Category Archives: Scenes From Adulthood

(Uh-Oh) Notes on the Friend Zone

I keep seeing posts on Facebook and tumblr from intelligent women that I respect rebuking the term “friendzone.” That is, the abstract social place where a person (usually male) ends up when trying to date someone. Most notably the animosity is directed at men who supposedly pretend to be “Nice Guys ™” as a means of obtaining sex from the woman, and that they don’t actually care about them. Then when the friendzoning happens, they abandon the friendship, because they supposedly never actually cared to begin with. But it seems like every person who is mildly upset at being rejected is all getting lumped into one category by these blog posts.

This whole thing has brought some mild horror in my life. It has forced me to face the fact that the behavior of these so-called “nice guys” is some horrible bullshit and to also face the fact that I have definitely definitely definitely been there, more than once. Facing this fact has made me go over events in my life, retrace my steps, as it were, to see if I have wronged any friends by doing this. But it’s also made me think a lot about the backlash against the term itself, and helped me identify a few points I disagree with, or want to bring attention to. (more on that later)

First, let me do what most Nice Guys of my generation love to do, which is to talk about themselves. I am from a small town in the Midwest, one of those where everyone knows each other, where being friendly and generous and selfless is a virtue, and where everyone cares about being liked. I was raised to be nice to my family, be nice to my friends, be nice to strangers. Everyone I know from back home is the same way. However, I was also in that town’s underground punk scene. Me and my friends did not feel like we fit in, that a lot of the jocks and farm kids were stupid, and we all wanted to get out. I consumed progressive writers and thinkers, I listened to Ani Difranco, Liz Phair, and radical punk band, Propagandhi. These were my heros in early adulthood and why I identified as feminist at 16. After high school I went to college at a liberal arts school in a hippie college town and found a group of friends who taught me that gender is a construct, sex can be casual, and that we should try to do whatever we can to subvert patriarchy and oppression of women and people of color.

That being said, I was never the alpha male of any group I was in. And I would get crushes on everyone. If you had a butch haircut and armpit hair, I wanted to make you mixtapes with Alkaline Trio on them to show you how much I cared. I thought aggressive men were the worst and I never wanted to be that. I did not date much in high school or college; I was just in love with everyone from afar, would ask people out sometimes, and get turned down most times. The sexual experiences I had included brief makeouts that I was afraid and resistant to advance into a more sexual territory, even when the girl said explicitly she wanted to. This happened multiple times. I was afraid of regretting losing my virginity with someone I was not in a relationship with, but would eventually come to regret not losing it the first time someone asked me. I think my life would have been better and my development would have been different. Let’s blame a sexually repressed society on that one (I also blame myself).

Fast forward to after college. I was working at Target in a new town, and talking to strangers was hard again. I was not meeting new people that understood where I was coming from and confidence and assertiveness continued to be an issue. Just like when I had started college, I spent a lot of time being alone and it made me appreciate solitude and independence. I missed my friends like crazy, but it was all an important lesson in learning to love myself and being happy being alone. I gathered enough confidence to learn that it was not me, it was them, and moved to Chicago where I knew people would get my pop culture references and weird sense of humor.

Fast forward a few months; making friends was hard again, and romantic partners even harder. I started dating on Craigslist, (some of whom are still friends to this day) but I did not find any substantial relationships. This was the point where I went the longest I had ever gone without even kissing someone, and was starting to get depressed about it. This new girl (whose name I am withholding for her protection) started working in my office. She had yellow hair, a sunny disposition, and was really nice to me. She laughed at my jokes and would have these lilting cadences to her sighs that drew me in and made me feel like I was the only person in the room. For her birthday I left a six pack of her favorite diet soda on her desk as well as a mix CD with The Bird & The Bee on it.  Basically I was doing all of the things described in every characterization of the nice-guy handbook; doing favors, trying to win affection through generosity, and just giving random attention.

I was convinced something was going to happen; I was interpreting her polite attention as green lights. She invited me to this art show in her neighborhood, where different galleries and businesses showcase local artists. It was a really great event and at the time I really enjoyed seeing a new part of Chicago. But nothing happened after that. I can’t remember if I would invite her to things and she would just say no, or what. I just know that I never explicitly asked her out, because I did not want work to be awkward. But it was already bad enough, because despite not being in a relationship with this person, and despite the fact that she clearly wasn’t interested that way, I continued to grow more and more infatuated until I was in an unhealthy way, thinking about her all the time, and depressed. A song that became my mantra was “I Don’t Want To Get Over You” by The Magnetic Fields, which still reminds me of her to this day.

