You want to matter in the world. It matters to you to matter. Yes. You’ll figure out how later, maybe. Sadly, though, in the morning, you won’t remember this; just as well since it’s not a suitable paper topic anyway.
Climbing down from the bunk the next morning, you find that your left wrist has swollen to the size of your face, and you are certain you can see it throbbing like something’s in there trying to get out. At student health they ask a bunch of questions for which you don’t have answers. Nothing new. They X-ray your hand; there’s a small fracture. For about two seconds you think that this could be a consequence of having been drunk and stoned, before blaming it on getting the short straw on the top bunk.
— That is really interesting, Mom.
— I always thought I could have been a writer.
—. .
— What?
— That’s not exactly what I meant.
— What did you mean, then?
— It’s just. . plausible.
— You should give me more credit.
— You should give me what I already have.
— I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.
— Let’s just move on.
— You move on.
Entry
You graduate from GW in December, a semester late, because of the drinking and not going to class sometimes. It’s almost remarkable that it’s only one semester, but you pulled it together when you were on the verge of flunking out — drank only on weekends after that, which helped improve your grades, anyway. Junior year you switched your major from English to broadcasting, when you realized it was the only major that would get you out of school before 1992. Not that you have any big ideas about what to do with this degree. You don’t even have any small ones. You might like to be a newscaster, if it didn’t require hair spray and a suit. The truth is, all you really want right now is a job where you don’t have to wear a suit. I try to tell you that you have to at least have one suit for interviews. Why should I spend money I don’t have on a suit I’m never going to wear? It’s an investment. That’s not what an investment is, Mom. An investment is when you expect or hope to get more money back than you put in. Don’t be smart with me. Everyone needs a suit sometime, Betsy. I don’t want to need a suit. I’ll take you to Jersey to the outlet malls, my treat. You always want to treat me to things you think I need, never what I really need. You’re twenty-two years old. You don’t know what you need.
You move back into your old room at home with us even though this is not ideal for anyone. Our apartment hasn’t gotten any bigger in the last four years. After a few weeks you land an entry-level job at CBS News; unfortunately, they put you on the graveyard shift. One night, during your three a.m. lunch break, one of the local weathermen sits down next to you in the commissary, asks if you mind having some company. You tell him you don’t mind at all; the weatherman is super cute, even though it’s hard to tell with the suit and the combed hair and the moustache, which you are way not into. It’s 1984. Didn’t people stop having moustaches about five years ago? You’re not really up-to-date on weatherman style; maybe this is überhip on the weather scene. The commissary is a bleak landscape at three in the morning. The room has no windows, dropped ceilings, and fluorescent lights; it’s like a grade school cafeteria without the noise, which would be a welcome relief from the odd, steamy silence. The only other person here is a janitor eating some pudding on the other side of the room. Roger McMenamee, the weatherman says. You say Hi, Betsy Crane, yeah, you do the weather, right? I do, but at 3:25 a.m. I’m sort of the tree falling in the forest of weathermen. You smile. So. . if you talk about the weather, is that like, work? Exactly. Esoteric subjects are wide open, though. Oh good. I was hoping to talk Derrida tonight. He laughs and asks what you did to get yourself on the late shift. I guess I graduated from college with no previous work experience? He nods. Oh, that’s good. You have a chance of getting out then. You aren’t really sure what he’s talking about. I drank my way onto overnights. You smile, assume he’s joking. You are not yet at the point where you might talk about your own drinking mistakes. Everyone drinks in college. When you do talk about your drinking mistakes, it’s with a certain amount of pride. That time you and your friends got lost on the Beltway back to DC after a house party in Arlington and mistook the Peruvian embassy for your dorm is still hilarious to you, even though it was not hilarious at all to the Peruvian diplomats, who nearly had you taken away by the cops. Roger the weatherman has a curious smile on his face as you tell him this story, nods in a way that you can’t totally break apart, and you’re usually good at reading people. He asks what department you’re in; you tell him you’re sending facsimiles in the traffic department, ask if he knows what a facsimile is. He laughs, says he knows what the word means. You say Well, it’s like sending a letter over the telephone very slowly. He thanks you for educating him, you tell him you didn’t know until you got there that traffic wasn’t traffic, like car traffic; he laughs again, finds you charming. Would you like to dine together again, perhaps somewhere with fewer mayonnaise-based choices? You say Sure, I’d love to.
Dinner with Roger the weatherman is surprisingly fun. He’s funny. You are big into funny. So did you study. . weather in college? It’s called meteorology, Roger says. But no. He tells you he didn’t go to college at all, that he was a comic before he was a weatherman. No kidding? Actually, all kidding. Okay, I gave you that one. So. . how did you get into weather then? Believe it or not, I was recruited, he says. They found me at a comedy club, where I also happened to be bussing tables, and when they told me what the salary was I told them I had always wanted to be a weatherman. I used to bus tables! you say. I knew we were soul mates, Roger says. He’s kidding, but he’s flirting-kidding, and it’s fun.
The waitress comes to take your drink order. You ask for a vodka and soda. Roger says he’ll just have the soda. You try to hide your disappointment that he’s making you drink alone, but he gets it. Trust me, you don’t want me to drink. I don’t? Well, maybe you do. Are you into drooling and public nudity? Not so much, you say. Yeah, not too many women are. He said “women.” Weird. Also, my employers didn’t care for it so much. They gave me a choice between overnights and nothing. So you just quit? Well, the network sent me to rehab last summer, that helped. They sent you to fix up a house? Roger looks as confused as you do, takes him a beat to realize you don’t know what he means by “rehab.” No, rehab, like, a facility, a place people go to dry out. I’ve been sober for seven months now. Wow, you say. What do people say to this? “Congratulations”? That seems weird. “Hey, congrats on. . the most boring existence possible?” Definitely weird. Huh, you say. So, you like, never drink? That’s what sober means, yeah. Huh.
You’re not quite sure how you and Roger are going to move past this, but he changes the subject and you manage to pace yourself over dinner so you hopefully don’t look as buzzed as you are. Roger’s not an idiot; he’s counted how many you’ve had — four, to be exact — and yes, you did sit there for a good hour longer than most dinners because it’s been so fun, but he definitely knows you’re buzzed. He also really likes you. Which tonight means he puts you in a taxi and kisses you on the cheek.