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Fletcher entries
Index | << | 9 | >>


Year entries
Index | << | 48 | >>


48

4/23/04
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:: fixed

: : : CASSANDRA IS FUSSING WITH A sponge and a French press and speaking:

—I mean don't get me wrong I don't want to move but I have to be realistic here.  There's no openings here in Chicago for the kind of work I want to do.  Everybody's so fixed in what they're doing right now.  With the economy the way it is nobody wants to leave their job.  There's no sense that there's anything better out there.  There's no mobility.

—And you think it'll be better somewhere else? asks Fletcher.  

—I don't know.  There's lots of provincial museums all over the place, you know, like little county museums.  They could be looking for someone.

—Would you want to go out there? Fletcher asks.  —I mean—leave Chicago, go out to Bumfuck wherever?

—I don't know.  I mean, I think it's worth it to look.  That's all I'm talking about, just looking.

—But if you found a place that was hiring—or let's say one of these places offered you a job—would you go?

—Fletcher—try to look at it from my perspective, OK? I have a son. I need a job.  It's all well and good to say I'm only going to take a job with the Art Institute or with the MCA or whatever but the fact of the matter is that I'm broke—every month I need to stretch the check I get from Rick a little bit further and I can't just keep stretching them while I sit around and wait for my fucking dream job to—

She lets out an abbreviated yelp as the French press bursts into pieces in her hand.  Glass rains down into the sink, onto the floor.

—Are you OK? Fletcher asks.

Her eyes are closed.  She presses her fist into her forehead.

—Are you—did you get cut?

She shakes her head no.

He goes and puts his hands on her shoulders.  —Is this alright? he says.  She nods.  He begins rubbing, trying to loosen her.

—Watch out for the glass, she says, in a tiny voice.

—I see it.

—I need to clean it up.

—I'll get it, he says.  —In a minute.  Right now I just want to be touching you.

She sighs.  Her shoulders drop an inch.

—Everything stinks, she says.

—Ssh, he says.  —We'll figure something out.

—We better figure it out soon, she says.

: : :

:: Year entries
Index | << | 48 | >>

:: Fletcher entries
Index | << | 9 | >>

 

 

This entry from Imaginary Year : Book Four is © 2004 Jeremy P. Bushnell.
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