"Yeah, it's only for nine weeks. I really need this money. I can do anything for nine weeks, right? ... I haven't really talked to Gustov yet, but he seems pretty rock star cliché ... " She sounds a little bitter. "His ego seems to project out in front of him. You know, you run into it before you even meet him. Honestly, he seems like a jackass ... Listen Jane, I need to grab something to eat before I dive into day two. Do me a favor and go outside today. Take a walk. Get some fresh air ... Okay. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
Well, that's unfortunate. I was kinda hoping I could ease into friendship or at least roll with the whole PA idea. You know, if you can't beat 'em join 'em? Yeah, that. I know I judged her hard, initially. It's just the whole idea of her as my PA that I don't like. My first impression of her rubbed me the wrong way, but I may as well not fight it. I mean, hell, I don't need another obstacle. Guess she's not open to friendship, though. She's right about one thing: I am a jackass lately. In my opinion, she's out of bounds with her "rock star cliché" assessment. I've always kinda prided myself on not being cliché.
After hearing her less-than-stellar characterization of me, I decide it's best if I slip out of the restaurant while she's ordering so we don't bump into each other.
I don't see Impatient until later that afternoon. I'm sitting in my bunk on the bus when she approaches. And I know it's immature, but I'm a little hurt by what I overheard her saying about me earlier and I've been stewing on it. And maybe a little mad at myself because I'm starting to question who I've turned into. I don't want to be a cliché. Whatever the reason, I don't even look at her when she starts talking. It's rude, but I can't help myself. She meets my evasiveness with a little of her own and stands facing away from me while she talks. Touché. Head turned slightly, she's side-eyeing me, but she's direct and to the point. The conversation goes something like this:
Scout: "You need to blah, blah, blah. And when you're done with that we need to go over blah, blah, blah."
Me: Ignore, but nod as if I'm listening.
Scout: Silence. My rudeness has been met with irritation. She's pissed and doesn't try to hide it. At least she doesn't embarrass herself and kiss my ass. She just flat out doesn't like me and has no qualms about it.
I'm discovering more and more that people in this business have no pride. They'll sacrifice morals, ethics, hell, even their own mother if it means getting ahead. It's fake. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants a piece of you. It disgusts me and warps my sense of reality. I'm almost happy this girl so blatantly doesn't like me. It restores my faith in humanity.
Sunday, April 23
(Scout)
I may not have many friends, but I try to give everyone a chance. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Probably because people have never really done the same for me. But lately, these past few months, my patience is shot. I make split second judgments on people and rarely go back on them. And they're usually negative. I've been around Gustov Hawthorne for a little over forty-eight hours now. He's an ass. My first impression was dead-on. I walked in on him trying to hit up the stylist. The fake, easy-going charm oozing out of him like some kind of toxic playmaking trap set for his next conquest. Men are pigs. Gustov may be one of their leaders. Not to mention that sobriety doesn't seem to be on his agenda for the next two months. He's going to live up to the "rock star" title if it kills him. And it just might. What a waste.
I'm here for the money. That's it. I've got a job to do. And I'm going to do it if it kills me, because I can't go back home. I can't. Okay to be fair, I'm here for two reasons: money and escape. Maybe leaning more toward escape, the opportune but temporary variety. I'm finishing up my two final online classes to graduate and get my degree next month. A degree and the money I make will hopefully allow me some permanent escape when this job is done. I know I'm running away from my problems. I know that. And I hate that. But being home reminds me of him. It makes me feel ugly inside. It makes me feel used. It makes me feel like a failure. And I hate failing at anything.
So, when I was offered this job very last minute, I jumped on it, even though it's not ideal. It boils down to the lesser of two evils. And this evil provides an exit from the other evil.
And so far, Gustov is fairly low maintenance—at least for me. I don't need his input for the majority of my daily tasks, and when we do need to communicate, I use a passive approach. Direct doesn't seem to work with him. I'm great at passive, and I prefer it; it's how I've lived most of my life. People respond better to me when I'm passive. And anyway, I don't think Gustov likes me either. That's fine. It's better this way. He's just a job. I'm here as a buffer between him and management because they don't want to deal with him. Honestly, I can't blame them. I want this job to be over with, but I've got this. That's my pep talk ... I've got this.
Nine fucking weeks.
God.
Fucking.
Help.
Me.
Wednesday, April 26
(Gus)
Scout is a big fan of sticky notes.
And she's kind of a smartass.
I just came back to the bus to grab my phone, because I forgot it. It's sitting on my bunk with a sticky note stuck to it that reads: You forgot your phone. Again. It was dead. It's charged now. You're welcome.
I can't decide if I love it or hate it.
Pretty sure I hate it, which is why I've resorted to equal opportunity sticky note torture. Two can play at this game.
I turn the note over and write on the back: I didn't forget it. It's a cranky bastard when it doesn't get time to snuggle in my bunk. It was napping, not dead. I drop the note on her bunk before I leave.
Thursday, April 27
(Scout)
It's been one week.
I've discovered that Gustov drinks a lot.
He drinks all day long.
I thought it was all part of the rock star act, but I get the feeling now it's how he gets through the day, like he needs an aid to deal with reality. At first, I didn't like him. Now that's coupled with feeling a little sorry for him. For the most part, I try to avoid him. When I can't, I tolerate him. Although, I have to admit his sticky note replies are pretty witty. He's kind of a smartass, which is fine because smartass is my second language.