Wastin' Away Again

During my time in Key West I haven't been writing because I was under the impression that nothing was happening worth telling about. But when I sat down to write a short summary, I realized I couldn't have been more wrong. Here's an account, to the best of my recollection, of my time here so far...


I suppose the four years you spend in college are supposed to slowly prepare you for real/adult life. Keeping true to my typical style, I basically used those four years to do the exact opposite. Starting sophomore year, I began to quickly and violently withdraw from adult expectations and any notion of responsibilities, developing an attitude completely centered around the phrases “I don’t give a fuck” and “I need more wine.”  So during senior year as graduation and responsibilities began to run full speed toward me, I didn’t charge back, I didn’t run away, I just kind of side-stepped. There was a vague hint at a career opportunity for me that required little to no effort to grow into, so I just adopted it as my future. But then when college was finally becoming the past and I was entering the future, that sure-thing became unavailable. For a long time I blamed other people for it, saying that “my job” was given away, but in reality, I was just too comfortable in my “I don’t give a fuck” attitude and didn’t work hard enough to get what I wanted. So when I got the news, I was left completely futureless. I hadn’t set up any back-up plan, put no effort into internships or even job applications, so I was left to work a part-time, near-minimum wage job and do however little that income would let me. 

But then, as usual, my four-year state of mind took over and found another way out of living a real life. With a week and a half left until graduation, I handed in a resignation letter at the job I had grown to love in the past three years and bought a plane ticket to a place where I thought I would not only get by, but flourish, using only my attitude and good looks.

So less than two weeks after making this decision – two days after graduation – my life was packed up into boxes to be stored away and a shockingly small two suitcases that would be boarding the flight to my future: Key West, Florida.

When I got here I was interrogated by every person that I met about why I chose Key West. And the truth is, I didn’t actually choose it. If you read my Spring Break post, you’ll remember that basically any decisions that have to do with travel in my life are made by my best friend, and this was no different. She had been planning for a long time to retire to Key West after a hard 21 years at a job that left her listless and unmotivated: her life.  So, as I am almost always inclined to do, I followed her.

So here we were, graduates of one of the best universities in the country with degrees in acclaimed programs, with no money, no jobs and no home in the beginning of the slow season on an island that is closer to Cuba than it is to any major American city and any Walmart. This was already – and promising to continue to be –  a shenanigan unlike any other.

In the week-and-a-half that we had to plan before coming to Key West, we had researched housing and jobs and contacted at least 30 people advertising each, to basically no avail. So we immediately checked into a private room in a hostel and went to buy bikes, a seemingly perfect way to get around this tiny island. In the next few days, we applied for jobs and kept calling people about apartments. I interviewed twice at Ron Jon and once at Banana Republic and my friend immediately got a job at a dive shop, which is, in keeping to her own personal style, exactly what she had wanted. After the third night of relative luxury in a private room, it seemed like we were never going to find a place to live and we were quickly running out of money. On our fourth morning, we checked out of the hostel, stored our luggage/lives in a friend’s truck and set out on a job search again, expecting to have to come back to the dorm-style lodging of the hostel for the rest of our lives. We checked out a possibility that seemed to be our best bet, at least for the 15 days that we had until lease-beginning season started: a room no larger than a queen-sized bed in the back of a trailer owned by a couple who, between them, weighed 115 pounds and had three teeth. With basically no other options, we were willing to commit

Then we finally caught a break: a very nice apartment had a room open that we could probably afford. Yes, one room. One bed. We’re close friends.  It was this day that I decided that biking was NOT for me. After a four-mile bike ride to the opposite end of the island, we, drenched in sweat, signed a lease and were able to move in to the apartment that, at this point, seemed like heaven.

I got the job at Banana Republic, which was a perfect start. It was retail and part time, which would allow time for me to have another job, preferably as a cabana boy at a gay resort. Here’s where the problems started: I was hired to work stock, which was a shift that began at 7:30 am. Remember, I now lived four miles away from downtown and only had a bike. Oh, and it was almost June, meaning that temperatures were in the mid-90s, even at 6:45am when I had to leave my apartment in order to get to work on time.

