It was early afternoon by the time Kirsten had made a list of stores
and planned out a route. By the time she had reached her last stop, her
feet ached, she was starving, and it was getting dark. She'd filled out a
few applications, but most of the stores were either not hiring or put off
by her lack of experience. She'd known that the country was in the middle
of a recession, but it suddenly seemed much less abstract than it had when
she heard about it on the news. The last store, Subaltern Books, didn't
look promising. The shop was tiny, as she walked in she coughed from the
dust, and a huge poster of Che Guevara hung over the cash register, glaring
down at her like some sort of angry Communist guardian angel. The middle-
aged guy at the counter laughed good-naturedly when she asked if they
needed any help.
"I wish I could," he said, "but this is a one-man operation." Kirsten thanked him and left, wondering wearily if she should have taken one of the dreary on-campus jobs after all.
"Ok," Kirsten told herself, "time to pull yourself together. Get some food, calm down, and come up with another plan."
It was beginning to rain, and Kirsten ducked into the door of the restaurant next to the bookstore. There was a menu in the window, and Kirsten thought that a hamburger and fries sounded like pretty much the best thing in the world right now. "Finnegan's," she thought, reading the name at the top of the menu. "I've heard of this place." And then it dawned on her that it was the place where the guy at the job fair had said his friends were having drinks. She looked at her watch: it was 8:10. "Fuck it," she thought. He didn't seem like an axe murderer. Jimmy wasn't the jealous type, and this could hardly qualify as a date. She was starving; burgers beckoned; and she could use a friendly face at the moment. She knew the last thing she should be doing was spending money on food before she even had a job, but a few bucks weren't going to matter, she thought.
Finnegan's was in the basement of an apartment building, and Kirsten entered down a long stairway, past fliers advertising political rallies and a "Rock Against Reagan" concert. The restaurant decor was utilitarian at best: block tables with no tablecloths; a bar in the back; a couple of posters haphazardly tacked up on the walls. But it smelled enticingly of fried food, and Kirsten was cheered by the sound of laughter and raucous conversation. She looked around for Sandy Cohen and spotted him sitting with seven or eight guys at a big table near the bar. His companions were all older than Kirsten, and one look at their self-consciously grungy clothes made her realize that her neat Izod shirt and designer jeans were out of place here. She remembered Sandy's snide comment about cotillion, and she wondered whether this was a good idea. "They have french fries here," she reminded herself, and her empty stomach settled the question.
"Kristen," Sandy said, sounding genuinely pleased, as she approached the table. "Glad you could make it! This is Kristen, everyone." Kirsten hated it when people got her name wrong, but the guys at the table were looking at her so skeptically that she was reluctant to reveal that she didn't really know Sandy. She had never felt so preppy in her life. It had never occurred to her that preppy might not be the best way to be.
"I can't stay long," she said, giving herself an escape route, as Sandy pushed his chair over to make room for her, found a clean glass, and emptied an almost-finished pitcher into it. Kirsten pulled up a chair and gratefully took a swig of beer.
"Looks like we need another one of these," he said, glancing over at the empty bar. "What do you think it takes to get a drink in this place? There's usually a bartender this time of night."
The guys, as it turned out, were discussing politics, which was not Kirsten's favorite subject. Her parents were active Republicans, and she dutifully feigned enthusiasm, but she found the whole thing pretty boring. She had been pleased when Ronald Reagan himself had pronounced her "the kind of young person this country needs" at a fundraiser that her mother chaired, but it was more because of the way it had made her father beam than because she had any great investment in being a model Young Republican. She figured Reagan was doing a good enough job, and she would vote for him when the time came, but she couldn't see the fun in sitting around talking about it. And listening to the guys at the table, she was pretty sure they wouldn't be pleased with her opinions, vague as they were.
Sandy Cohen changed the subject to an only slightly more welcome topic. "So how did the job hunting go?"
