Category Archives: YM&S

Memorial Day 2015 and rolling a natural 1

I’ve cried so much lately, and I don’t know why.

At least, that’s what I tell my wife while I’m crying, that I don’t know why.

I might know why. We might know why. Our most recent move and everything that has accompanied it has entirely overwhelmed me.

**

There was a point at very early in my career where I was given lots of responsibility over a small company’s supply chain. I had very little idea about what I was doing, what I was supposed to be doing, what the company expected me to accomplish, how much the work was supposed to cost, or how much they expected me to spend. I told them during the interview that I wasn’t the right man for the job, but maybe spending an entry-level salary to power a venture that hadn’t proved itself yet seemed like the most frugal course: I was young, resourceful, somewhat knowledgable, and discontent with current industry practices. Anyway, it worked out well.

A metaphor for that early job was that they hired me to tread water in an above-ground pool that had already filled to overflowing from a garden hose. My job was to stop the spillage and drain the pool without turning off the hose. As I treaded water and poked holes in the side (first through process then through building a team to execute the process), someone would sometimes come by and say, “Look, he’s just treading water!” or “Look! He’s just poking holes in the sides of our pool!” But my boss never listened, and I kept at it as best I could, and eventually I had poked enough holes in it that it drained faster than it filled. After three years I stood on the floor, and though the hose kept pumping, the holes kept draining, and with no plans to implement a larger hose or for the holes to seal up, I called my work done and left.

My next role was just as vague and entrepreneurial: the new company had work to do, and it wasn’t getting done, and they needed someone to figure out what work wasn’t getting done, how to get it done, and then to do it. I did that for a while and succeeded at it; I was treading water again, but I’d been in that position before, so I defined and executed a strategy. Just like at the first company, I felt that if I were ever going to drain the pool completely and keep it drained, then I needed a team, but when push came to shove they refused.

Right in the context of their refusal, another offer presented itself that included more responsibility, more money, and the resources to tackle all issues at hand. I took it.

Let it be said that all red flags should be paid attention to for any offer dropping out of the sky: This job’s vagueness isn’t like a vagueness I have solved before; it’s like trying to contain the Ganges in a pint glass. I dove from a platform into and no follow-through about resources or bandwidth to implement change. It didn’t help that there were one or two rock-thrower colleagues, too, who were calling out from the sidelines about how “The pool’s still overflowing, the pool’s still overflowing!” (Note: Nothing makes me so anxious as people calling out my failures in public even when my failures aren’t really failures at all.),

That said, my anxiety may have just have been projection. Yes, colleagues continually asks me to do “better”, though their definitions of the term were always vague at best. Yes, I’m pretty sure I heard annoyance and doubt in my boss’s voice when she mentioned that her boss hoped that I would be able to take over her role in a few months. Yes, I’m pretty sure I saw doubt in my boss’s boss’s face when he looked at me as we passed by each other in the hallway. Yes, I didn’t know how to solve their problems without follow-through on their promise of new resources. Yes, this all made me feel extraordinarily anxious. I don’t know whether it comprised the tapestry I saw in my mind, but I suspect so, and I carried that heavy load of anxiety all the time.

Further, the move (from the East Bay to Marin) was expensive, and we borrowed money from my parents to make it happen, and now we live in this old house (which Ashley adores) with a live-in landlord who seems to dislike everything about us from the fact that we’re alive to the fact that we share a trash can. It’s just another form of oversight, another form of someone looking at me the jeering, and I’m tired of that right now. (Jeering has always been an act with which I have the least tolerance, and my response to it often is to cry. In public. With hot shame.)

On the other hand, our new home is so beautiful that Ashley and I have picked up meditating. Three days now (and I hope for many more to come) we’ve gone out to the patio and listened to her little chimes ding, quieting the whole valley below, and thought quietly for a time. Memorial Day morning felt pretty routine: I breathed in and thought as my wife’s book suggested, “I am in this moment.” I breathed out and thought as the book suggested, “This is a beautiful moment.” I opened or closed my eyes as my instincts suggested. I breathed and thought and breathed and got distracted by work and checked myself and breathed and thought and got distracted by how middle-classy house-wifey my adopted mantra seemed and checked myself and breathed and thought and breathed and thought and watched as Ashley checked the time on her phone and breathed and thought and breathed and listened as she chimed her bells to close the session, and I breathed again. Then a lightly violent buzzing filled my head, and I flinched away to my left, and there to my right was a red-headed hummingbird. And I looked at it in wonder and didn’t want to say anything for fear of scaring it away and didn’t want to look at Ashley to miss it fly away. And I asked her, “Do you see it?” and she said “Yes,” and I turned to look and see if she knew what it was, and she was looking where I’d been looking, and when I turned back it had already flown away. I cried. I got frustrated with myself for crying, and I told Ashley I didn’t know why I was crying, and she consoled me and said it was OK, and then we got up and went inside, and she packed up and left for work, and I worked from home on Memorial Day, and I worked on Memorial Day while attempting to write this piece about why I’m crying.