After about a week and a half there, I was contacted by a Hyatt timeshare property who needed front desk agents. It was a full-time position and it was less than half a mile from my apartment. I really wanted that job.  After three separate interviews during which my dedication, people skills and personal style were questioned and challenged, I was offered the job and asked to start immediately.  I had never felt more proud of myself.  Before my first day, the front desk manager told me to wear khaki pants and a short-sleeved white button-up shirt.  After silently gagging, I explained that I do not in fact own a shirt like that, I convinced him to let me wear a long-sleeved one. My first day was full of information and paper signing. I never thought I would get the hang of it, but I slowly did. After about a week in, I was dressed in the Hyatt uniform (awful. Just awful.) and was trusted to work on my own.  The opening shift was rough because I had to be there at 6:45 and there always seemed to be something I forgot to do, but I was constantly praised by my supervisors on how quickly I learned and how skilled I became at the job.  But here’s the thing about a hotel job: there are two exciting times of the day: check-out in the morning and check-in in the afternoon.  Check-out usually goes smoothly except for the people who just never show up and you have to call their room and tell them that they were supposed to be out an hour ago. “Hi, this is Alex from the front desk. We have in our system that you were supposed to check out today at 10am. Would you like to make another reservation to stay longer?” “Ten? Check-out is at 11.” “No, it’s at 10.” “We’ll be there in 10 minutes.”  Check-in was rarely completely smooth, mostly because people always showed up at 1pm and demanded their room that is most definitely not going to be ready until 4. But luckily that was never my fault, so I just brushed it off and let them sulk and be angry.  But in between those times, I was left to stand for the whole eight hours in front of a computer that couldn’t access Facebook or Twitter. Oh, and answer the phone. So many needy people. One night at 10:45 pm (we close at 11), someone called and asked if we had dice. We did. They asked me to bring the dice to their room.  I drew the line and basically said “come get it yourself” and hung up.
After about a month at the Hyatt, I put myself in the market for a scooter. I found a cheap one that was ugly and almost definitely on its way to its demise, but I bought it. And with the freedom of a vehicle that I did not have to pedal, I began the search for a job that was more exciting and in a more exciting location.

I told my manager that I was searching for a part-time job (just in case that’s all I ended up with) and, after accepting a full-time position and writing a resignation letter, she asked me how the search was going. All I said was “I have to talk to you about that,” and she said “You took something full time. I thought you would.” They were very kind and I was thrilled to only have two more weeks of suffering before I started my new job at Artisans, a jewelry/houseware boutique in the middle of downtown.

My first few days at Artisans were long and full of information. I knew nothing about jewelry before getting there and, after my first few days of training, knew a lot of facts that I couldn’t quite connect to brand names. I just knew that I would never get the hang of it, so I had to let that job go before I hit the two-week mark.  When I told the assistant manager I was leaving (after formally meeting with the manager), she, like my last boss, said “I knew you were going to do that.” OK, so this WAS the third job I had quit in three months, but do I really seem that flakey?

I put in some applications around town, but wasn’t too stressed about getting another job too fast because I knew I still had my last Hyatt paycheck coming as well as my first and last from the jewelry store. Plus, one of my best friends was coming to visit and I figured being unemployed would be an easier way to spend time with her than to ask off from a job that I would have just been starting.

So my friend got here (with my car, thank god – my scooter was unreliable at best and could only hold so many groceries) and we had a blast. We paddle boarded, ate, drank, drank and drank. That’s pretty much all I remember from that weekend.

While my friend was here visiting, I got a phone call offering me a job that I had only turned in an application for and hadn’t interviewed for. When I called to take it, the manager was gone for the weekend, so I just showed up on the day that she asked me to and started from there. So that’s where I’m left. In the corner of a popular Key West bar/restaurant called Conch Republic. My first day there was one of the worst of my life, as I had been going out every single night and drinking probably a little more than I should have. I got there at 9am and by 9:15 I thought I was going to pass out. But I made it through the day and finished training. So several nights a week, I sit at a counter and tell 1,000 drunk people where the bathroom is, give change to servers and occasionally sell a tshirt or some hot sauce.

