The Flickr Image that inspired the story is "the bohemians" by Jo-H: https://www.flickr.com/photos/64725727@N06/23623713174/
“What do you mean you got fired again, Pete?”
“I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. Actually, I thought I was doing a rather good job this time.” I was a bit incredulous, after all. I signed the company contract agreeing not to use the computer for anything other than business, but I really didn’t think I was hurting anyone.
“Well, what were you doing online that pissed them off?” She asked. She picked up the spoon and started stirring the sauce again. The initial angry shock had passed and she was moving on to acceptance.
“I don’t know – just reading blogs and such. Checking out the headlines – you know, normal stuff. I wasn’t downloading porn or anything.”
“You know how companies are these days. You have to take that kind of thing more seriously, Pete. If they say don’t use the internet, then don’t use the fucking internet. Why is that hard for you?”
I grabbed a bottle of wine from the rack and took my time with the cork. My hands needed to be moving because I had no idea how to answer her question. I truly did not know why it was so hard for me to follow such rules. I had told my supervisor that I needed more work, that I was bored. She never gave me anymore work, so was I just supposed to sit there, twiddling my thumbs? It was a stupid goddamn reason to fire someone, but I couldn’t do anything about it. Besides, Paige was right – modern companies only wanted those who happily toed the line.
Paige accepted my silence as an answer. “Well,” she continued with a sigh, “any idea what you’re going to do now?”
“Uhm, sell the house?”
“Ha ha, really funny, Pete.”
“I’m serious. I already called our agent.”
“What the huge ball of great fucking fuck, Pete?” She yelled, slamming the spoon back down on the counter. Bits of sauce flew into the air. Micro particles of marinara and my pride stained the wall.
“Just hear me out,” I began, hands up in a whoa-horsey gesture.
“You can get another job! I can get a second job. We aren’t so destitute we have to sell our goddamn house!” She said, snatching the wine out of my hand and taking a pull straight from the bottle.
“Paige, you hate your job, and I know you don’t want a second one, fer chrissakes. Look, I saw a super sweet Airstream for sale over at that lot off Highway 59. Asking price isn’t too bad and it’s in good condition.”
“What, exactly, are you proposing here, bucko?” One hand was now propped on her hip while the other remained clamped on the bottle like it was a lifeline.
“We should sell the house. Then, we buy the Airstream and just travel around for a while.”
“Yeah? And what happens when we run out of money? It’s not like we can retire at age 36, you know.”
“You always wanted to paint. And I always wanted to be a writer. Why don’t we try to make a go of doing what we actually want to do instead of taking these crap ass jobs we hate? I would love not to pretty up another resume, not to kiss anyone’s fat office ass just to make a paycheck. And don’t act like YOU would miss being a secretary.”
“Receptionist.”
“What?”
“I’m a goddamn receptionist. ‘Secretary’ is derogatory.”
“Whatever, Paige. You know what the fuck I’m saying.”
Maybe she had a buzz now, or maybe I was making sense because she looked like she was deeply considering what I was suggesting. I took the bottle out of her hand and poured two glasses.
“What does the Airstream look like?” She asked, with a hint of resignation.
I showed her a picture I got from the internet, depicting the same model of Airstream with a sunset in the background.
“See,” I said. “Can’t you just picture us, out in the countryside somewhere, sipping wine while looking at this beautiful sky?”
“Well, kind of.”
“The thing is, honey, I absolutely believe we can make it work. I think we would enjoy being Bohemians for a while. We both have enough skills and education to find jobs when really need to, but doesn’t some part of you long for something more? Don’t you want to let go of everything and enjoy being alive for a while?”
“Of course, but…”
“But that’s just it! There is always going to be a ‘but’! Maybe I keep getting fired because I don’t truly give a shit about these jobs I’m supposed to have. I don’t really care how the company is doing, or how much profit my boss makes. And that fucked up office environment of so-and-so said this, and guess-who-brought-donuts-today idiocy. I’m telling you, honey, I’m just so over all that crap.”
“Pete, I hate it as much as you do, and you know that.”
“Then let’s do this! Let’s get that goddamn Airstream and take off like a silver bullet into a future we can actually get excited about!”
She began to smile. The rest of the night we drank wine and came up with all sorts of ways we could scrape by and live out of an Airstream. We even came up with some safety net ideas in case our dreams fell through. We had it all figured out, and we were so giddy with excitement over our new plan.
The next day, I woke up and saw Paige’s note on the counter. “Please do some laundry today? Love you!” it said. But I knew what it meant. It meant I was going to work on my resume again.
There is a piece of me that belongs in that Airstream, moving and exploring new possibilities every day. I crave the freedom and joy for living that I have not had since I was catching fireflies during summer break and pop-flies during baseball practice. Perhaps it’s just nostalgia. How does Paul Simon put it? “Why deny the obvious, child?” Yeah, I know what's obvious. I’m an adult and I have to adult things.