Newark Review: Lisa Fitton

Lisa Fitton __________________________________________________________________________ LEARNING TO FLY __________________________________________________________________________

At first you are sure a better job is out there--something that would

utilize your creativity, your technical expertise, your incredible analytical

ability, and maybe--just maybe--even that terrific sense of humor. Armed with

your latest degree and an updated resume--printed on monogrammed Executive

Gray flecked linen--even your supervisor (AKA "the bitch") is jealous. And

why not? You are a gem.

So you finally quit that revolting position, unaware that six months

from now you would have been downsized out of it anyway. You are happy about

the prospects of sleeping in, taking a few days off, then starting anew.

You scan the classifieds and wonder why there are so many sales jobs.

But what does it matter? You are no salesperson. In fact, you are just the

opposite: prey. So in the beginning it is natural for you to fall for ads

like Vice President of Corporate Advertising, Director of Market Research and

Development, Executive Vice President of Directors and Vice Presidents. It

takes time before you realize that the companies never respond--it's like

sending your resume into the wind like a paper airplane.

You call your friends at their work numbers and antagonize them

because they are trapped in ghastly cubicles, wasting their minds away.

Meanwhile you, Joe Vacation, are rolling out of bed at 1:30 p.m., eating

stale donuts and American cheese for breakfast, and blasting your old Jane's

Addiction CD's at top volume. You convince yourself that life is good.

After spending a few weeks at home, you begin to memorize the sounds

of the day: someone's car alarm going off every six minutes; one of your

roommates trying to excavate the frying pan amidst all that clangs, shatters,

and explodes; that godforsaken kid next door, screaming at the top of his lungs

while you are trying to read an article about a six-year-old girl giving

birth to a pair of Siamese space Elvises.

You always have to go to the bathroom really bad when your roommates

are having sex in the shower. But you don't say anything for fear they will be

embarrassed if they knew that everyone in the entire hemisphere can hear

them. Instead you tighten your sphincter and decide you're going to get your

own place as soon as you get a job.

You scan the classifieds, stooping low enough to actually circle some

of the ads. You say, "Sure, I can answer a phone. I've been doing that all

my life."

You start going on interviews.

To you, every human resources person sounds like Ellie Mae. They all

say "openeen" instead of "opening," and "thank you" with a southern accent.

You wonder why, but instead you ask about benefits. They say, oh yes, there

are benefits. Having a job, for instance. The salary is ridiculous, of

course, but if you work really hard, seven days per week, for forty solid

years, they promise a comfortable retirement.

"Comfortable means dead," you say. "Right?" And for some reason,

the once happy-wappy individual on the other side of the desk, who you find

out has only been representing corporate America for a week and a half, does

not laugh.

You wonder why you don't even get a call back for that imposition--

you mean position. You contact the confused and misguided interviewer to

demand an explanation, only to have her admit what's beginning to sound like

a curse: You're bright, creative, and over-qualified.

So you revise your resume. You take out the part about graduating

high school. You misspell your name. You plunge your hand into a half-gallon

container of chocolate ice cream and smear it all over your cover letter.

You're sure this will help you find at least halfway decent employment.

You're not even nervous during interviews anymore. Instead you look

forward to meeting new people, honing your deception techniques, and simply

getting out of the house.

Every afternoon you check the mailbox, praying for rejection letters,

bills, life insurance offers, anything to depress you even more--so that when

your parents call, you can bitch to your heart's content. They will not even

accuse you of exaggerating. Nonetheless, you refuse their offer to wire

money because a) you are stubborn, and b) you like the attention. Plus, you

need a little anxiety--it makes your otherwise completely empty life seem

meaningful.

You open your mail:

    Security First Savings charges you ten-fifty because your checking
    account has dwindled below their ever rising latest minimum balance of
    35,000 dollars.

    Your ex sends you a birthday card. It only took him seven years to
    remember. You place the card on the television set so your roommates
    think you might have a sex life too.

Hmmm...an invitation to your high school reunion.

    You proceed to fill out the questionnaire from the reunion people.
They want to know what you've been doing lately.
    You have no idea come to think of it. After watching too many shows
about adult children of alcoholics, adult children of test-tube babies, and
adult children of people who speak French, you've come to the realization
that you are an adult child of parents, and cannot go on this way. You are
homesick. You are lonely. You have run out of fingernails to devour.
    You have been unemployed long enough to forget what month it is, and
your "reject" folder is bursting with newspaper clippings--jobs you didn't get;
jobs that never sent an acknowledgment; jobs you swear the government made up
and placed in the paper as a capitalist plot against those who claim, "There
are no jobs!"
    Your latest resume strategy, the body-heat activated, light-up
Manhattan skyline letterhead, was futile. So were the matching business
cards, the photo of you completely naked, the confetti....
    Your roommates come home from work and find you sprawled out on your
bedroom floor, crying hysterically, with a copy of The Right Stuff in your
hand. They have pot and suggest you smoke it with them. You wipe your eyes
with a dirty sock and say, "Okay, I guess."
    Later, you pick up the reunion questionnaire and start writing. But
it turns into a story about a paramecium caught in the crossfire of gang
violence.   Your roommates think it's funny. So you tell them that the shoe-
shaped ciliate was rabid and better off dead. They worry about you.
    You go for a walk in the park. A homeless man asks you for money.
His despair reminds you of your own. So much so that you give him your last
dollar and fifty cents. You figure, What the hell.
    You arrive at what used to be a thriving athletic field, sit in the
empty, deteriorating bleachers, and think about how small you really are.
You are a speck of dirt amidst a vast and endless sea of doom. You are
nothing. You are stupid. You are ugly. There is an ant crawling near your
foot. You squash it beyond recognition, sense a profound analogy, and cry--
just like you did on your first day of kindergarten, when your mother had to
carry you into the classroom and practically strap you to the chair.
    Five hours later, your hysterics are nearly exhausted. The
contractions are slowing down and your face is resting peacefully in the
mucus all over your hands. A deep calm pervades your being. You stand up,
ready to face the world again.
    On your way home, you run into two teenage boys who are pissed off
because the Mets lost. You ask, "And who won?" They say, "The Giants." You
say, "All right!"--even though you don't know a thing about basketball. You
really believe, however, that everything is going to be all right because you
suddenly remember your car, a 1973 Pinto with 428,000 miles on it--you can
sell it maybe! And your frequent flyer miles might earn you a free ticket!
    When you get home, your roommates notice that your face is covered
with slime.
    "It's not," you say, blending the two words so they sound like
"snot." And then you laugh. You laugh because you simply don't care anymore.
You laugh because you realize how funny life can be. You laugh because you
have no other choice.
    You complete the reunion questionnaire and make your reservations.
You are on flight #7, scheduled to depart at 7:07 on the seventh. You wonder
if there hasn't been some kind of mistake. But you figure they know what
they're doing. After all, they fly for a living--something you may one day
understand.

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