All this time while I was jumping jobs, we were in a constant fight with our landlord and the administration of our apartment complex. We had to pay $25 to park our bikes. Then $25 more to park scooters – they towed my roommate’s once while she had a temporary parking pass while she was waiting to get it registered. Both of us were followed by security on multiple occasions, one incident ending in the security guard following us all the way to our door, then banging on it and screaming that we don’t live here. The administration didn’t believe us. When it happened again we called the police and our landlord. The police didn’t care much and our landlord not only didn’t believe us, but also threatened to kick us out because we were “causing trouble.” Then the security had my scooter towed because they put a warning on it that it was “leaking oil” and that was just unacceptable. There was no oil where it was parked the first time I had the notice, so I ignored it. Then it was gone. There was no oil where it was parked before. Getting the scooter out of impound would cost not only more than what I paid for the scooter but also more than I’ve had in my bank account the entire time I’ve lived here, so I just said goodbye to it in my mind and left it there. I never told my landlord because I knew he’d just tell me I’m causing trouble. I’m happy to say that we’re getting out of the lease with him early. But not without a fight.

Also simultaneously, I was struggling to accept that the social scene that actually exists in Key West is much, much different than the one I had expected. I thought Key West would be full of young, beautiful, tan gay men, but instead it's full of washed-up drug addicts, 20-somethings who don't want to have a direction in life, bachelor/ette parties, frat guys, and, at one end of the main street, two bars full of old gay men who are either vacationing or have moved down here with their partners of at least eight years. Not much for me. But I'm trying to make the best of it, and I'm facing Key West's biggest event, Fantasy Fest, coming up in the next week. Here's hoping I get the motivation to go out and fight the crowds and see what all the stories are actually about.

And that brings me to tonight. Last night I gave notice to my current manager that I’d be leaving (also met with “I knew it.” Wtf?) because in a week and a half, my best friend from college is coming to visit and after she leaves I will be packing my car up and driving back to North Carolina. So here it is, friends, my official announcement that by November 6, I will be back in action in the Tar Heel State. This is my fifth and final resignation letter in my time here; this time it's Key West that I'm quitting. Thank you, and good riddance. 

This post is about shoes

I have this dream that one day there will be clothing stores that aren’t divided into “women’s” and “men’s” sections; that there will be a shoe, a shirt, an ensemble, that can be worn without question by any gender. I don’t mean “androgynous” or “unisex;” I’m thinking something more gender-fluid. Like “I, as a designer, had a specific person in mind when I designed this, but wear it if you like it.” I guess it has to do more with the marketing and merchandising than the designing. When you label something “womenswear,” you isolate the product and the company to only a specific part of the market. But what if you entered a store with sections only assigned the labels of “tops,” “bottoms,” (insert crass gay joke here) “shoes,” etc? 

For the past year, I’ve been searching for the perfect pair of shoes. “Searching,” as in, looking for a place to buy them, not aimlessly looking for something to catch my eye, the way I usually shop. This time I have something very specific in mind. I need a new pair of boots. I wore all of mine to death - to the point that every piece is separating from the others. I’m desperately holding on to the combat boots I got from Forever 21 Men almost two years ago, but at this point taking them off y feet involves ripping the soles from the body of the shoe, which is both physically and emotionally painful for both me and the boot. While I would definitely jump at the chance to buy an exact replica of my beloved boots (when they were in their prime), I’ve set my sites on a goal much higher: a pair of boots that seems to only exist in my mind.

You see, I’m looking for a combat boot with a real fashion twist, not unlike my poor suffering leather and suede pair. But I’ve found myself feeling much more confident, much more attractive, much more myself, when I’m wearing something with a lift. If you’ve met me, you know that my confidence boost that comes with the height boost doesn’t come from height insecurities. I am 6’1”, afterall. But something about a hard wooden heel, even of 1.5 inches, makes me stand straighter, more powerful. 

So there it is: the perfect shoe. A brown combat-inspired boot, a touch of suede and a heel of at least 1.5 inches. It’s beautiful in my mind, but impossible to find. For me, at least. 

Whether it was before or after my fantasy developed is unclear, but these perfect boots walked into my life a few months ago. On the feet of my best friend, who happens to be a woman. With my hopes high, I looked into the maker of these boots, only to be not only let down, but heart-broken at the fact that they were only made up to a women’s size 10. I wear a 12. In men’s.

At least I had a start. The shoes exist. Surely some investigative shopping would lead me to a site that caters to larger sizes, even at a higher cost. But so, I’ve been searching for months to no avail. 

So now I’m doomed to continually find Uggs, strappy kitten heels and pleather thigh-highs when I search for extended sizes in the categories of “women’s shoes,” in hope that someday I’ll find, or maybe develop, a line of “shoes” where I can find what I’m looking for.