We began meditating three days ago because I started crying regularly four days ago.

The hummingbird struck me with it’s beauty, and that’s not the first time this neighborhood has met my anxiety with beauty. The other day as Ashley and I left our house to go to work, I began complaining about my new job, and Ashley said that even if I lost the job, she’d rather be bankrupt here than rich anywhere else, and as we broke the topmost step heading from our apartment to our car, we spotted two three-point bucks standing in the private road our house is on, and they looked at us, and we approached them, and they walked away slowly without fear, turning to us on occasion like symbols promising that our lives are protected by providence. They watched us get in our car and drive away to work, and I promptly forgot them in the busyness and stress of the new office, but I remembered them today as I watched the hovering hummingbird, and I felt at peace and protected. And then I got up and got on with my day, and I felt immediately anxious again. And this is the cycle of my days lately.

So I cry due to overwhelming anxiety about the lack of definition and ability to succeed at my new job. I cry due to its burden and having to carry its weight all the time. I cry at the beauty of our new place and the promise it offers that all my anxiety is misplaced. I breathe deep and try to find a sense of peace, and I find it, and then I stand up and immediately lose it. I’m exhausted after only six weeks. I do think I’m sorely in need of a break. But I only got some of a break yesterday, and I’ll only get some of a break today, and work will resume tomorrow.

Hopefully I’ll find a way to manage it all. And if I don’t, my wife will still love me and my parents will still care for me (not that I want to rely on them; I am an adult after all.). But I want to succeed at work and in general, and I want to be considered a success, and I want to protect and care for my wife. I want to be a man of means and of good conscience. I don’t want to sit at a bench and cry like my father did when he got laid off the second time in two years, not knowing how he would provide for his well-provided-for family.

Therefore I somehow find that I need to rediscover myself. I’m not sure how I lost an emotional knowledge of myself along the way, but I’m also pleased by at least one of the surprises I gave myself: The more anxious I become, the more I rely on Ashley and the more I appreciate her. Since the move, I have been drawn to her in a way that I never felt drawn before. She is acting as a support, as a bulwark against the world, as a remind that life is good and the anxiety I have is made by myself. Her support of me is what allows me to cry, is what pushes me to cry. And I love her dearly for that.

In my younger years, whenever I became anxious I would push away those closest to me. This was described to me once as a control issue: If I couldn’t change the thing that was bothering me, then I would change something else just to make me feel like I was improving something. Of course, the net result was usually just a change and not always an improvement, but that’s not the point. Change itself is the point.

There are two particular times I can remember that I participated in this behavior:

Christina and I were having a bad time of it in college. It was our first stint, sophomore year, and we were struggling through finals. Having her around was a distraction for me. (I considered her and masturbation to be significant distractions for years.) For Christmas break, Christina was going back to Houston, where she knew she’d see her ex Billy, and I think she had an instinct that if we didn’t break up she would cheat on me. I had an instinct, too, that I would rather be single in Dallas than attached to some far-away girl, and so between being annoyed at the distraction of her and the binding agreement of her, I took the offer when it appeared.

(Christina did hook up with Billy, she told me later, though I’ll never know whether they were having sex at that point or not, not that it matters much. I suspect so; I suspect she lied to me about her virginity, like so many other topics. What I know is that she told me she was a virgin but that she had no maidenhead and bled none our first time. I think maybe she liked having boys to string along, and she strung him and me along, and we liked it, and we let her.)

(I put a night together for Justin before he left: Ashley Walker was interested in a boy she knew going off to be a man, and Holly Hood joined in for the adventure, so the evening was something like a double date but altogether more exciting. Something about good a Texan Christian girl and me wearing a purple fluffy thong; it was good a good night to be single.)