Let me be clear; I am really grossed out by who I was during that time. I am sure I was not fun to be around, and probably confused her immensely with my behavior. In an effort to get her out of my system, I would try to avoid speaking to her altogether. All the nice guy things I had been doing like bringing her soda and talking about her day, that was all gone. She had never done anything actually wrong; she just didn’t want to date me, and probably could tell that I liked her and didn’t want to give me the wrong idea by hanging out with me. I was too afraid to friend her on facebook or ask for her number. Serious confidence issues here. Probably still have them.

But, so, anyway. At the time I also did feel like she had done something wrong. I felt like she had lead me on, just by being nice to me and paying attention to me. I don’t think that now, mind you. But at the time, I was like UGH WHY IS SHE DOING THIS TO ME?? I can also recall a specific gchat conversation I had about her with my friend Lillian who is a brilliant make-up and costume designer in New York. I can remember saying something to the effect of “I was really proud of myself for liking someone who seems unconventionally attractive, like she should appreciate that I did that” and Lillian totally and completely called me out for believing I was entitled to this woman just because I noticed her. That is fucked up and I still hate myself for being on my side of that conversation. But yeah, I totally perceived actions she took as making me like her so that she could use me to do things for her. I could not name what those things are at this point, because I think she probably didn’t actually do that. Gradually I got her out of my system and, as things go, she moved to a different office and it stopped even being a thing. She is married now. And I started to more aggressively pursue online-dating. Met people after that. Moved on.

Getting back to friendzoning for a moment. After that time, when I had a healthy-enough distance from it, I wrote a short story about the experience. The narrator was a pathetic, non-self-aware spineless person, who at the end of the story confesses his love for the girl based on the aforementioned co-worker, which I never did. She explains that she likes men who aren’t quite such milquetoast wetblankets, and he settles for the next woman that will have him, much like the fate of Cameron Frye in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, a Nice Guy™ if ever there were one. The story was supposed to characterize him as weak, and was supposed to exorcise the demon of that time in my life.

But, so, in that story I used the term “friendzone” and described it as a non-geographical location my protagonist would often end up. (I thought I had made it up, in much the same way that my dad thought he invented stick people and the way my sister at age six recorded a version of the Everly Brothers song “Dream” into a tape recorder, and all the words were “Dreeeeam, dream dream dream dream dreeeeeeam, dream dream dream dream dreeeeeeam” at which point she declared “Here’s a song I wrote!”) And I started to use it in my own life as well, as a shorthand for being rejected or dumped. When my friend Emily said she no longer wanted to make out / stop seeing each other, I texted my friend Sean a one word message that just said: “friendzoned.” to let him know. When my friend Katie seemed like she wanted to date me and invited me to hang out, I brought Sean along to “friendzone” her / let her know it was not a date.

Yes, all of this is stupid. Yes, all of this is deeply insecure / passive-aggressive / indirect way of doing emotional work. But I guess my point is, the way that men are using friendzone now, and the way that the women I like and respect are describing it, is not really the way I was using it. Yes, I was using it to describe the basic act of rejecting someone you don’t want to date, but I never did it with all of the fucking vitriol that the Nice Guys of OKCupid use it, and their paramours. I would use it lightheartedly to my friends as a means of coping with the rejection. It was a way to not take it so fucking hard. “Oh, it’s OK, I’m in the friendzone, so I will move on.”

And I am hard-pressed to think of a friendship of mine that did not recover from it. Let me repeat that: Basically every person who rejected me, I ended up staying friends with. Because it’s just what you do. You get fucking over it. I think these men that are described on all of these blog posts, you are finding them at a deeply insecure moment of their lives, a very pained snapshot of what they are going through presently. What will probably happen, if they are not a shitty person, is they will get over the so-called “friendzoning” and you’ll probably get to a place where you can be civil and eventually friends.

So let’s redefine the rubric that we’re working with, can we? Here are some points I want to convey so that we are on a plane more based in reality than hyperbole.

-You are totally right. All of this is bullshit and you are correct in lamenting it. Because it is insecure bullshit and every aspect of it is still feeding into the patriarchy and keeping people apart and in big ways keeping sex this taboo thing that is up on a pedestal and keeping everyone down. The fact that the moderator of the Nice Guys of OKCupid blog gets fucking death threats and violent messages with references to rape tells us that there is still something severely wrong here.

