Excerpt of a Project
Out of the three shitty lights above the counter, the closest to the window flicks on and off repeatedly every time I flip the switch. Some nights the faulty wiring mimics the bass drum in a bossa nova song. Dum, dum. Rest, rest. Dum, dum Rest, rest. Dum, dum. Rest, rest. If I still had the old drum kit, I’d play in time with the light and record it until I had the drum track for my first hit song. That’d be a great story for The Tonight Show when I become an overnight sensation. But before I can finish that daydream, the drums in the lightbulb move to play a pattern reminiscent of a toddler sneaking into the kitchen cabinets their mother forgot to babyproof. They flit on and off like a cacophony of pots and pans falling from the shelf that the toddler just broke. If I had the time, I would take out the lightbulb from the ceiling entirely and hope nothing catches on fire. If I had the patience, I would call the landlord. But I don’t have the time to fix it, and I barely have the patience to wait for the coffee maker every morning.
Maybe I should just leave it forever. It will make a silly story for my memoir one day. I’ll title the chapter “Bossa Nova Beats,” and everyone will see how humble my beginnings were. My fans will tweet about how far I’ve come since this crappy post-graduation apartment. Oprah and I will talk about it in our “Great American” road trip podcast. We’ll be driving down a road full of trees, and the sun will flicker through the leaves onto the dashboard, and I’ll mention how it reminds me of the old flickering light in my first apartment. Oprah will say she remembers reading about it in my book. I’ll laugh and act bashful that THE Oprah Winfrey read my little memoir as if we aren’t on a road trip together. And then I’ll talk about how the day I moved out and left to live in Manhattan, I got on the counter and took the lightbulb with me. I’ll tell Oprah that’s why there’s a lightbulb on my mantel in between my first Oscar and my second Grammy. She’ll comment on how I’m one of the most humble celebrities she’s ever met. The New York Times will write a glowing review of our podcast and claim, “it’s like listening to two old friends who just met.” HBO will pick us up for an exclusive mini-series where we go on another road trip- in Europe this time- and we’ll meet up with other A-listers to draw in more viewers. Everyone will love listening and getting a look at my life and my blossoming friendship with Oprah Winfrey.
But until then, I have to sit and apply to jobs that are well beneath me while that light beats on and off. Too qualified for the crappy jobs, not experienced enough for the better jobs. There’s nothing else to do for now.