Cut Out

I'm not cut out for a lot of things.
I've often felt this, had a vague inkling that I fall on the short side of some kind of General Suitability Index, if such a thing were to exist (and more than a few of us are convinced that it does). But sitting here at work, at the desk that recently had the misfortune of becoming MY desk, I know this now more than ever. And I tell you this, because it's time you got to know me a little bit. So know that I'm not cut out for this.
But it wasn't always this way. I've had my moments, sure, just like everyone else. Hey, I wasn't sure I was cut out for high school. I faltered for a while, took my time gaining my balance and waded precariously through numerous attempts to learn how to comport myself, how to act toward others, how to deal with all the new shit that was rushing in between my ever-expanding blinders to complicate what had once been an almost painfully simple existence. But I found my way through it, I got my footing, and ended high school in comfort, even more, in a kind of new wealth of emotional prosperity the likes of which would have been inconceivable to me in the thick and soupy depression I had known a few years prior. I came out all right.
Then college. Man, was I cut out for college. The four years blew by in a frenzy of all things collegiate, the society, the pleasure, and yes, even the academics, and I found my place and I got an even stronger grip on human interaction and I made friends and lovers and felt great, and had a great time, made my OWN great time, all of a sudden at the top of a game I had only ever heard of before, let alone participated in, and I LEARNED, i felt, really LEARNED something, and boy did they have to tear me the hell away from that place--if you look closely you can still see my claw marks on what they called "the delicate fabric of this liberal arts institution". It wasn't the real world, wasn't even close, and I knew that, but so what? That's a small price to pay for the elation that comes with knowing what to do with yourself.
I wrote some plays, directed some plays and some films and felt cut out for THAT. I had searched vainly through my childhood for an inborn talent that I was sure existed, trying one thing after another for signs of natural ability, only to be disappointed time and again, and then to walk away altogether in search of something new. When this whole writing and directing thing came along I went into it prepared to engage myself to no avail in another passing fad, but it turned out that I wasn't so bad at it, and hey, I wasn't great, but I actually ENJOYED it--something I had always forgotten to take into account while trying new activities--and demonstrated enough basic ability with the whole thing to actually warrant a little bit of practice, and a lttle bit of pursuit.
When I graduated college and came home a little over year ago, I was sure I wasn't cut out for life in L.A.--didn't want it, thank you very much, because I've CHANGED, and I KNOW MYSELF well enough to know that I can't write there, that I don't BELONG here.... What I WAS cut out for, I was sure, was the isolation and sobriety my writing needed, which could most conveniently be found, I declared without even a hint of doubt, somewhere in the deserts of the American Southwest. And sure enough, after a few listless weeks I packed up my car and headed with a couple of friends for Flagstaff, Arizona to look for an apartment for a few days, only to return and take up lodging there a few weeks later. I thought it would be great, and that I'd be cut out for it. Apparently I was also cut out for my own kind of romanticism.
And I was cut out for Arizona--for a month or two. But the days grew longer, my idleness grew suffocating, my loneliness grew overwhelming, and without another word, just before my initial three-month Flagstaff trial period was over, I packed up my car and fled back to the social and economic safety of Los Angeles, where my friends and family, kind enough not to rub in--maybe even to see--my defeat on the idealistic playing fields of the desert, welcomed my return with touching enthusiasm and warmth.
Maybe I was cut out for Los Angeles after all. After a few more months of living at home, though, I was as cut out to continue living in my parents' residence as I was to afford my own apartment--but again my family took pity on me and provided me with the financial help required to move into my own place. It was a lovely gesture, and they were happy to do it, they could see that it was the right thing. And it was the right thing. And there I sat for nearly eight months, happy once again, but now no longer cut out to write, direct, or do much of anything--for what emotional gap had I left to fill...? I had my space, my human interaction, my time to myself to read and watch movies and otherwise enrich my consciousness--what the hell would I need to write for? I was happy as a clam. And I realized that I had only begun writing--and in fact had written with the most fervor--at times of sadness, of difficulty, for the act of writing itself had consoled and comforted me. But as great as everything was going, what more comfort did I really need....?
When this started to dawn on me and the money became more scarce, only one option presented itself--a job. Take up some time, give myself a schedule, something to occupy my days and drive me, and earn a little income besides. After some searching, I was provided with employment--8:30 to 5:30 five days a week with an hour for lunch, my first full-time job--at an office belonging to the parents of a friend. And now I've been here four weeks, at this desk, and there's one thing I'm certain of--I'm not cut out to work.
Jesus Christ I'm not cut out to work. I'm not cut out to focus all day, to manage the minutiae of the office that trickles down to my lowly receptionist desk, CERTAINLY not cut out to sit in one spot for hours. I'm not cut out to ride the train back and forth everyday at rush hour, to be one of the faceless millions, to dress in a style people keep calling "business casual". I'm not cut out to respond to social invitations (which were at one time so scarcely extended to me, and so now, even though there hasn't been any drought of them for years, are particularly meaningful and almost painful to turn down) with a defeated "no, I can't, sorry, I have to work." I'm not cut out to get up early every day, to have the efficiency of the office and the efficacy of others' work riding on my own shoulders, I'm not cut out to know that I won't have a day off until Thanksgiving, and then not another one until Christmas, and then not another one until President's day or something, my GOD, I didn't think I'd ever be counting the minor holidays like Pete Rose counted the point spread, scanning the pages of the calendar, blocking out the precious few free weekday moments of the year already designated as such to run insignificant every day errands, "oh, great, Martin Luther King Day," I sickeningly catch myself thinking, "fanTAStic, I'll finally have a moment to get my teeth cleaned and renew my driver's license," ahhhhhhhhhhh. This can't really be me. This is nothing like the me I know. I guess I'm just not cut out for this.
I know what you're thinking--"come ON, shut up and go to work already, everybody does it"--and you're right to. Whine whine whine, so much sometimes I disgust myself--that's ALWAYS been something I've been cut out for. And I repeat your statement to myself on a momentary basis, which is how frequently I feel the urge to quit rising in my stomach, "shut up and just take it, be an adult." All right. I'll be an adult. I'll be an adult and a receptionist. And a writer. How hard could that be?
Before he became a playwright, the great Peter Shaffer decided, after a series of failed jobs, that he was "unemployable", and so took to writing; and I wish I had never read this anecdote because knowing that he made that decision and still went on to his eventual artistic triumph and financial success, and in the theatre world, no less, makes it a lot harder for me to come back to this office every day. But I still do it--because I just don't want to give up. The money isn't such a big deal. I'll survive, one way or the other, and I can't get rid of these semi-ridiculous notions that keep whirring around in my head about "money-rich" vs. "time-rich," and all that. And I'm not one for expensive tastes anyway (all right, maybe a few). I just really don't want to be a quitter.
But if for some reason they'd be willing to fire me...
And most of all, it's hard, because I still carry with me the dream that I lived the last eight months during my unemployed freedom, and of which I never really took advantage, of being able to wake up in the morning and decide the moment's right and get in my car and drive off into the desert, into the mountains, to the ocean, wherever my fancy will direct me, to adventure myself for a few days. Why do I have this unrelenting burning NEED to drive into the unknown?, with nothing but a bunch of cash and credit cards and a file full of insurance policies and a cell-phone and reserve cell-phone and a CLEARLY BEACONED RETREAT ROUTE HOME to protect me from the great open sky? Who knows? But although I'm sticking around this office for the time being, and trying to one way or another write my way out of it and into the world of the coddled and the adored, I'll always want to keep driving, I feel--because I'm cut out for that. More than a lot of other things. And though I may be trapped by, I'm gonna' find a way to hit the road before long...