-That being said: Most of the dudes who are extremely embittered about you just wanting to be their friend, are likely to feel that way only because it has already happened a whole bunch of times before. They probably already have a lot of platonic friendships and an active social support network and are specifically looking for a partner, not a friend. They are doing it wrong and they hate themselves for it or are oblivious and are lashing out. Is it their fault? Yes. Is it because they are probably unappealing as a partner? Sure. Is it OK that they are a giant whiney asshole about it? Of course not. Will they get over it? Probably. And you might even be friends afterward. Should you forgive them (from a safe distance, once they grow out of it and demonstrate a pattern of stability)? Yes, if you are trying to be a good person. If you are not trying to be a good person, then you should not expect anyone else to be a good person on your behalf.

-If a dude is especially crazy afterwards, you probably shouldn’t want his friendship anyway, and should not mourn the loss of that friendship.

-If a dude claims to be a nice guy but espouses patriarchal or misogynistic viewpoints, he is not a nice person, and is not worthy of your friendship or partnership. But not everyone who has confidence issues or is bad at finding a partner is sexist, and I want you to know that. Is the act of putting a potential girlfriend on a super high pedestal that no non-fictional human can reach part of a sexist and patriarchal culture? Definitely. But I would like for actual good people to not be lumped in with the so-called nice guys just because they are better at friending than girlfriending.

-If a dude wants to date you, but doesn’t know how to ask, and so is instead building a friendship with you as you get to know each other, it is probably not the case that he is only after sex. If he is actually hurt by it, it probably is the case that he put some amount of emotional investment into the hope that it will work out between the two of you, and is upset and disappointed that he failed and has to find someone else. I don’t think it’s as simple as him “trying to put kindness coins into you trying to get sex to fall out.” This is an analogy that seems to be repeated verbatim in every blog post on this topic, and it was really funny the first time I read it, but now it just sounds unfair and not accurately characterizing the situation, or is lumping in a bunch of different problems into one problem. But it’s just reductive and unoriginal, made worse by the fact that everyone who blogs about this topic just seems to be cutting and pasting that single line from each other, that one metaphor, so that they all have snarky snappy writing. And they also add fedoras to them. Like that is somehow an automatic indicator of a spineless friendzoney vaguely rapey guy, that all of the nice guys are also kind of rapey (but they are not, you guys!). Do pathetic white males who are still benefiting from a system where they will continue to succeed in every other way deserve much defending? No. But at least identify what the actual problem is and call out the correct people on that problem. Or if you’re going to write a blog post about this topic, don’t use someone else’s zinger. Just write a different zinger. Another common thing in these posts is the blogger informing the reader that the friend zone “isn’t real” / “isn’t a real thing/place.” I submit that no one actually believes that it is a real thing or place, and that we all stop talking to each other like we are stupid and not all equals.

OK but so, this is not supposed to be me telling feminist bloggers how to feminist blog. Blog how you’re gonna blog. This is supposed to be addressing the issue of the sad friend-male. If this piece describes you, listen to me:

-Get over it. Get the fuck over it. Fucking get over it. She doesn’t like you. The last five didn’t. You’re doing something wrong. Accept it, be 100% OK with it, and find someone else. In the words of Dan Savage, every relationship you will ever have will fail. Every single relationship fails. Every one of them fails. They will all fail. Until one doesn’t. So fucking get ready for it, and fucking get over it.

-Are you seriously not going to be friends with someone just because they didn’t want to reciprocate your weird, shy, nervous, insecure and vaguely passive-aggressive advances? Did you think it was going to work out? See above. It wasn’t going to work out. It is not the most significant thing that you both like the same cancelled sit-com. Do you understand that the flipside of this is that now that person can’t trust you? And that it’s possible she already had a bunch of other guys do this same shit to her? And now she feels like dudes don’t actually want to be her friend, they just want to fuck her? And you helped perpetuate that? Do you really want to be that dude? Are you really not going to be emotionally supportive to her NOW after you did all that work of becoming her friend? Be her fucking friend, don’t be a fucking asshole. If you want to be a nice guy, be a fucking nice guy. Or better yet, don’t be a nice guy, be a good. person.

