Page 586 - WhyAsInY

Why (as in yaverbaum)
(false) bravado I came to the dining room table, where Kathy, Peter, Dan, Dave, and, I believe, Rachel were seated and removed my cravat with a flourish, saying, stupidly, “You’ve heard of tie-dye; well, this is die tie!”— had a feeling of relief attached to it but a deep feeling of concern as well. I had not sought a new position while I was still at Coronet, so I knew that I would be in need of a position for at least a while. I also knew that the economy—the real estate economy, in particular—was in the tank. I was not, therefore, optimistic that there would be any real work for me out there. And work was not just about money; it was about keeping myself intellectually engaged and having my pride remain intact.
The next fourteen months or so, those starting with January 1991, are yet another blur. I’m told, but I don’t specifically recall, that I could be found virtually every day seated in the library at the desk and com- puter, and wearing jeans and, of all things, a red sweatshirt. With the exception of some walks with Joel, some events that passed as inter- views, and, obviously, my time with Kathy, I have no real recall of the time, other than that my daytime audience consisted for the most part of Daniel, David, Peter, Francis, sometimes Moussika, and always Gus.
Of course, I do recall that I was seated at the desk. Where else would I be creating resumes, writing cover letters, learning how to get the printer to address an envelope (an art form, not to mention a major waste of paper during the very frustrating learning phase), and pursuing my now less-than-enjoyable habit of tracking income and expenses? I also recall that I kept a journal for a while, one that, you will be pleased to note, got lost years later on the purchase of a new computer—or per- haps I just trashed it because it covered a period that was far from one of my favorites.
Those months did permit me to get closer with the three boys and to teach Dan and Dave my two basic rules, but they comprise a period best forgotten. Best forgotten, that is, until I got the phone call.
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