Also near Christmas, when I moved to Boston in 2006, I was in a very distressing long-distance relationship with Sarah (quiet distress: her ignoring me seemed like an aspect of the long-distance factor of our relationship at the time), attending my night-time courses in Emerson’s Graduate Certificate in Book Publishing, and working another awful, awful, anxiety-riddled job. I left home woke up to the sound of my roommate brushing his teeth and clearing his throat around 6am, and I would shower and take Kalli for her little walk around the property, and then I would leave the house for work and school and not return until 10pm or so, at which point I would jog Kalli to the closest dog park about a mile away, come home and experience the cutting pain of the fascitis I was tempting–sometimes I would lay in bed and massage my foot for a good twenty minutes while moaning in pain–and fall asleep on the phone to a wordless Sarah doing her homework. At some point I broke, and I felt that something had to change, and I called my father and begged him to help me get Kalli back home so I could give her to Steve’s parents, who had offered to keep her rather than me taking her to Boston with me. To my lasting pleasure, such tormented gnashing lead to nothing, and I kept Kalli–her perfection, God rest her soul–to the end of her days. Osteosarcoma, poor thing, my great love.

So there: two times I casted about in distress, and two times I pushed my greatest joys (relevant to the time) away.

I am happy to say that is not my habit today. Today, every ounce of new pressure I feel, the more closely I cling to my wife. I feel compelled to tell her of my love a few times a day, where at other more normalized points in our relationship I was so engaged in my work that I barely gave her a thought except when during breaks. Between boredom at work and Kalli’s death and the pitbulls at home, between busy tourist-filled dirtiness of the city and the barbed wire view from our home, I felt pretty miserable, and I spent more of my time wondering about myself and what I might do than my wife and what I might do for her.

Now, though, I reach out to my wife almost hourly. Also, I call my family weekly, when I have never felt particularly compelled to call them before. I feel guilty with my wife when I change our plans around my work’s demands. I feel guilty with my parents when all I do is talk with them about my job and its issues and my anxiety. Even though this behavior may be entirely selfish from me, it’s different (and less destructive) than how I behaved before, and while I could wallow in the guilt of my selfishness, I’m fascinated by the change in my behavior.

I’m thinking now that instead of just reaching out to my wife with “I love you”s, which I know she adores, I should put more thought and effort into my little messages. That’s another way in which I’ve changed: the amount of effort I spend on courting has never matched the fervent energy I gave to Christina, and like my attempt to offload Kalli, it’s one of the burdens I carry dangling from its hook in my heart.

**

One day in the week following having written this essay, Ashley and I meditated and I prayed to Ganesha to remove obstacles from my path, and I thanked Mount Tam for letting us live in Marin. I then went to the job, and when I sat in my seat, my face flushed, and I began to sweat, and my heart drummed. Then my anxieties were confirmed in full, and I quit within the day. (Thank you, Ganesha. Thank you, thank you, thank you.) One way or another, I was not the man for the job. I feel very fortunate to be able to recognize that and be able to act on the knowledge.

Also, I changed the mantra from Ashley’s book: I now inhale and think “I am in this moment,” and exhale and think “I am of this moment.” Without the primary source of anxiety, meditation comes easier and its effects are less fleeting.

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YM&S: Professional ambitions, part 1 part 2 – Publishers Lunch

When I first got on to Twitter about 3 years ago, I made a comment about some business and how their product was disappointing me. That business responded to me personally and publicly, asking me what they could do to improve. There are a number of ways any given person could respond to this—what I would have called at the time at least atypical—interaction with a business; my reaction was surprised distrust. But businesses use Twitter as a low-cost customer survey system all the time—my reaction was only a sign of what a n00b I was to the network.

Again, my existence has recently been acknowledged by a business I mentioned by name: Publishers Lunch. (Such is a symptom of the power of blogging plus Google Alerts: if you mention them, they will browse.) I said in my last blog post that to get mentioned by them by name was one of my professional ambitions. Well, they mentioned me by name!

I’m decidedly excited about this because I’m refusing to react as I reacted as a Twitter n00b back when. I could construe the actual mention, “[Keep trying, Greg Freed]”, as sarcasm, something I would otherwise be likely to do because a lack of context defaults to snark, my primary form of casual communication. But instead, I’m taking it as at least one of my previous employers took it: as a light hearted joke and maybe even encouragement.