-If being yourself isn’t working, then you are not actually being yourself. If you are not being up front about what you actually want and what your actual desires are, you are being dishonest and you are not being yourself. If you have a lot of anger due to being friendzoned, do some therapy, and some jogging. Don’t be crass, just don’t be dishonest. Be tactful. Be tasteful. Be respectful. But don’t be dishonest.

-Stop trying to date people. This goes for both sexes. Stop perpetuating the mistaken perception that your identity and your existence is predicated upon or validated by who you are dating or how successful your dating life is. It doesn’t fucking matter. What your parents think doesn’t matter. What your friends think doesn’t matter. What movies think doesn’t matter. You don’t need a partner. You are fine on your own. And if you’re not fine on your own, why the fuck aren’t you fine on your own? Get fine on your own. Figure out what is missing (don’t say a girlfriend or boyfriend) and fix that part. Work on yourself. Love yourself. Do good. Be a good person. Be a good person unconditionally. Be selfless. Be selfish. Love yourself. Love your friends. Be happy without a partner. If something good comes along, be open to it. If nothing ever comes, be prepared to be happy without. Go without.

The tail-end of the personal aspect of this piece is this: I upped my online-dating game, went on a series of awkward and unsuccsesful internet dates, eventually met a nice girl at a thing I volunteer for. I did all the same friendy things I had been doing my whole life. I put her on a giant pedestal. Eventually it came out that we liked each other. So my normal tactic totally 100% worked. We dated for a year. We would have long conversations about tradition and why neither of us made the first move. We would have fights about social interactions. We would fight in public. We were both different from who we were when we were politely courting each other. We changed into different people. We broke up. Now I don’t idealize that quirky romantic comedy. It is a fantasy. It is John Hughes. It is John Cusack. It is not real life. I idealize independence, solitude, loving myself and being a good person. Right now I am at a point where I would much rather be alone than be in some shitty failing relationship. I am not on the lookout for that. My position is, I am getting what I need from my friendships, and the random occasional one-off hookups that sometimes happen. I crave being alone but am open for the thing that will make me change my mind. Anything less than that, I am not interested. And you shouldn’t be either. Hold out for the really really good one, and love your solitude in the meantime. Hold on to your friendships. You will need them. And when I get a crush on a co-worker or a friend, I brace myself for the possibility that it’s going to fail. Because so does everything. Get the fuck over it.


A thing that is true about me is I get particularly annoyed when people have an irrational competitive positive team-spirit attitude about the city or state or country they are from. So part of me wants to identify this Chicago winter we are now knee deep in as specifically worse than in other regions of the country. But that isn’t true. There are other places that have it worse. But it is my tendency to do so.

I’m from Iowa. Growing up there, we talked endless shit about it. We hated the towns, the country, the geography, we hated the weather, the people, the economy.  We had no love.

But when I moved to Minnesota, and people would scoff at me for being from Iowa, (I would get the condolences of Minnesotan strangers when I told them where I was from) as if Minnesota is better… I wasn’t expecting that. My attitude could best be described as, I can say what I want about my brother, but don’t YOU say anything about my brother. Also, their arguments against Iowa weren’t valid. It was stuff like, “Ya’ll fish in the ditches, don’t ya, cuz ya’ll are stupid,” and “Ya’ll don’t drive so fast, huh.” Minnesota is geographically identical to Iowa.

But it made me appreciate Iowa more. We don’t give a fuck where you’re from. We’re gonna be nice to you or silently judge you. We don’t have this forced bullshit love of our hometowns that other places seem to have. We don’t sing our school fight song when we get together. That’s not a thing that happens. What does happen is we will visit our hometowns or our college towns or places we liked once, find the one thing we liked about it, and hold onto and savor that one thing until the juices have been sucked dry. And then we will mourn the loss.

When I moved to Chicago, they didn’t have the same attitude toward Iowa that Minnesota has. And no one is really from Chicago, anyway. If they’re not from the suburbs, they’re from other states and don’t care about Iowa anyway. It’s just another place that fills in the blank of “where are you from?” when making small talk at parties. There’s not a competition.

Though there was this attitude of “Don’t you love it here? Isn’t it totally awesome here?” which wasn’t really how I was feeling then. I didn’t know anyone or know my way around and I was sort of just waiting to start sticking basically. So any enthusiasm I had for it at first was forced. Though, obviously, since being here I have created nodes and different niches and found things I loved and began to surround myself with those things. And it’s gotten to the point where I can’t realistically imagine moving anywhere else. It would be a great sacrifice. It has everything I could ever need.

