Where’s my luck? Where is my luck?
These are the thoughts filtering through my mind while I stand waiting as boiled water seeps through espresso grounds in a white paper filter set into a single-serving espresso-colored plastic cone.
Reckon that the propositioned 10 a.m. interview today ain’t gonna happen.
As of 9:15 as the coffee drips, after my two emails and a call, I’ve still not heard from the woman at the pet lodge who contacted me two days ago about an interview today. At 10. Or at 2!
Ten’s out of the question for the driving distance unless I can make the car fly. Hope to hear whether we’re on for 2 then.
My sister figured it out when she was young (in her 20’s).
She said she never wanted to be dependent on anyone for work (and survival). Her resolve was palpable. Aside from a short stretch when she was, she made her work autonomy happen and at an age when most are cutting their employment teeth. Her entrepreneurial spirit (and intense dislike of being told what to do) remarkably resemble our father’s.
While we, sister and I, are cut from similar cloth, our paths have been very different. That “I never want to be dependent on anyone for my work (and survival)” spoken in that quiet but cut-to-the-core direct manner that is my sister has stayed with me through the decades.
Here I am, unusually alert for a morning hour, thinking of the coffee and my sister and employment and my years swimming like a salmon against the river of others’ unresponsiveness and dropped balls, taken by forces greater than I, one fish, to peril at the base of a thunderous waterfall. The crashing water whitened and frothed by forces of speed, obstacles and gravity roars just behind my violently whipping tail, the liquid vibrations exploding in my salmon ears. The pull of tumbling descent is no less powerful than the moon’s command of the tides.
I am swimming with all my might – mightily – to survive; to not meet the fate of my amphibious brethren.
Will a net descend like a holy chalice from the heavens? Will the pulsating rapids quicken to turn just so, releasing me from their grip without favor or judgment into a pocket of subdued streaming and safety: disaster and death averted?
I know no answers, only the wait for a response (whose arrival would place it in the vast minority) from a woman at a pet lodge.
+ + +
The lime mug with the simplistic childlike sketch of a Christmas tree adorned with red and green ornaments and yellow stars with “Joyful Day” floating off to the side is filled with dark java paled by the splash of half-and-half.
I take it by its tree-shaped handle and return to the laptop on the bed in my room. No way can the 10 a.m. interview happen. New emails have downloaded themselves into the box. I click one, awaited. “See you at 2!”