Career Advice

A vociferous New Yorker came by the cart this afternoon as we were preparing sausage for a family who were visiting the city. He told the family a portion of his life story, then he told my co-worker Juliet a portion of his life story. Juliet reciprocated by telling him her life story.

This fellow was going about the neighborhood, saying his goodbyes—he was moving to Cleveland the next day. He told us when he lived in the West Village in the 80s, the neighborhood was full of crack and tranny hookers. Then he talked to the tourist family some more, about a good many things: the improv class he took a few years ago, the quality of cupcakes at Magnolia, the amiable homeless man he was friendly with and the noisy homeless man he used to rap on the head from his apartment window…

At last the family moved on. Our new friend moved on to us, discussing everything under the sun. He was a nice guy, but very manic; he took a lot of energy. He was a creative director and he was moving to Cleveland to, oh, I dunno—direct Cleveland creatively.

After ordering a beef sausage with ketchup, he asked us what we did. I told him I was a food writer. “What, like restaurant reviews and stuff?” he said (this is what everyone says.”

“No,” I said, “I develop, test, and edit recipes.” I would have elaborated, perhaps, but he didn’t give me a chance.

“No, no, that’s all wrong. Listen to me, I give great advice—just yesterday I got this interior decorator a great job.” He filled us in on his brilliant breakthrough with this woman’s career, and then he told me he’d do the same for me. “It’ll change your life, but I gotta make a deal—give me a bottle of water.”

I considered it for a second. “I’ll sell one to your for a dollar, and I’ll pay for the other half myself with this tip you kindly gave me a minute ago.”

“No,” he said, “you gotta give me a free water.”

“Then it’s off,” I said. “I can’t give water away. It’s against the rules.”

“Whatever suits you,” he said, “but you’ll regret it.” He stayed another ten minutes, talking and talking—Juliet was delighting in this guy—and then he left. It was like a long exhale as he stepped away.

I wonder what he would have said to me. Maybe it would have been helpful, but what does he know about my career? He knew that I’m a writer working at a sausage cart, which is maybe enough. But he does not know anything about me, who I am, what I really want to do, any of my background in cooking or writing. People are so quick to tell you how to fix everything right up. When talky know-it-alls come around, I usually stay mum and let them get their kicks. Probably they think I’m some demure, shy nerd. But maybe one of these days I’ll speak up. I should have told that guy his life would be totally great and different and amazing if he’d shut up every now and then.

After they guy left, Juliet mentioned how he reminded her of Neal Cassady/Dean Moriarty—she’s reading On The Road at the moment—but I disagreed. Sure, he had the same unbridled energy and loudmouth lust for life and attention, but this guy was a successful creative director, not some drunk freezing train tracks in Mexico. In any case, I think Neal would have drove me nuts, too. Dean Moriarty, he’s just a guy in a book—you can shut a book. People, you can’t shut.