The History of Great Things by Elizabeth Crane Page A

“women.” Weird. Also, my employers didn’t care for it so much. They gave me a choice between overnights and nothing. So you just quit? Well, the network sent me to rehab last summer, that helped. They sent you to fix up a house? Roger looks as confused as you do, takes him a beat to realize you don’t know what he means by “rehab.” No, rehab, like, a facility, a place people go to dry out. I’ve been sober for seven months now. Wow , you say . What do people say to this? “Congratulations”? That seems weird. “Hey, congrats on . . . the most boring existence possible?” Definitely weird. Huh , you say. So, you like, never drink? That’s what sober means, yeah. Huh.
    You’re not quite sure how you and Roger are going to move past this, but he changes the subject and you manage to pace yourself over dinner so you hopefully don’t look as buzzed as you are. Roger’s not an idiot; he’s counted how many you’ve had—four, to be exact—and yes, you did sit there for a good hour longer than most dinners because it’s been so fun, but he definitely knows you’re buzzed. He also really likes you. Which tonight means he puts you in a taxi and kisses you on the cheek.
    But this job pretty much sucks, because you’re trying to sleep during the day when I’m trying to practice. Fortunately for everyone, it lasts only four weeks; a career in news holds zero interest for you, the very word “career” is one you’re uncertain about, as it implies commitment and ambition, which you’ve told me more than once is not what you’re about , so you sign up to take a bartending class, less to forge a career in bartending than to buy some time in which you hope a brilliant noncommittal career plan will come to mind. When no such thing happens in the next week, you get a bartending job, which lasts roughly the same number of weeks as the CBS job, which is to say not many. This takes you into spring, when you take a job with a children’stalent agency. It doesn’t pay well, but it holds some small promise for career advancement, and as desk jobs go it’s not the most boring ever, and you like your coworkers, and you now have a tiny bit more than zero dollars in your savings account. Thank god, because you can’t take living with us much longer and we can’t either. You can’t stay here forever. It’s unhealthy. What does that mean? It’s bad for our health? It’s bad for our mental health, yes. Victor lived at home until he moved in with you. No he didn’t, he had an apartment. He lived there for a week. Well, it was different. Yeah, it was longer. His parents had a bigger place. With one bathroom. I’m not discussing this any more, Betsy. You have a month. And then what? You’ll put my stuff on the street? Don’t test me.

The Brother Plan
    T he summer after you turn twenty-four, you’re unemployed again; Nina suggests you get a job on Fire Island. The idea of a summer at the beach is never a bad one; you spend a lot of weekends out there as it is, why not three months? Nina says that one of the families on her block is looking for a mother’s helper. She knows this is something you wanted to do back in high school: you love kids, and working with them in some way has always seemed like a vague career idea that might get you to a less vague career idea. Unfortunately, there’s nothing vague about the pay: there is none. Instead, you get to live with a family at a beach and get one day off per week. You give some thought to this, but you still have rent to pay in the city. Specifically to me and your stepfather. You have overstayed your post-college welcome by a year, and have agreed to our “you’ll pay us two hundred dollars a month for our troubles or you can go find another place” rental terms, but you’re already behind three months, and unlike your