I mean, I don’t know the Publishers Lunch people (I met one at a barbeque once) and they don’t know me, but we both take publishing seriously, which is where the ambition and mention both find their source. But something I consider strange happens when I tell people in publishing about this particular ambition: the general reaction is to kind of sneer and ask why. And I can understand this reaction from people who have received the honor before: like any award, it must lose its luster after you win it. And I can understand this reaction from people who assume they’ll be worthy of a legit mention some day: publishing is small, and insulation can give rise to snootiness bordering on arrogance.

But I am neither of these types of people; neither established nor confident of my coming establishment in the industry. I am a southern semi-intellectual who bought access to this particular echelon through a master’s program, and there’s every chance that if I don’t assign goals for myself, nothing will ever happen for me.  And if one is going to begin assigning goals, baby steps are the best way to start. Leaps and bounds only occur once you’re really settled, really rooted to your place.

I want to thank Publishers Lunch for this mention. Getting mentioned by the industry-leading news magazine is only a baby step to someone like me, someone who consistently over-reaches, constantly takes bites bigger than they can chew. But what Publishers Lunch did here was to divide one of my first steps into more manageable pieces and then give me one of them as a gift: I have been mentioned by name in Publishers Lunch. Now I just have to get mentioned in earnest, which was the only goal I saw before.

You see? Now, because of their generosity and humor, I feel like I’ve made a kind of progress and success, which I wouldn’t have otherwise felt. And that’s the outcome of attaining an ambition. If this were a video game, this would be an achievement I’d have earned through just playing the game.

Have you ever set a professional goal that’s been looked down upon by others? Have you ever achieved part of a goal that you didn’t realize before was a goal in parts? Tell me about it in the comments below!

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YM&S: Professional ambitions, part 1 – Publishers Lunch

Now that I’ve found a niche of publishing to call my very own, several professional ambitions have become defined in what was previously a very vague landscape. Planning things out before hand isn’t really my style: one of the reasons that I fared so poorly in academia qua academia—I have habituated myself to solving any problem I find myself, and I can precipitate problem I’ve suffered before, but solving a hypothetical problem that hasn’t actually appeared yet always feels to me like an utter waste of time. Not that doing so doesn’t have its place—I certainly appreciate others who have this tenacity for precognition—it’s just not something I spend time on or could succeed at if I did. Like painting: I love the visual and appreciate what I can understand of what I see, but the rest is lost on me though not without its own purposes outside of my biases.

So then, too, my professional ambitions. Being in publishing for a good many years now and having studied it both as a professional and academic, one of my ambitions is to make it I to Publishers Lunch, the primary form of industry news, an email sent on a daily basis with a summary of the news available on Publishers Marketplace.

This ambition has already split into steps, or degrees. My first goal was just to get mentioned in some way. Well, not only has my employer received several mentions since I started working there, projects over which I’ve had direct professional control have ended up there as well. And I had an increasing level of control over each project, so each mention is more satisfying than the one before it, a pleasant escalation.

So what’s the next step of this single ambition? To get mentioned by name, of course! Something like “The brilliant Greg Freed who has shown an unerring tenacity for generating book-quality books for the ebook market, has hit another homerun with this series, showing e-publishers and electronic producers everywhere that not only can high quality be attained but soon will be expected by customers everywhere.”

Like most of my dreams, an unmitigated delusion of grandeur, of course, that I do my damndest to live up to. And I won’t be sad if I fall a little short: falling a little short inversely implies quite a lot of successful movement. Which connects this next step in the Publishers Lunch ambition to another ambition of mine, which I’ll address in my next post!

Have a great day doing whatever it is you do, and DREAM LARGE. Share your ambitions in the comments below.

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YM&S: Moving to the city

I wish to address two problems as briefly as possible: how Ashley and I responded to moving between cities under a crunch, and that people post their responses to their situations too quickly, which makes it difficult to gauge how accurate any given response is.

Ashley and I moved to Jersey City from Dorchester, MA in August 2010. In some ways, it was better than my move to Boston from Dallas because I had more lead time to know it was coming (two months vs. two weeks). On the other hand, having a significant other I had to consider made the going more difficult.

Ashley provided these challenges:
-that we disagreed on when we should move
-that I needed to get a larger place than I might otherwise have looked for
-that she brought two cats
-that she needed to be able to commute to Montclair, NJ for school

So we needed to find a place that was pet friendly, large enough for two people, a medium-sized dog, and two cats, and within a reasonable commute from Montclair. I, of course, intended to work in the city proper. The most ideal choice for this arrangement, geographically and by available transit, was Newark, but we have enough friends and family knowledgeable about Jersey to warn us off of that choice (crime, neighborhood quality, etc). So we were limited to Jersey City or Hoboken.