But where I wanted to go with this is… Chicago winters are goddamn cold. They are not more cold than your winters. But goddamn. It’s cold. And my tiny apartment is doing this thing where the ceiling area will be really hot, and I will be sweating on top and have to remove a layer. But my feet are fucking freezing. Like. They are in pain because they are cold. And if you touch the floor, you will need to get up and wrap yourself in a blanket.

Which is oddly enough also how my microwave is. I will cook something and part of it will be burnt to a crisp, black and splitting, and then another part will still be cold. And there’s nothing I can do.

Anyway. Just an observation.

Portrait of a Thumb

I wrote this story some time ago, in 2006, when I was living in Rochester, MN and working at Super Target. It is one of the first stories I wrote after graduating college with intent to publish. I submitted it to Glimmer Train’s short fiction contest. I paid my $15 entrance fee and was either rejected or ignored.

I read it aloud a few weeks ago for the Two With Water reading series at Beauty Bar in Chicago. The theme of the night was “B(u)y Product.”

Portrait of a Thumb
By Bobby Evers
    Rose’s legs hurt. It was age settling in. Annoyed, she tossed her purchases on the dusty conveyer belt; some fruit and bras, pads, batteries for Maria, as well as other varied household items. She was careful not to let her things spill across the hard plastic dividing line into the belongings of the people ahead of her. The beeping of the pricing guns was like the maddening song of robotic birds, chirping out of time. And of course, not a clock in sight. That was to make you shop longer. Tsk. They make you sleepy with their siren song, showering you in sky-high shelves decorated with beautiful labels, and then you lose all track of time. “I must have this!” you say. Then you get home and nothing works exactly to your liking, and everything is just a collection of small disappointments.
     Rose remembered the great package of dog food on the bottom of her cart.
    “Excuse me… sir?” she said, getting the attention of the boy at the cash register. He was a young thing, shaggy hair, bangs in his face. He looked up from his menial work, pulling groceries across a tiny laser, and looked Rose in the eye. “Is there a way you could scan this dog food without me lifting the thing onto the counter?”
    “Yeah, I’ll zap it at the end.” He said it quietly, almost to himself. He was focused on the task at hand, assisting the young couple ahead of her. Not focused. Bored, maybe. In a daze. It was at that moment that something in his face struck Rose. Dammit, if he wasn’t a beautiful young man; a strong jaw, a rigid brow. He had dark eyes, red underneath like a soldier that hadn’t slept since Christmas. And his hands. What large man’s hands this young thing had. How old was he? Twenty? Definitely older than Maria. Maria was fifteen. Maria probably didn’t know who he was. Certainly out of high school. He probably had this job to pay his bills. Rose remembered those days. He was probably an artist, or a sculptor. A musician. Yes, you get blisters from playing guitar strings. She’d heard that somewhere and it sounded true.
    Suddenly it was her turn and the boy made a grab for the pads. She watched him, watched him closely to see how he reacted. Not a flinch. In all her years Rose had never met a man that acted so maturely toward pads. It caught her breath in her throat how he just pinched them like they were nothing. He wasn’t afraid at all. The most natural thing in the world. She’d tried surrounding her husband with boxes upon boxes of tampons, bulk packages of pads. But he never quite adjusted to it. Tampax, Kotex, Always. She tried sending him to the store to pick some up and he somehow always always always forgot. As if a tiny part of him believed it was an imaginary thing he could pretend never existed. And here this man-boy was treating them like just another product.
    Fixing her eyes on his nametag pinned to his red smock, she learned his name was Jay. Oh, Jay. The lemons spilled and rolled across the scanner. Jay fumbled for them, using his forearm to attempt to catch them before they landed on the dirty tile floor. He succeeded. His expression never broke from a stern and affixed gaze. Punching some numbers clumsily on his keypad, he gently put them in the white plastic sack and resumed the mindless scanning. More and more, the scanning continued, pulling, grabbing, tossing. His work was endless. Always, she watched his fingers, dancing across her products like the bones in her body. The way he bent her new red dress with his wrist was the same way he would touch the small of her back when they tangoed. He was quick, but surprisingly gentle.