Kirsten made a face, gulped her beer, and admitted the truth. "Not so well. Nobody's hiring. At least, nobody's hiring me." Sandy made encouraging noises about having better luck tomorrow as a gray-haired guy approached the table.
"Sorry to make you wait," he said. "My bartender just quit and things are a bit crazy here tonight. You want another pitcher?" Sandy agreed, and the guy headed for the bar before Kirsten could order food. She got up to follow him and was hit with what she knew was a nutty idea.
"You want something?" the guy asked.
"A cheeseburger and fries, please," she replied, "and can I ask you a question?"
"Fire away," he said, a note of wariness in his voice.
"Are you hiring a new bartender? I want to apply."
Now he looked really skeptical. "You ever worked in a bar before?" he asked.
"No," Kirsten admitted, "but I make a great gin and tonic." And she did: all of her dad's friends said so.
He allowed himself a smile. "We don't serve many of those here. Are you even 21?"
"No," Kirsten sighed. "Ok, forget it. Sorry to bother you."
"You got any restaurant experience at all?" he asked.
What was this about? "No," she said, gathering up all the confidence that her Newport upbringing and beer on an empty stomach had instilled in her, "but I'm a fast learner. I work harder than anyone I know. I have never been late for anything in my life. And I would never quit a job without giving two weeks notice."
He looked at her appraisingly. "Well, you can't bartend if you're underage," he said, "but I'm short a waitress. You can come in for the lunch shift tomorrow. If you don't make a mess of it, the job's yours."
The rest of the evening was a warm, happy blur. The burger and fries, when they arrived, were perfect. Sandy and his friends turned out to be really funny when they weren't talking about the Sandinistas, and even a little bit when they were. Walking home with Sandy and some grad student named Mark, Kirsten thought triumphantly that she could do this, that she could make her own way and hold her own with grownups.
She let herself into her apartment and found her roommate Leslie reading Mother Jones in the living room. Leslie was short and sturdy and a kept her long, naturally-blond hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. She rode her bike everywhere, stocked the fridge with organic yogurt and odd soy products that Kirsten had never heard of, and claimed to be "majoring in bio and minoring in weed." Kirsten had never met anyone like her, and she had liked her immediately. "You're back late," Leslie said. "How'd the job hunting go?"
"Good," Kirsten said, suddenly aware that she'd had a lot to drink and hoping she wasn't slurring. "I got a job waiting tables at Finnegan's."
"That place where all the lefties hang out?" she asked. "You're not gonna wear that headband when you work there, are you?"
"Actually, can I get some advice about that?" Kirsten asked. Leslie's clothes wouldn't pass muster in Newport, but she looked a lot less out of place here than Kirsten did. "Can you help me figure out something to wear for my first day?"
Leslie eventually decreed that Kirsten's one pair of non-designer jeans would do, but she'd have to borrow a t-shirt. "You're gonna need new clothes," she said. "I think we need to go shopping."
"I don't think I can afford to go shopping for a while," Kirsten replied.
"You can afford to do this kind of shopping. Wear this tomorrow, and the next day we're hitting the thrift stores." Leslie grinned. "I'm gonna have so much fun de-preppying you."
Two days later, having picked up six shifts a week at the restaurant and procured a new wardrobe for less than she was used to spending on a single pair of shoes, Kirsten carefully folded up her Lily Pulitzer dresses, her polo shirts and denim skirts and pastel belts, and put them all in a big cardboard box, which she shoved under her bed. She carefully perused the course catalog and picked out five classes, four of which she was pretty sure her father would have forbidden her to take on the grounds that things like art and contemporary literature were fruity. And she resolved to call Jimmy. She felt bad about delivering the news over the phone, but she had no idea when she'd be ready to go back to Newport, and this couldn't wait.
In the end, it was every bit as bad as she thought it would be. "You met another guy," Jimmy said, his voice thick with pain and defeat.
"Jimmy, no, it's nothing like that," she protested. "I just need to be single right now. I need to figure out who I am when I'm not somebody's girlfriend."
