My father is a much harder worker than I. Had it been him sitting across from Marie this morning, had it been him who got to answer her question, “How will you balance auditions and shifts?” He would have said “I will make it happen.” He may have told Marie that she was his priority. And I suppose this has nothing at all to do with work ethic, though, to be sure, my father is a much harder worker than I. But no, I suppose it has more to do with the ability to bullshit. I look at Marie, I look into her aging french eyes and take in easy sunlight that falls through her french window. She is greeted by friends from Bel Air during the interview and has a very warm, large, french heart. It is apparent. There is no question, she is french. She would prefer I be french, and If Im unable to be french, she would prefer that I learn to be. Ah, Marie, you are a wonderful woman. Because you called me a wonderful man. You looked into my eyes which were brown and open and you saw yourself as a younger woman, wishing you could help me. But you run a business Marie, I am not the corkscrew you would like unearthing your sweet Pinot, your rich chocolate and your fresh baguettes. You do not want me, who has dreams beyond your roof, to become a bitter painting on your wall, collecting dust with each costumer that gazes upon it. You wish for loyalty Marie, you wish for longevity. And I want that for you too. I can not look at your french hair and tell it plainly that I will not leave it. I will Marie, despite your patrons tips, despite your language, despite your beautiful morning atmosphere, I will leave. I will leave when I get a call from the hyenas that wait silently in the tunnels of Beverly Hills. When they call on me and say, “it is time, howl like the wind,” I must, Marie. I must howl and wail and yell all I can so that the world may hear me and whisper back a sweet nothing, settling my cosmic dust into oblivion, into an oblivious footprint. You look into my eyes Marie and you know that this is not the place for me. You see my longing, not original to the world but genuine to myself. You know that I must fly. I must pack my ego and my academy award screeners into a Chrome bag and I must board the private jet of my soul. Take off and landing you have already foreseen, Marie. You know me so well. You knew me before we ever met. You’ll know me long after we never meet again. I will not be working for you Marie but you will be my friend, and I yours. Had it been my father though, Marie. You may have hired him. He may have been able to convince you that he needs this job, that he will make you his priority, and you will hire him and he will pay the rent. I will wallow away in broke enlightenment with my words and my emotions and my thoughts. I will snuggle with them. I will take them to the bank, and I will deposit them with a squirt gun. Do you understand, Marie? Of course you do. Of course you do. You see my emotions like the ripples of a quaint rock into a deepening lake. You stare at my emotions and you ask them, “Do not hide?” You ask my emotion what its favorite color is and it tells you Purple. And you believe it is. My father may say Orange, or Blue. But I am purple Marie. And my emotion agrees to no end. You see Marie, you cannot reason with emotions. You cannot look emotion dead in the eye and ask it, “Why do you do the things you do?” It will not answer you. You cannot say, “emotion, please, think about your actions.” Emotion doesn’t think, it stares into your glass cube snow globe eyes and grabs you by the spine in the softest grip you’ve ever felt. It rips out your entire warbling vocal chord and hangs it on display. You view it daily, one commercial before each view. My father would never click the link that says, “You are the millionth viewer, you have won money, click this now to redeem prize.” He would simply click the x and continue about his day. I would think about it, and think about it, and think about it, long after I clicked the x. I would say to it, if only you were true, like my emotion, like Marie, like the baguette. If only you knew me. If only you’d hire me. If only I’d hire myself. If only the hyenas would come out of hibernation and dazzle me with a growl and clenched teeth. If only I was you, Marie. I would be french and I would not be concerned with dreams, with kiwi fruit accolades. I would merely stare into a young mans brown open eyes and say, “you are a wonderful young man, and I see that you have dreams and I respect you, and I understand you, but I cannot hire you. You understand?” Of course I do Marie, of course I do. I am a mere garçon at your doorstep, not a Gaston. OH BELLE! Oh well. The world still turns, never sitting still. Sip with me the wine of today Marie, you are enchanting in a rosemary decadence and I will remember you. I will remember you, Marie. My father will remember you too, in a dream, perchance, and all that.