    Was he a clumsy lover? She wondered about his kisses. Would he plant them on her neck, on her collar bone? Could he look her in the face when he made love to her? Could he make her soar into the tall sunrise like an angel on fire? Or would he balk at the notion of their union? Would he hesitate by the blueprint of her design? She reflected on the two of them standing in checkout lane seven. What were they if not two hearts beating in a great beautiful world of consumerism, pumping blood into a network of complicated machinery?
    Yes, Jay, scan my water softener salt pellets. Ring it up, Sweety, ring it all the way up. You innocent thing, you delicious peach. She wanted to bite his skin. What was it about him she found so endearing, so familiar? He was young enough to be her son, but old enough to give her what she was missing. I could seduce you. I could have you. My bed could be a nest to you, and I could put my legs around you like an egg and I would sit there ‘til you came out of your shell, a beautiful thing I gave to the world. And what a satisfied smile I would have! To give the world something so special.
    Jay scanned her bras next, and with expert fluidity, with meticulous fingers, he removed them from their small plastic hangers. Some transparent, some white, he pulled them all off like he knew his way around a bra. He palmed the lacy cups with one artisan’s hand as the fingers of his other undid bra after bra, as if to undress her, tossing hanger after hanger into the noisy abyss under his counter. She watched him closely.
    It was then that she noticed he was sweating. There! In the mat of his sideburns!
    Of course! Of course she remembered who he reminded her of. Why, it was a face she hadn’t thought of in years, and hadn’t seen in twice that long. When she was Maria’s age Rose spent the summer with her aunt in Guanajuato. It was a summer of horseback riding and mountain climbing. Rose took scores and scores of photographs of the scenery, of the Mexican sunset, and every person she met. She ate a lot of hot food and learned impossible things. There was a village boy that always came up to see her there and they tried to learn the other’s language.
    “Rosa,” he would say. His name was Alejandro and he was a few years older. “¿Cómo se dice ‘bella’ en ingles?”
    He was the boy who taught her how to tongue kiss and had hands just like Jay’s that he knew how to use. The boys of Mexico. It had been so long. How dramatic, always throwing around words like ‘love.’ These romantic notions of passion and idolizations of women that were nothing more than successful ways of getting her into bed. And all she wanted was one picture of Alejandro that she took on the last night she ever saw him. She got off the plane and the very first thing she did was developed the photos. Every picture was a beautiful panoramic keepsake of mountainous countryside. But the only one she wanted was obscured by the bright roundness of her own fifteen-year-old thumb. It was the one physical artifact that remained of Alejandro, ruined. It cracked her chest open. Briefly, she considered removing the thumb as a punishment to herself.
    “Don’t forget the dog food,” she told Jay, hips on hands.
    “Oh, yeah.” He picked up a black plastic pricing gun attached to a curly telephone cord. He looked down past her waist and thighs toward the bottom of the cart. Rose leaned down to adjust the bag so that the barcode was in plain view, as plain as the view down her blouse. She never took her eyes off Jay. Want me, she thought. And yes. She saw him look.
    She paid him. And just like that, the transaction was over. Jay slammed the register closed, rattling the change in it. He tore off her receipt and forced it on her like a goodbye note and told her to have a nice day. It was so abrupt and so strange that she was surprised it had come from him. So impersonal. Drained, she left with a sigh. She had to pick up Maria soon from school. Next year Maria could drive herself. Soon she would be cast off into a thankless world of regret and mediocrity and it broke Rose’s heart to think about the men who would enter Maria’s life, unable to ever be exactly what she needed. Oh well, she decided. No use punishing herself for that.

