College RiffRaft

First Friday
6.29.07
2100

So. Here I am in Nowhere, Oregon. Wait, I didn’t check my sources on that. Roseburg. Roseburg,Oregon. I am working my first full-time, forty hour a week, ironically boring, teeth-pulling, job. I am also spending what could very well be the first weekend all by my lonesome. And, as it was recently pointed out to me by the omnipotent and cruel world, I am college rift-raft.

“Why, Rachel,” you might say, “you are eighteen years old and already becoming a college junior. You are working a full-time job that offers great security. You are the Miss Miss —vice president— of AdSociety. You have a 3.5 college GPA, the UO Women’s Center created a new position in order to accommodate your talents…” etc. But, my dear friends, consider this: I do not have a car. I ride a borrowed bicycle which operates as well as a sixty-five-year-old cutting fire line. I have no friends, and absolutely no social agenda. Essentially, nothing to do outside of work. I don’t have internet service, so I bum it where I can, like behind a wall of the Sleep Inn. There, while sitting on concrete ground, because the world is my comfy car seat, I was hit on by a self-proclaimed meth-head in his late forties.

Apparently he was just fired from his job, as a trucker, who did toot the horn when civilian drivers made the “toot toot” motion. But he had never been a bus driver. He is now burdened with a restraining order from his wife of eighteen years, even though he is not a violent person. He asked me where I live and what I do, which I tried to be vague about. And he instructed that if he was being too nosy I should just bitch-slap him. He wishes he had attended college, but instead moved to the crank capital of the United States, Roseburg. He was clean for a year and a half, but is now doing methamphetamines again. I didn’t throw in that, perhaps, this is why he was fired from his job. No, I couldn’t go grab a bite to eat because I had imaginary dinner reservations with friends who were still out in the field, who might save me from this meth-head, even though they weren’t real. And no, I wasn’t old enough to drink. Yes, you are old enough to be my father. Yes there is “more money” in Western Washington. And I am about done with this conversation. And I hope he doesn’t try to steal my really-nice computer. Good luck finding a new job. Oh dear lord, I am riff-raft.

I have $50 to live on before my first paycheck rolls in. I stole salt packets from the coffee shop where my Mac couldn’t connect to the Internet. You see, sitting on the ground outside of a third rate hotel was not my first plan. And, by the way, the bench was occupied. I am riff-raft. At the grocery store on Tuesday, I had to choose between olive oil and a spatula. In the end, I decided that I could turn my chicken with a fork, but for the pasta to taste good, I needed the oil. The next day I was invited to the Forest Leadership Team’s barbeque. Because my last name begins with the letter “H” I was requested to bring a salad. I have lettuce, but when I looked at it, I realized that I did not have the resources to bring said dinner item. So, hoping charm and improvisation would count for something, I brought my flute instead. Riff-Raft.