[Continued from Part 21. To read previous installments, type "wuz" into the search box at left.]

My right forearm was vibrating from the impact of the file cabinet and it was stinging at the point where it had hit the sharp edge of the cabinet's side. Cradling it against my chest, I staggered out Rob's office and across the hall to my desk.

I sat down and used my left hand to check my e-mail. After a few minutes, Rob walked in. He told me that he could have insisted I be fired, but he wasn't going to do so. I forget what his reason was, but I think it boiled down to his being a nice guy.

His words struck me as condescending, but I was coming down from the intensity of our confrontation, and I wanted to keep my job, so I thanked him.

Rob then stepped outside to buy some ice for my arm — a genuinely kind gesture that impressed me.

At the end of the day, Rob asked how was my arm. He was convinced that I must have fractured the bone.

I lifted my arm off the ice pack and tried it out. It actually felt fine.

Going home that night, waking up the next morning, I kept waiting for the bruising to start, the bone to get sore, or the muscle to reveal a tear. Nothing. There wasn't a single sign that anything had happened, other than a faint scratch where I'd hit the edge of the cabinet.

The lack of injury struck me as miraculous. There seemed to be no other explanation for it.

At night, I kept up my prayers — praying to be laid off from my job. D.D.'s abuse remained unbearable, and I couldn't take the thought of marketing the videos Rob wanted to sell. But I didn't want to quit, because — with little full-time job experience — I didn't want to have to tell a potential employer that I quit my last position.

My emotions were wedged between pained memory and a kind of hopeless hope. Every time I crossed Third Avenue to St. Mark's Place on my way to work, I would remember how that street had represented my youthful rebellion against societal mores — a rebellion that had never brought me deep or lasting happiness. Now, I was beginning to rebel against the rebellion — but I still found myself walking the same street, past the same stores and many of the same characters. If I couldn't find joy within bohemia, neither could I imagine finding joy — let alone an exciting job or even an interesting conversation partner — outside of it.

Labels: Wuz