Thank You For Your Time

The following piece was read on 6/30/2010 at Uncommon Ground as part of “The First Time” reading series put on by CHIRP Radio.  

It is 2002. I am 19 years old. I have just completed my first year of college and am home for summer vacation. Incidentally, this is the last summer I will ever spend at home, savoring my summers in Iowa City, where I will spend the next few years, taking summer classes, working at the library, and forging the closest friendships I will ever know.

But this summer, the summer of 2002, is an important one. It is the summer of my first car, my first job, and my first taste of an imagined freedom.

     I write about it diligently in my online diary.

     “May 22, 2002, dad keeps hassling me about a job so i went into this telemarketing place in town, Frank n Magid. It’s like a research place, I call people and ask them their opinions, so it’s not like I’m trying to sell anything.” The office is as you imagine it, rows of tables with dividers to create the semblance of cubicles. People wearing dead faces and headsets all talking at once.

     On my first day I write “It was awfully boring, and I sat next to this guy Vick Davis, that looked like Willie Nelson, who decorated his cubicle with rolled up pieces of paper. I mean, every inch was covered like a white bamboo hut. And it was funny because they told us to end all of our conversations, good or bad, with “Thank You For Your Time.” I wrote it over and over on my notebook. It will become my new mantra. “thankyouforyourtime. thankyouforyourtime. thankyouforyourtime.”

     “Also… in the guidebook… Frank N Magid will frequently refer to itself as the company. “Frank N Magid Associates, (herein known as the company) has the authorization to fire you if you do not meet the requirements of the company. The company appreciates your time as an employee and the company trusts you can meet up to the company’s standards.” I wonder if “Company” is the name of some god that has its own set of dogmatic principles and if violated, “termination” will occur.”

     The way my summer unfolds is as follows: wake up around 11, make a frozen pizza, drive to work, buy a gallon of apple juice, go into work around 1, make phone calls asking people their preferences on various media outlets all the while drinking the apple juice, around 5 eat brownbag bologna sandwiches. Get off work around 9, drive to my friend Tanya and Melanie’s house, stay up really late listening to Sleater-Kinney and The Alkaline Trio and play Egyptian Rat Screw and pray for some kind of summer fling with someone. Anyone. Anyone at all. I sleep on their couch a lot. At home I’ve become something of a ghost, only stopping to eat, shower, change my clothes, and use the internet. I never see them and when I do we fight.

     Some days they let us out of work early. Some days the server goes down and we stand in the dark. I like those days.

     On May 31st I write “Today was almost a full day of work.

It isn’t nearly as horrible as Betsy made it sound. I just feel kind of winded sometimes because I do nothing all day long. I push buttons and talk to people. It’s just a matter of saying the right thing and pushing the right button.”

     With a job like this, though, the only part worth mentioning is the completely deranged people that I talk to. “One lady said to me after I asked her if the oldest male were available, “Why did you ask me that? You have put us in a very awful position, because you have inquired as to who lives here.”

     And one old lady told me exactly where she lived after I asked what county she was in. She told me her apartment number, the name of her apartment, what floor she lived on, and what building to look out for, and where it was in relation to that building. I thanked her for her time and ended it right away. If I had asked, for example, if she would subscribe to the paper if it were $20 instead of $40 she probably would have given me her social security and credit card numbers.

On June 13 I write: “today I started a survey and asked this lady “We are asking opinions of your every day activities. Are you speaking from your residence?” Her exact words were:

“Let me tell you about my opinions of one activity. It’s about talking to people… that ask a lot of questions… i don’t want to answer. But you have a wonderful voice. Get a good job. Have a good night.”

It isn’t always funny, however. Since we are calling during the day we reach a lot of people who are out of work for reasons that run the gamut of ones expectations. Usually kids on summer break, housewives, or in this case, elderly or disabled people.

On June 28 I write “At work today we had a survey for a medical service out of Alaska called carewise. i guess basically you get shit in the mail and then you can call this nurse and she will help you or something.”

(I guess I should also explain here, that the reason I am so ignorant about what I am actually doing is because that is how they keep us. We are just given scripts to read, we know nothing about what the actual service is. So people will sometimes have questions about other things relating to the service and we have no idea what they are talking about, because it is literally just a different script every week. We know nothing about our actual clients. They keep us in the dark)

“So basically…we called a lot of old people. One man told me his wife had been using carewise because she had MS. But he lost her on april 15. I wonder how she would have answered this question: “How would you rate your satisfaction with the carewise service?

Very Satisfied




Very Dissatisfied.

A lot of times I’d get places that the people didn’t even live there anymore. But this wasn’t random-dialing. the list of people we had was specific because it was given to us directly from the company so we had to ask for specific names. After i asked one guy when a good time to call Enid back would be, he told me

“Well she just suffered a very terrible stroke, so i’m not sure when she’ll be out of the hospital.”

There is an entire week of this.”

On July Third I write about one of my more pretentious interviews. “The strangest thing happened to me at work today. i was on the phone with this woman and she was all about taking the survey.  all this fucking media shit that took literally a half hour to get through, but she seemed quite interested. she told me she had two kids and that including herself there were two adults. And I had to ask her “How often do you watch Comedy Shows such as Friends or Everybody loves Raymond.”

She said she didn’t watch them as much these days because they seem to be going downhill.

I told her I agreed with her, that their writing seems really weak these days.

And she said, “Yes, and this is just between you and me, but i wrote them a letter.”

“You did??”

