I once was voted "Most Likely to Succeed". Yep, 14 of my 24 fellow 8th graders at Cornville Elementary School thought that I, Devan Cook, was gonna be somebody. My teachers believed in me, too. Well, most of them. Mrs. Nelson, my kindergarten teacher, called up my mother one time to express concern about my learning abilities. She thought that I might need to be sent to the school where "special" kids go, as I was having difficulty cutting with scissors. This was when Mrs. Nelson learned I was left handed, unlike the pair she had tried to shove into my non-dominant paw.
Kindergarten teachers aside, the opinion was unanimous: I was gonna be the biggest claim to fame Cornville School had since Deborah Walley (best known for playing Gidget in the film Gidget Goes Hawaiian) directed our Christmas play.
In my head I can still see my picture in the yearbook with the "Most Likely To" caption under it. Next to my pic was one of Tawnya Armstrong. She was voted "Best Eyes". I sigh aloud with the memory as I take the trash out at work, which gets caught on the edge of dumpster, ripping the bag open and spilling coffee grounds and egg yolks down my shirt.
***
ME: Congratulations on winning the election Barack!
BARACK OBAMA: Thank You. Devan, I want to tell you something.
ME: Sure, what's that?
BARACK OBAMA: I'm in love with you. I'm leaving my wife and I want you to be my first lady. [Barack leans in for the kiss…] ---
"KARMA- KARMA- KARMA- KARMA CHAMELEON!!!!"
What the --?!?! I sit straight up in bed as my alarm clock radio blares Culture Club, and abruptly ends my sexy dream. It's 5:05 a.m. on a Monday. Time to go make cupcakes.
I step out into the cold, dark world, onto the silent street. Why the hell do I have to work at such an ungodly hour? Who needs cupcakes at 9 a.m. anyway? Why can't we open at noon? I put my iPod on shuffle and the first song to come on is "Custom Concern" by Modest Mouse. A sad guitar riff plays while Isaac Brock wails:
"I get up just about noon/ my head sends a message for me to reach for my shoes/ and then walk/ gotta go to work! gotta go to work!/ gotta have a job!"
Oh, what does he know about being a slave to the daily grind? I think bitterly to myself. He's probably at his mansion right now fast asleep between his silk sheets.
I was gonna be a rock star. I was going to travel the world, playing sold out shows in Thailand for fans who don't speak English, but still know every lyric by heart.
***
The week drags on, work and school, school and work, until at last it's Friday. The weekend is about to begin, and I couldn't be happier. I get off work, go home, do some dishes, watch about eight straight hours of an "America's Next Top Model" marathon, and fall asleep. When I wake up again, it's Monday.
***
I'm not sure how I came to be stuck in the monotony that is the working class. Perhaps it started in high school, when I was forced to get a job and help pay bills while my classmates were smoking pot in the cars their parents bought them. Even then, I still felt there was light at the end of the tunnel. I was certain that at any moment Wes Anderson would walk into the restaurant I dishwashed at, see me scraping plates in my brown plastic apron, and immediately rush over and say I was just the girl he was looking for to star in his next film. Five years, and six crappy jobs later, he still hasn't shown up.
***
Ring Ring! Ring! B-r-r-r-iiing!! My cell phone light is flashing on my desk, next to the blank white piece of paper that is supposed to be my essay. Please let it be Oprah, please, please… I had written her a letter a few weeks back, saying I thought she would make a good president, oh, and my phone number in case she wanted to make a donation towards my college education. I cross my fingers and pick up the phone.
"Is this Devan?" a woman's voice asks.
Oh my god, it is Oprah!
"Yes, that's me."
"This is Shelley calling to let you know that you have been pre-approved for a lower mortgage payment plan!"
"I don't own a house" I say.
She hangs up without even saying goodbye.
***
Looking for jobs on Craigslist is quite possibly one of the top 5 most depressing ways one can spend their spare time. Hmm… let's see, which crappy job do I want to replace my current crappy job with?
Wanted: Full time janitor for homeless shelter. Minimum wage, graveyard shifts only. Gloves not included. Employee must sign waiver agreeing they will not file lawsuit if pricked with dirty needles.
***
Back at the cupcake sweatshop, a middle-aged woman who's holding a Chihuahua and smells like she took a bath in Chanel 5 is screaming at me. She is very upset because she wanted teal frosting. Clearly the frosting I used was turquoise. What am I, colorblind?
Evil Woman: I demand a refund!
Me: You can have your money back, but I'm sorry, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about your face. I suggest calling a plastic surgeon.
-or-
Evil Woman: I demand a refund!
Me: I'm sorry, I can't hear you, can you lean in closer and say that again? [BAM! Punches her in face].
"I demand a refund!" the woman says. I nod, and give her back the $20. I apologize for my mistake, and she snatches the cash out of my hand and walks out.
***
Tawnya "Best Eyes" Armstrong informs me on Facebook that the Cornville Elementary School Class of 2000-- the 8th grade class that had once bet on my success-- is getting together for a "reunion". The film Romi and Michelle's High School Reunion immediately pops into my head. What will I tell them? I invented the iPhone? I'm Uma Thurman's stunt double? I married that guy from survivor?
My head is filled with all the potential lies I could feed my old classmates.
I've got four months to develop a convincing story, so I'll worry about that
later. For now, I've got an essay to write and 3 hours 'til it's due. Then I
gotta go to work.
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