Hoboken has an average rate, for one-bedrooms, between 1300-1600 and can cost more depending on how nice you want to go. Downtown Jersey City is in the same price range, and Ashley and I were trying to keep our rent closer to $900-1200. Therefore, Jersey City Heights was the most ideal neighborhood.

However, Ashley was working and attending school, and I was piecing together my memoir for submission to Emerson, and we were tight on cash regardless of the time constraints, so we could only realistically make one trip to Jersey in order to make our decision. We decided to go with real estate agents since we couldn’t research any of the places ourselves, and we set up three appointments with three different agents (not ideal, but all of the agents were returning different locations so it was difficult to limit the appointments to one). We also scheduled to see a fourth apartment, shown by the building manager instead of an agent. As the date came, all of the agents cancelled, so we were left with only one appointment: the one shown by the building manager.

In most cases I would recommend this tactic, all considered. You get to meet the person responsible for your apartment’s upkeep, and no agents means no negotiating over fees means that you can keep discussions about price limited to per month and utilities. The apartment we saw was nice enough, but the neighborhood put me off, as did the manager, but choice was not on our side at that point: Ashley loved the unit, and we decided that we would do whatever it took to make at least the first year work. So we signed the papers, for better or worse.

Over the six months, my hesitation about both the neighborhood and the building manager proved pretty true to point, so I always urge you to trust your instincts insofar as your situation allows you to. Jersey City Heights (the cliffs above Hoboken) provide good access to Manhattan but only decent access to Hoboken–the 87 bus is not reliable but is the only constant mass transit down the cliffs to the city. To get out to Montclair, Ashley has to get the 87 into Hoboken: it comes only on a sporadic schedule, maybe on time 1 out of 3 time slots, and those changing day by day. NJ trains seem to be reliable, though, so there’s that, at least.

Therefore, when you move to a new city, be sure to thoroughly research your neighborhood, your landlord, and your transit situation. If you don’t have an adequate knowledge of these variables, you’re putting yourself at risk of a shock the moment you land.

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YM&S: Young, Mobile, and Social

I’m going to start a new strand of blog posts in a new YM&S category. Ashley and I had a fun time in Boston, a town both of us knew different parts of, and we’ve enjoyed discovering Jersey City, Hoboken, Montclair, and New York City. YM&S posts will be about discovering our new home or remembering the old, hopefully to help out people who are following in the same or similar footsteps.

More to come soon, probably tonight.

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A freelancer’s beginning

On August 24, 2006, Emerson College sent me a letter asking me to take part in their Graduate Certificate in Book Publishing. They had denied my application to their Masters of Arts in Book Publishing but judged that I would fit in with their certificate program. I saw the program as a distinct end to my post-college unemployment, my living off near-to-minimum wage in combination with parents’ gratuity while I tried to find my place in the world. Hell, the program could define my place.

Also, I had wanted to leave Texas since I was a child and had made many frustrated attempts throughout my life. I was determined that my exodus to graduate school would not be denied, however.

When I received the news, I shouted, actually screamed for the joy of it. I called my mother and father, who had not been home when I opened the letter. I called Justin and Steve, two of my high school friends I still kept in touch with. I called Sarah and told her all about it, told her about how this meant no more jobs at coffee shops and no more crying about the worthlessness of Texas. I told her that this meant everything would be all right.

It wasn’t until later, when she had asked me if I would come to Waco for her birthday or if I wanted her to come to Dallas, that I realized this meant leaving her. In hindsight, it’s strange to think that neither of us recognized that immediately. But Emerson started on September 12 that year. I had to get up to Boston somehow with at least my clothes and Kallion, my dog.

How does one completely disassemble their life and relocate to Boston within two weeks of receiving the news that he could go if he wanted? I mean, I didn’t have to accept Emerson’s invitation. I could’ve stayed in Dallas, living in Steve’s parents’ house and working at Starbucks while I scrounged for gainful employment unsuccessfully, resisting Sarah’s insincere invitations to move in with her back at Baylor instead.

