Elizabeth Crane - The History of Great Things

Dinner with Roger the weatherman is surprisingly fun. He’s funny. You are big into funny. So did you study. . weather in college? It’s called meteorology , Roger says. But no. He tells you he didn’t go to college at all, that he was a comic before he was a weatherman. No kidding? Actually, all kidding. Okay, I gave you that one. So. . how did you get into weather then? Believe it or not, I was recruited , he says. They found me at a comedy club, where I also happened to be bussing tables, and when they told me what the salary was I told them I had always wanted to be a weatherman. I used to bus tables! you say. I knew we were soul mates , Roger says. He’s kidding, but he’s flirting-kidding, and it’s fun.

The waitress comes to take your drink order. You ask for a vodka and soda. Roger says he’ll just have the soda. You try to hide your disappointment that he’s making you drink alone, but he gets it. Trust me, you don’t want me to drink. I don’t? Well, maybe you do. Are you into drooling and public nudity? Not so much , you say. Yeah, not too many women are. He said “women.” Weird. Also, my employers didn’t care for it so much. They gave me a choice between overnights and nothing. So you just quit? Well, the network sent me to rehab last summer, that helped. They sent you to fix up a house? Roger looks as confused as you do, takes him a beat to realize you don’t know what he means by “rehab.” No, rehab, like, a facility, a place people go to dry out. I’ve been sober for seven months now. Wow , you say. What do people say to this? “Congratulations”? That seems weird. “Hey, congrats on. . the most boring existence possible?” Definitely weird. Huh , you say. So, you like, never drink? That’s what sober means, yeah. Huh.

You’re not quite sure how you and Roger are going to move past this, but he changes the subject and you manage to pace yourself over dinner so you hopefully don’t look as buzzed as you are. Roger’s not an idiot; he’s counted how many you’ve had — four, to be exact — and yes, you did sit there for a good hour longer than most dinners because it’s been so fun, but he definitely knows you’re buzzed. He also really likes you. Which tonight means he puts you in a taxi and kisses you on the cheek.

But this job pretty much sucks, because you’re trying to sleep during the day when I’m trying to practice. Fortunately for everyone, it lasts only four weeks; a career in news holds zero interest for you, the very word “career” is one you’re uncertain about, as it implies commitment and ambition, which you’ve told me more than once is not what you’re about , so you sign up to take a bartending class, less to forge a career in bartending than to buy some time in which you hope a brilliant noncommittal career plan will come to mind. When no such thing happens in the next week, you get a bartending job, which lasts roughly the same number of weeks as the CBS job, which is to say not many. This takes you into spring, when you take a job with a children’s talent agency. It doesn’t pay well, but it holds some small promise for career advancement, and as desk jobs go it’s not the most boring ever, and you like your coworkers, and you now have a tiny bit more than zero dollars in your savings account. Thank god, because you can’t take living with us much longer and we can’t either. You can’t stay here forever. It’s unhealthy. What does that mean? It’s bad for our health? It’s bad for our mental health, yes. Victor lived at home until he moved in with you. No he didn’t, he had an apartment. He lived there for a week. Well, it was different. Yeah, it was longer. His parents had a bigger place. With one bathroom. I’m not discussing this any more, Betsy. You have a month. And then what? You’ll put my stuff on the street? Don’t test me.

The summer after you turn twenty-four, you’re unemployed again; Nina suggests you get a job on Fire Island. The idea of a summer at the beach is never a bad one; you spend a lot of weekends out there as it is, why not three months? Nina says that one of the families on her block is looking for a mother’s helper. She knows this is something you wanted to do back in high school: you love kids, and working with them in some way has always seemed like a vague career idea that might get you to a less vague career idea. Unfortunately, there’s nothing vague about the pay: there is none. Instead, you get to live with a family at a beach and get one day off per week. You give some thought to this, but you still have rent to pay in the city. Specifically to me and your stepfather. You have overstayed your post-college welcome by a year, and have agreed to our “you’ll pay us two hundred dollars a month for our troubles or you can go find another place” rental terms, but you’re already behind three months, and unlike your father’s handouts, your mother’s loans always come due. So the plan is modified. Nina convinces her parents to let you stay with them for the summer, so the revised plan is that you’ll get a waitressing job. You have experience, but one after another of the more upscale restaurants turns you down (you are not big on putting on so much as a decent blouse and slacks for these interviews, figuring that if they like you they like you), and you turn one offer down when it’s suggested that the shorter your skirt, the better the tips. You’re finally hired as a server at one of the diveyer bar/restaurants in town, the kind that smells like beach and stale beer and serves burgers to people without shoes. Good enough. You get to tell me you were right: someone has hired you for who you are, in a T-shirt and a ratty jean skirt. Bonus: you can wear that same costume to work, you don’t even have to pull your hair into a ponytail, and you get a meal before every shift and a free pitcher of beer after you cash out.

For a few weeks, everything about this is fantastic. That Fire Island has no streets, and no vehicles bigger than a golf cart, makes it ideal, at least to begin with. By day, you lay out at the beach in a slick of baby oil and a string bikini, flirting with the lifeguards; by night you flirt with the bartender and the guy who sits at the door. You and Nina are both single at the same time (or, more accurately, Nina is currently as single as you always are), and she usually meets you in town after you get off work to hang out with friends, find other boys to flirt with, maybe go dancing. You’re not saving a ton of your tips, but your back rent slowly gets paid down. You and Nina fantasize about living there year-round, writing novels about your mothers. You both know that the fantasy is very different from the reality: winters on Fire Island are bitterly cold, transportation on and off the island is limited, but the main thing is that very few people live there all year. The plan is to get boyfriends who would also live there with you to offset the need for other human contact. Nina sets this plan into motion as soon as you discuss it — not that it wasn’t already in motion, at least to the extent that Nina is rarely without a boyfriend. You set your eyes on a pair of brothers who already live there year-round. You’ve always liked the younger one, who has curly brown hair and dimples and some amazing dance moves. Really, his amazing dance moves are all that matter, until he asks you to dance one night and tells you you’re a good dancer. This fast-tracks him into being a candidate for The One. Nina hasn’t come out this night; she’s out on a date with the guy who runs the produce market. Back at home you discuss your evenings: her date was a dud (she only went because she doesn’t like to hurt people’s feelings and couldn’t think up an excuse fast enough when he asked); there’s only so much to say about cucumbers, as far as Nina is concerned, but no, there are many different varieties, plus Cucumbers can become all different kinds of pickles , as Nina learned over the course of her two-hour dinner. You, however, are really digging that cute younger brother. You’re both excited about the brother plan, but Nina will have to get to work on the older brother ASAP.