I ask now, laying the book on the table—the pocket edition is too thick for a pocket—and starting the long cleaning process. Maya’s small kitchen doesn’t have much counter space and to compensate she stacks dishes and puts them on the floor. She wants to leave them on the floor overnight but I can’t do that. I can’t sleep knowing mice are treating her kitchen like the fairground in Charlotte’s Web. I put a pile of salad plates into the sink.
“You know hustle,” she says, watching me with disapproval. It’s her house and her dinner party and there is no way she can let me clean up without feeling agitated. I use my thumb to scrape off dried cheese and Maya huffs angrily. My every action is like a rebuke. “Here—” she pushes me aside and puts on yellow rubber gloves “—let me do that.”
“I know hustler.”
Maya gives me a disgusted look and explains. “Since I no longer have an agent and quite possibly might never get a new one—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t even started loo—”
Maya interrupts with a dripping yellow hand. “Uh-uh. August 15,” she says.
Her comment is nonsensical and I stare at her for a second. “What?”
“Terms of reference, August 15.”
I find August 15 and read aloud. “Face reality.”
“Check,” she says. “The reality of the situation is that I don’t have an agent and there’s the very real possibility that I’ll never have an agent again. I’ve got to deal with that.” She squirts blue dishwashing liquid onto a sponge. “Actually, I did deal with it, four days ago. I’ve moved on to new challenges.”
“But, Maya, you’re going to get a new—”
“Buh!” she says, raising her hand like a traffic cop’s. “I’ll have none of that soul-destroying optimism in my house, only clear-eyed cynicism tempered with despair.”
“That sounds horrible,” I say, appalled.
My clear-eyed honesty earns me an annoyed look. “Vig, you’re my sponsor. Either support me in everything I do or let me find someone else.”
Neither option is acceptable, so I change the subject. “You were explaining hustle….”
“Yes, since I no longer have an agent and quite possibly might never get another one, I need to find a satisfactory backup career in case best-selling author doesn’t work out. I can’t copyedit all my life.”
Copyediting is one of those tedious jobs you’re glad someone else has to do, like data entry or toll collecting, and I’m not surprised that Maya wants to get out. Editors treat copy departments as though they are necessary evils that must be endured—like traffic on the way to your summer share—and I’m amazed that she’s lasted this long.
“What do you want to do?” I ask. This is the question I ask myself almost every morning when I wake up and the answer always escapes me. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, so I stay at Fashionista year after year hoping one day blinding inspiration will strike. Maya is different. She’s always known the answer and suddenly it doesn’t seem fair that she find a second dream before I find a first.
Maya shrugs. “I’m taking suggestions. I’m supposed to know by August 30, so please get your ideas in by the twenty-eighth at the latest.”
There is now a clean stack of dishes next to the sink along with bowls and serving utensils and I pick up a towel. I don’t know where anything goes, and I start opening and closing cabinets until I see something familiar.
“In the meantime,” she continues, “I want to try writing magazine articles. That’s where hustle comes in. I need to bemore proactive in pitching ideas. Waiting for you to become editor in chief and start assigning me stories doesn’t seem to be working.”
“I didn’t know you were so invested in my career,” I say, a green plastic colander in hand. I’m staring at the cabinets, trying to remember which one has the plastic bowls. This is like a
“You know hustle,” she says, watching me with disapproval. It’s her house and her dinner party and there is no way she can let me clean up without feeling agitated. I use my thumb to scrape off dried cheese and Maya huffs angrily. My every action is like a rebuke. “Here—” she pushes me aside and puts on yellow rubber gloves “—let me do that.”
“I know hustler.”
Maya gives me a disgusted look and explains. “Since I no longer have an agent and quite possibly might never get a new one—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t even started loo—”
Maya interrupts with a dripping yellow hand. “Uh-uh. August 15,” she says.
Her comment is nonsensical and I stare at her for a second. “What?”
“Terms of reference, August 15.”
I find August 15 and read aloud. “Face reality.”
“Check,” she says. “The reality of the situation is that I don’t have an agent and there’s the very real possibility that I’ll never have an agent again. I’ve got to deal with that.” She squirts blue dishwashing liquid onto a sponge. “Actually, I did deal with it, four days ago. I’ve moved on to new challenges.”
“But, Maya, you’re going to get a new—”
“Buh!” she says, raising her hand like a traffic cop’s. “I’ll have none of that soul-destroying optimism in my house, only clear-eyed cynicism tempered with despair.”
“That sounds horrible,” I say, appalled.
My clear-eyed honesty earns me an annoyed look. “Vig, you’re my sponsor. Either support me in everything I do or let me find someone else.”
Neither option is acceptable, so I change the subject. “You were explaining hustle….”
“Yes, since I no longer have an agent and quite possibly might never get another one, I need to find a satisfactory backup career in case best-selling author doesn’t work out. I can’t copyedit all my life.”
Copyediting is one of those tedious jobs you’re glad someone else has to do, like data entry or toll collecting, and I’m not surprised that Maya wants to get out. Editors treat copy departments as though they are necessary evils that must be endured—like traffic on the way to your summer share—and I’m amazed that she’s lasted this long.
“What do you want to do?” I ask. This is the question I ask myself almost every morning when I wake up and the answer always escapes me. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, so I stay at Fashionista year after year hoping one day blinding inspiration will strike. Maya is different. She’s always known the answer and suddenly it doesn’t seem fair that she find a second dream before I find a first.
Maya shrugs. “I’m taking suggestions. I’m supposed to know by August 30, so please get your ideas in by the twenty-eighth at the latest.”
There is now a clean stack of dishes next to the sink along with bowls and serving utensils and I pick up a towel. I don’t know where anything goes, and I start opening and closing cabinets until I see something familiar.
“In the meantime,” she continues, “I want to try writing magazine articles. That’s where hustle comes in. I need to bemore proactive in pitching ideas. Waiting for you to become editor in chief and start assigning me stories doesn’t seem to be working.”
“I didn’t know you were so invested in my career,” I say, a green plastic colander in hand. I’m staring at the cabinets, trying to remember which one has the plastic bowls. This is like a
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