My parents had kicked me out after six months because my dog sheds a ridiculous amount. Part Husky and part German Shepherd, she sheds year round, her short coat when it’s hot and her long coat when it’s cold (Texas only has two seasons, hot and cold.). They asked me to keep her outside all of the time, even when I was home and when I was asleep. But I sleep with Kalli in my bed. She lies on the couch next to me when I write. She loves me and trusts me, and all in all I’m more of a parent than an owner to her. I would no sooner leave my four-year-old child outside all day, and I flatly refused. So away I went, and I took my dog with me.

My parents had hoped that kicking me out would give me the spark I needed to find a job, as if my unemployment had come by choice rather than circumstance. My Bachelor of Arts in Great Texts of the Western Tradition, while being a great conversation starter (General response to hearing it is, “What?” Never “Huh?” always “What?”), looks worthless on a resume. I also listed the Baylor Interdisciplinary Core, which–despite how it’s sold to freshman–no one actually cares about outside of a collegiate environment. I had zero office skills, zero contacts worth pursuing, and zero prospects. Hence, I put my college degree to work at Starbucks.

Dallas is a tech city, and I am not a techie. While I’m fascinated with computers and video games to a point where I know computer languages simply to make me a better player, I couldn’t finish a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science at Baylor. Dallas has almost no art scene and actually no writing scene, and I stood out like a sore thumb among the resumes of my more technically proficient colleagues.

The one job interview I received was for a proofreading and copywriting position at a young health insurance company, and I misspelled guarantee in a sample they had me write on the spot. They caught it; they questioned my proofreading skills over it (fairly), and that was the end of the interview.

I went to Barnes and Noble and picked up a copy of The Chicago Manual of Style, The Associated Press Stylebook, and Concise Rules of APA Style. I was determined to find freelance work by cold contacting companies and just asking. They can’t reject you until you ask, after all.

I found two freelancing gigs through Gmail, Google.com’s email service. As one by one my cover letters to Dallas companies found their way back as rejections, the language used in the conversations prompted Google’s adbot to list a series of self-publication and editorial companies for amateur authors. A light went on in my head.

ProofreadNOW.com had taken me on staff because the owner, Phil, had a daughter attending Baylor when I contacted him. I told him that I had no proofreading experience and that I was still browsing the style guides I had bought with minimal understanding. He took me on anyway. After two months he fired me, saying that my proofreading skills weren’t par with their expectations.

A-1 Editing responded to my query with an editorial test. I completed the reading section with some light proofreading and editorial queries, and apparently my effort pleased the owner, Nicole. She sent the first manuscript about a month afterwards. I worked on it slowly and carefully, attempting to maintain my good first impression. I returned the manuscript to her on deadline and promptly received another.

Nicole wrote one of my letters of recommendation to Emerson, one of the few tokens of proof that I had some experience in publishing. My acceptance into the certificate program probably rested largely on her merit alone. She lifted me out of unemployment and creative stagnation, a shift in my life for which I’ll never quite be able to repay her.

All I had to show for one year out of college in Texas was Starbucks and two freelancing gigs, one a failure and the other a success. My parents had kicked me out of their house. I couldn’t afford to move out of Steve’s parents’ house because my Starbucks wages only covered my credit card minimums, car payments, and student loans, not all of which had come out of their grace period yet. Unemployed, broke, and homeless with my dog in tow, I could’ve stayed.

I still can’t explain how I fit all of my most important possessions in my little two-door 2000 Honda Accord. I knew how to break the computer chair down with hex keys, but even in its component parts the base of the chair, a five-point plastic star with a wheel on each leg, never quite fit anywhere. I ended up shoving it into the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. Kalli took the passenger seat herself, eyeing the base distrustfully. Three heavy, book-filled boxes took the back seat and rested on a comforter and a few bedspreads to protect the leather. In the trunk, my computer (but not a monitor) sat next to the space heater and my one bag of clothes.

The whole time I packed, alone over the boxes and still more alone carting the heavy items to the car, I kept asking myself how it was going to work. How could I, broke and alone and afraid, make it to Boston? I had $700 to my name, which included my last check from Starbucks (Stephanie had gotten corporate to print it early so that I wouldn’t have to have them send it to me later on.). How could the next few days of my life play out successfully? How would fate find yet one more way to bring me back to Plano, dejected and frustrated?

I determined that while I wasn’t sure about a single moment in the rest of my life, I was sure as hell gonna head to Boston and find out.

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Author: Greg Freed

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