florescent lights, the egg yolk colored
hallway, and a mingled orderof onions and cat spray.
    “This place is real squalor,” he said.
    “Actually,’ I said,” I don’t hang out in the
lobby much.”
    “What you have down here does not qualify as
a lobby. No place does where you have to keep single file. Is the
elevator working?”
    “What elevator?” I said.
    Eva let me borrow her fondue set for
dinner.
    “If I catch a disease from this, I’ll sue,”
Jake said as he speared his first piece of raw meat.
    “I bet you guys want to be alone,” Eva said,
and retreated to her room.
    “What’s her problem?” Jake asked.
    “She’s just shy,” I said.
    “She looks like a hooker,” he said.
    After dinner I showed Jake “Wake up to a New
Face!” in the March issue of Moose Monthly. I didn’t expect lavish
praise from Jake for my accomplishments, just a polite display of
interest.
    “If your daddy is a Moose and he dies when
you’re a kid there’s a Moose orphanage. It’s called Mooseheart. The
old folks home is Moosehaven,” I said.
    “You got a real crummy place here,” he said.
“It’s a turn-off for a guy to visit a girl in a building that
smells like onions and cat piss. You should move back in with your
folks.”
    “I can’t stay up past ten thirty in my own
bedroom and read without my mother coming in and turning out the
lights. She treats me like I’m twelve.”
    “I still remember the time she invited me to
dinner,” Jake said. “A very gracious individual, your Mom.”
    It occurred to me that they had a lot in
common, Jake and my mother. They were both generous when it came to
constructive criticism, and quick to find fault. It was bad manners
to invite yourself to dinner and then complain about the
accommodations, but my apartment did reek of kitty litter and
downward mobility. Only someone who cared would bother to tell you
every thing that was wrong with you and the way you lived.
    “Sorry to eat and run,” he said. “Got a date
to take acid with this woman I just met. If you ever get to San
Francisco, look me up.”
    .
    In May I wore a pants suit into work, and Ian
called me into his office to explain office policy.
    “Women don’t wear pants in this office,” Ian
said.
    “I’m out of pantyhose,” I explained. “You try
to keep yourself in pantyhose on $67.50 take home. What I mean to
say is, it’s time I had a raise.”
    That was the point in the script where
they’re supposed to tell you they admire your spunk.
    “We’ll take this up with Mr. Fischbach,” Ian
said.
    After my run in with Ian over the pants suit,
Kenneth got the mail run.
    The day of my appointment with Mr. Fischbach
to talk salary, I wore new pantyhose and the navy blue interview
dress. He looked through me as though I was a pane of dirty
glass.
    “What makes you think you’re worth any more
money to do a