"I didn't realize that you weren't you when you were my girlfriend," he said, his voice choking. She willed him not to cry. She didn't think she could bear it if he cried.
"Is this for good" he asked "or just until you figure things out?"
"I don't know," Kirsten had answered honestly, and Jimmy had said he'd wait until she made up her mind. When she finally hung up, she couldn't decide whether she felt more guilty or relieved.
"I wish I could," he said, "but this is a one-man operation." Kirsten thanked him and left, wondering wearily if she should have taken one of the dreary on-campus jobs after all.
"Ok," Kirsten told herself, "time to pull yourself together. Get some food, calm down, and come up with another plan."
It was beginning to rain, and Kirsten ducked into the door of the restaurant next to the bookstore. There was a menu in the window, and Kirsten thought that a hamburger and fries sounded like pretty much the best thing in the world right now. "Finnegan's," she thought, reading the name at the top of the menu. "I've heard of this place." And then it dawned on her that it was the place where the guy at the job fair had said his friends were having drinks. She looked at her watch: it was 8:10. "Fuck it," she thought. He didn't seem like an axe murderer. Jimmy wasn't the jealous type, and this could hardly qualify as a date. She was starving; burgers beckoned; and she could use a friendly face at the moment. She knew the last thing she should be doing was spending money on food before she even had a job, but a few bucks weren't going to matter, she thought.
Finnegan's was in the basement of an apartment building, and Kirsten entered down a long stairway, past fliers advertising political rallies and a "Rock Against Reagan" concert. The restaurant decor was utilitarian at best: block tables with no tablecloths; a bar in the back; a couple of posters haphazardly tacked up on the walls. But it smelled enticingly of fried food, and Kirsten was cheered by the sound of laughter and raucous conversation. She looked around for Sandy Cohen and spotted him sitting with seven or eight guys at a big table near the bar. His companions were all older than Kirsten, and one look at their self-consciously grungy clothes made her realize that her neat Izod shirt and designer jeans were out of place here. She remembered Sandy's snide comment about cotillion, and she wondered whether this was a good idea. "They have french fries here," she reminded herself, and her empty stomach settled the question.
"Kristen," Sandy said, sounding genuinely pleased, as she approached the table. "Glad you could make it! This is Kristen, everyone." Kirsten hated it when people got her name wrong, but the guys at the table were looking at her so skeptically that she was reluctant to reveal that she didn't really know Sandy. She had never felt so preppy in her life. It had never occurred to her that preppy might not be the best way to be.
"I can't stay long," she said, giving herself an escape route, as Sandy pushed his chair over to make room for her, found a clean glass, and emptied an almost-finished pitcher into it. Kirsten pulled up a chair and gratefully took a swig of beer.
"Looks like we need another one of these," he said, glancing over at the empty bar. "What do you think it takes to get a drink in this place? There's usually a bartender this time of night."
The guys, as it turned out, were discussing politics, which was not Kirsten's favorite subject. Her parents were active Republicans, and she dutifully feigned enthusiasm, but she found the whole thing pretty boring. She had been pleased when Ronald Reagan himself had pronounced her "the kind of young person this country needs" at a fundraiser that her mother chaired, but it was more because of the way it had made her father beam than because she had any great investment in being a model Young Republican. She figured Reagan was doing a good enough job, and she would vote for him when the time came, but she couldn't see the fun in sitting around talking about it. And listening to the guys at the table, she was pretty sure they wouldn't be pleased with her opinions, vague as they were.
Sandy Cohen changed the subject to an only slightly more welcome topic. "So how did the job hunting go?"
Kirsten made a face, gulped her beer, and admitted the truth. "Not so well. Nobody's hiring. At least, nobody's hiring me." Sandy made encouraging noises about having better luck tomorrow as a gray-haired guy approached the table.
"Sorry to make you wait," he said. "My bartender just quit and things are a bit crazy here tonight. You want another pitcher?" Sandy agreed, and the guy headed for the bar before Kirsten could order food. She got up to follow him and was hit with what she knew was a nutty idea.
