In 1977 I took a job at a local bookstore. The store was a beloved local landmark, the owners were related to more famous media personalities. The job, however, was awful. Hours that felt like days dragged on between the occasional live customer. The customers tended to ask if we “had that book, you know the one that’s been on TV?” The career employees/lifers at the store squabbled constantly about nothing. Four ancient “jazz” tapes played over and over.
Worst of all was the incredibly stupid rule that, no matter how dead the store, we were forbidden to ever ever READ the books.
One day a woman came by and applied to work there. She seemed nice, so I told her the “right” answers to the questions on the application and she got the job. So, then there were two of us who hated working there. After a few months I wandered down the street and got a job at a hippie health-food cafe. Another local landmark which, like the bookstore, has been gone for a few years. But, anyway, my friend from the bookstore also moved down the street, and we both worked at the restaurant.
We stayed in touch through several decades of my going to school, her going to school, my moving and then moving back, her moving to New York City, my getting married and raising a couple of kids, her involvements with men, theatre, costuming, and the academic life. But now — alas!! I don’t know where she is.
Consider this a virtual milkbox. Have you seen this woman?
Brina, where are you?? Whatcha up to, kiddo?