“I did, it said that Hollywood has plenty of talent, but they are starving for good writing”

And I said “Its funny you mention that because I am hoping to one day be a writer, to write scripts, probably not for sitcoms, but perhaps for films”

(Also I’d like to note, who is it that she wrote this letter to? She just says I wrote them a letter. WHO??)

“She told me that she is in “the business” and that she could probably show some of my stuff to people she knows. And that she knows a scout that goes through the country and she could let me know when they come through my area.

She gave me her address. That is against the law. She told me to send her my stuff. She was going to see what she could do.

She told me that she was lying when she said she had two children. She was actually talking about her cat and dog. and she told me she wasn’t actually married and hoped i could forgive her for fibbing about the children, but that she was being stalked on the phone and just had to make sure but i sounded so honest, so innocent, so genuine that she knew for sure she could trust me with this information. and she wanted more information about me, like she made me repeat my name . and she told me there was a famous actor named jason evers from a few years back that I wouldn’t remember because I’m too young.

She had that same kind of sound in her voice I’ve heard in people who actually know me and believe in my talent and my abilities as a human that wants to create. And when I told her that was all the questions I had, she said, “God Bless you Bobby Evers!!!” and that was that.

And I had to give more surveys after that and none of them were as good and none of them made me feel as uplifted as she had. she had made me feel like when I said my own name to people I gave surveys to that they should sound impressed “OH! ! How ARE you?” 

     The truth is I will never write this person, I will never think of this person again, and I will not save this person’s contact information. I will not network. I will not meet with a scout. I will not write for television. I will leave work tonight and I will go to tanya’s and melanie’s and play cards and listen to the Misfits. And laugh. I will laugh the deep belly laughs of summer and get lost in lingering gazes that linger in seconds of twos and threes. I will want more. I will quit this job and go back to college. My car will die within six months and I will get another car. And I will lose touch with all the friends I see this summer.  And when I think of this time in the future I will remember it as not the greatest time but as a time that is so specific and different from every other time in my life that it deserves it’s own file folder in the annals of my history. A summer I could not repeat. A summer I wish I could repeat. Thank you for your time.

Salad Days

Yes, the pained expression I wear in the elevator is for you and your McDonald’s french fries as I make my way up with my salad. It’s all I can do to restrain myself from pushing the emergency stop and ripping them from your fingers.

Today I was eating an apple for breakfast and I bit down on the inside of my mouth hard enough to draw blood. Then I got some of my mouth blood on my pants.

This Is The Life (3.6.2010)

Two significant things that are happening in my life right now are the following

1. I am house-sitting an expensive condo in downtown Chicago.

2. I am living alone for the first time in my life.

Dividing my time between two apartments no one else can enter allows me to do things I wasn’t previously able to do: shower with the door open, narrate aloud 100% of my inner monologue, contemplate without interruption what it would be like to die alone.

This last one especially has been on my mind a lot as of late. I tend to make a lot of food when I make food and I tend to take giant bites and swallow really fast. I tend to eat while watching sitcoms. I tend to breathe regularly. This could be a dangerous combination. I also stand on chairs a lot and can be clumsy at times with things that are made of glass. And I’m not quite sure I would notice if gas or carbon monoxide was leaking.

My sister and her husband are driving down from Minnesota to visit me this weekend. What if I died right now? What if I bled out on the toilet and didn’t go in to work? What if they were triyng to get a hold of me and came all the way down without confirming? They would probably call my office or try to get a hold of my friend Sean. Sean would probably say that he also hasn’t heard from me, sorry, but he could give me the address of the apartment I am house sitting.  They might not be able to enter without the people I’m housesitting for, but they are in Argentina.  Then they would theoretically call the police and send them over. Maybe they would find me there on the bathroom floor. What pieces of evidence would they use to figure out what happened?

They would find a lot of chat windows open.

At 9:08pm, my friend Kristi told me to via gchat to watch the video for “You Stole” by Brand New. They would find it open. At 8:45 I had a phone conversation with my sister asking if I should find a sub for my radioshift while she is in town. At 9:01, I told a fellow DJ not to worry about subbing for me, that it would be OK. Presumably time of death would be placed at 9:10pm, and an autopsy would have to be conducted to determine cause of death, but it doesn’t look drug related.

I imagine I will die by a seizure or brain hemmorage, or possibly choking on something, while I am alone in my apartment.

Maybe I should set up some kind of emergency system.