Make Friday Jealous
It was Grey Goose Thursday at Denilson’s Restaurant. Arthur the aspiring editor sat slouched at the bar, looking down at his fifth vodka and tonic. He was vaguely aware of a buzz around him, people talking, watching a baseball game on one of the massive televisions over the bar. All those applications and nothing, he thought. He was almost 25. And what am I doing? He had a degree in Creative Writing. All through college he’d wanted to be a writer, but after two years of submissions and rejections, he’d given up. He took a sip of his drink. It still hurt.
He tried to rebrand himself as an editor. Sent his resume to every publisher he could think of. Three weeks later here he was, getting plastered on five dollar vodka in the restaurant he used to work at. He finished his drink and ordered another.
He recognized a few of the servers. Still here, after three years. Not that long of a time really. Some of them might still be in college. He missed college. The sense of purpose, the feeling that he had a future. Everything seems so pointless now. I guess it was pointless then, too, and I just didn’t realize it. He thought of the books, the feeling when he’d read Hamlet, Ulysses, Tender is the Night, The Sound and the Fury, Infinite Jest. He remembered comparing himself to those writers, trying to force some similar brilliance from himself, admitting failure, languishing in it, all of the hatred for himself. I probably wouldn’t have been happy anyway.
The night wore on, stars moving imperceptibly as the planet turned. In the restaurant liquor flowed in torrents while steak and salmon roasted on the grill to be served like glamorous sculptures on gleaming white plates.
In a dark car in the parking lot a woman screamed into her phone at her fiancé for two minutes before realizing that he had hung up on her. She dropped her head back against the head rest. What happened to us? She thought of the first two years, all of the firsts, the times he’d cooked for her, the cuddling, the sex, her ring. She sat motionless, eyes unfocused, trying to feel in love.
In the restaurant it was closing time. The dining room was silent, and even cocktail was mostly empty. In the kitchen the new dishwasher was placing frozen breadsticks on trays, looking ruefully at the ever growing pile of pots and pans in the dish pit. He scrubbed them, sent them through the machine, put them away uncertainly. He scrubbed out the giant vats, swept the floor. Miserable. In the office the manager leaned on his desk, waiting for the dishwasher to finish so he could go home. He noticed how excited he was to go on vacation and realized that he hated his job. In the back the dishwasher took apart the machine and got the manager. They both left, walking out miniscule beneath the uncaring stars.
Conor Foley is a native of St. Petersburg, Florida. He currently attends the University of South Florida, where he is earning Bachelor’s degrees in English and History