One
The Intolerable Lightness of
Being Silly

If I had been a rational human being, I would have had a normal job and I never would have gotten involved with any of them. But I was not a rational human being. I was and remain a square peg in a round world.

You would think that a girl with a degree from a Fancy University would have been hired muy rápido by some big corporation anxious to ladle on numerous perks and a generous salary. Sadly, my F.U. education did not lead me directly into wealth and fame. All my attempts to become a worthwhile cog in the capitalist machine were met with rejection, the type that has driven many other creative souls to despair and Great Art.

Here are the results of my attempts. No response at all from the many newspapers that should have been interested in a columnist who focused on bargain gardens. A soul-killing stint at an ad agency that concluded when the art director read my sardonic copy for fortified wine. A happy stretch writing a newsletter for a nutritional supplements company that ended abruptly when the FDA raided our warehouse. Miscellaneous temporary jobs, each more wretchedly depressing than its predecessor. Also two entry-level marketing jobs terminated after "improprieties," which were not my fault.

Okay, my mother Regina would have said that they were my fault. My mother Regina thought that anyone with breasts as vulgar as my own induced otherwise upstanding citizens to behave badly. My mother Regina had neat, tasteful chichis. When she bothered to look at me, an expression of dismay almost came over her immaculately made-up face. "Almost," because medical procedures rendered her incapable of normal facial expressions.

My mother Regina believed my father had wasted his hard-earned cash sending me to F.U. because I was not a serious person. My mother Regina thought thusly because I always referred to her as "my mother Regina" and because I had not dedicated myself wholeheartedly to the reformation and improvement of my garish carcass. "You have wasted your father's money," she said, ignoring the fact that I had worked, taken out loans, and earned scholarships in order to attend F.U.

I now lived in a windowless basement flat of a nice house in a nice neighborhood of the City. My rent was low because I maintained the garden and my landlord found my bosom enchanting. While he never exactly said, "I am captivated by your enchanting bosom," he did stare a lot and that's practically the same thing. The dark flat had a cement floor, a dinky bathroom, and a gloomy kitchenette. At night, I heard scrabbling in the walls, which, I suspected, was caused by fearsome Norway rats.

My income was earned by toiling as a reading consultant to executives and society dames who were book club averse. I garnered extra cash by filling in at a local nursery. My jobs were irregular, sometimes taking only ten hours of my week and other times taking fifty, but I didn't mind. It was better than sitting in an office trying to keep my eyes from bleeding while copyediting training manuals.

I worked diligently on my novel every single possible second that was available after going out, thrift store shopping, spending quality time with my friends, and finding gyms that offered the first month free. In addition to this exhausting work/art/life regime, I tried to improve the world by writing letters to political leaders about Important Issues. I wasn't picky about the issues. The world was full of pain and injustice, and writing the letters helped me keep proper perspective.

My friend Nancy had come up with the reading consultant idea because she knew how much I liked recommending books to friends. She had given me business cards on lovely ecru stock with "Bennett" hyphenated to my last name. Underneath was "Reading Consultant," with my phone number.

"Why the Bennett hyphenate?" I had asked.

"Like Eliza Bennett, you have a fine posterior," she had said. Nancy had been my F.U. roommate freshman year. Despite her unfortunate WASPier-than-thou perkiness, we had become friends.

"Eliza had fine eyes, not a fine fanny, you cultural barbarian. You never even finished Pride and Prejudice. I wrote that paper for you."

"And now I am showing my tremendous appreciation for your scholarship. Also this gives you credibility with Anglophile aspirants, my little brown amiga." This is how we talked to each other. We thought being silly was the height of delightfulness.

Speaking of which, my name was outlandish enough without the Bennett hyphenate, but I took the cards and thanked her.

I filled my days, but there were times when I awoke in the middle of the night, listened to the scratching in the walls, and felt afraid and lonely. I missed rooming with Nancy and hearing her gentle snoring at night. Nancy did not miss me; she had moved into her boyfriend Todd's condo and was a happy camper.

People can be divided into two distinct groups: those who desire constant companionship and those who prefer calm solitude. The unnecessary crowding in The Brady Bunch repelled me, but I longed for an Eliza Bennettish existence: a house filled with family and friends, the agreeable conversation of a kind and compassionate sister, and the promise of dances and engagements.

Instead I had my mother Regina, rats in the walls, and boyfriends who were like beach reads, momentary fun but nothing you'd ever bother to buy in hardcover. I worried that perhaps I, as a nonserious person, was only a beach read as well. I had just reread Middlemarch, and I had a deep and sincere desire to be a deep and sincere character.

Nancy had connected me with most of my reading clients, but one of my former beach reads, a Russian artist named Vladimir, introduced me to Kathleen Baker. Kathleen was one of the Bakers, known for their famous sourdough bread: "Did a Real Baker Make Your Sour Round?"

Kathleen was fiftyish and very chic. Like my other clients, Kathleen wanted me more for company than guidance. Sometimes she patted my head as if I was a pet and I half expected her to toss biscuits to me and say, "Good girl, catch!" I had to constantly steer the conversation back to her reading and remind her that we had a scholarly purpose.

In her enthusiasm for literature, Kathleen decided to host a reception for hot new writer Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon. She was absolutely thrilled when he accepted. I know because she said, "I am absolutely thrilled that Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon has accepted my invitation to hold a reception for him. Are you familiar with his work?"

In a word, yes. In three words, all too familiar. In a few more words, why wouldn't Sebastian B-W die, die, die a grisly and humiliating death? I pulled my lips into a simian grimace that I hoped Kathleen would interpret as a smile. I told her that we had met at F.U. "Marvelous!" she said. "Of course, you will be at my reception. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you again."

Copyright © 2006 by Marta Acosta.