"You want something?" the guy asked.
"A cheeseburger and fries, please," she replied, "and can I ask you a question?"
"Fire away," he said, a note of wariness in his voice.
"Are you hiring a new bartender? I want to apply."
Now he looked really skeptical. "You ever worked in a bar before?" he asked.
"No," Kirsten admitted, "but I make a great gin and tonic." And she did: all of her dad's friends said so.
He allowed himself a smile. "We don't serve many of those here. Are you even 21?"
"No," Kirsten sighed. "Ok, forget it. Sorry to bother you."
"You got any restaurant experience at all?" he asked.
What was this about? "No," she said, gathering up all the confidence that her Newport upbringing and beer on an empty stomach had instilled in her, "but I'm a fast learner. I work harder than anyone I know. I have never been late for anything in my life. And I would never quit a job without giving two weeks notice."
He looked at her appraisingly. "Well, you can't bartend if you're underage," he said, "but I'm short a waitress. You can come in for the lunch shift tomorrow. If you don't make a mess of it, the job's yours."
The rest of the evening was a warm, happy blur. The burger and fries, when they arrived, were perfect. Sandy and his friends turned out to be really funny when they weren't talking about the Sandinistas, and even a little bit when they were. Walking home with Sandy and some grad student named Mark, Kirsten thought triumphantly that she could do this, that she could make her own way and hold her own with grownups.
She let herself into her apartment and found her roommate Leslie reading Mother Jones in the living room. Leslie was short and sturdy and a kept her long, naturally-blond hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. She rode her bike everywhere, stocked the fridge with organic yogurt and odd soy products that Kirsten had never heard of, and claimed to be "majoring in bio and minoring in weed." Kirsten had never met anyone like her, and she had liked her immediately. "You're back late," Leslie said. "How'd the job hunting go?"
"Good," Kirsten said, suddenly aware that she'd had a lot to drink and hoping she wasn't slurring. "I got a job waiting tables at Finnegan's."
"That place where all the lefties hang out?" she asked. "You're not gonna wear that headband when you work there, are you?"
"Actually, can I get some advice about that?" Kirsten asked. Leslie's clothes wouldn't pass muster in Newport, but she looked a lot less out of place here than Kirsten did. "Can you help me figure out something to wear for my first day?"
Leslie eventually decreed that Kirsten's one pair of non-designer jeans would do, but she'd have to borrow a t-shirt. "You're gonna need new clothes," she said. "I think we need to go shopping."
"I don't think I can afford to go shopping for a while," Kirsten replied.
"You can afford to do this kind of shopping. Wear this tomorrow, and the next day we're hitting the thrift stores." Leslie grinned. "I'm gonna have so much fun de-preppying you."
Two days later, having picked up six shifts a week at the restaurant and procured a new wardrobe for less than she was used to spending on a single pair of shoes, Kirsten carefully folded up her Lily Pulitzer dresses, her polo shirts and denim skirts and pastel belts, and put them all in a big cardboard box, which she shoved under her bed. She carefully perused the course catalog and picked out five classes, four of which she was pretty sure her father would have forbidden her to take on the grounds that things like art and contemporary literature were fruity. And she resolved to call Jimmy. She felt bad about delivering the news over the phone, but she had no idea when she'd be ready to go back to Newport, and this couldn't wait.
In the end, it was every bit as bad as she thought it would be. "You met another guy," Jimmy said, his voice thick with pain and defeat.
"Jimmy, no, it's nothing like that," she protested. "I just need to be single right now. I need to figure out who I am when I'm not somebody's girlfriend."
"I didn't realize that you weren't you when you were my girlfriend," he said, his voice choking. She willed him not to cry. She didn't think she could bear it if he cried.
"Is this for good" he asked "or just until you figure things out?"
"I don't know," Kirsten had answered honestly, and Jimmy had said he'd wait until she made up her mind. When she finally hung up, she couldn't decide whether she felt more guilty or relieved.