Bo·he·mi·an n. somebody with an unconventional lifestyle: somebody, often a writer or an artist, who does not live according to the conventions of society.
Dear C.,
It’s so great to hear from you after all this time. Yes, I am in San Francisco. I can’t believe you are in London. You must tell me more about life in a foreign country in such an exciting city aside from what you say about being unemployed and destitute. I guess that takes up all of your energy and thought so maybe you’re not feeling so great about London at the moment. I’m not feeling so great about San Francisco in my present state either. It seems we both hit the wall, so to speak, at the same time. You and I have had our share of bohemian living, that’s for sure, but we were younger then, riddled with hope and spunk.
Your letter reminded me of so many things from the past. Yes, I too think fondly of the week we spent in New York going to CBGBs every night. And yes I remember trying to pick up Joey Ramone though it was only to be his friend. I thought he’d be a nice addition to my collection of rock and roll guys I hang out with. He was fun, bless his soul.
So yeah, I’ll tell you a little bit about myself these days. I too am unemployed and living in a really expensive town. I feel your pain, believe me. I just got back from another job interview that has left me rattled and disheartened. I know I am ridiculous trying to find a job at age 60, even if I don't look 60 or feel 60 whatever that is supposed to look and feel like. All I know is I am too young for Social Security and too old to work and that is a built-in conflict for my story--no need to contrive one at all.
I think you knew I had been a newspaper editor before relocating here but that job is all but finished. Possibly if I had connections in San Francisco I could get something but coming from another state, I doubt I would be considered. Or so I was told. I worked in a popular book store for the past year and it was agreeable--I couldn’t complain (I got roundly criticized by D. when I did) but thought it was something of a comedown. Little did I know how bad things would get.
It's not that I want to work; I realize my skills are dubious, my hearing is bad from all those rock concerts, I have hot flashes when stressed or in a stuffy environment. It is not going to be breezy like my previous work-life that was all set up for fun; record stores, book stores, newspapers. The book stores have diminished considerably with the downturn, record stores hardly exist and newspapers are shedding editors like old skin cells in a mud bath. I bet there’s still a lot of great book stores in London. Even the big corporate ones are hurting here. Pretty soon it will be all Amazon, all the time. I love Amazon but I do feel something is missing in a town when there are more T-mobile stores than anything else.
No, I am in a pickle; my plans have not worked out. My plan, not my most astute, had been to live my later years in San Francisco, a town, as you know, I love, as many do, and was arrogant enough to think I would have a place here. To have a place here would be to have been stubbornly clinging to a job and a rent-controlled apartment for the past 20-30 years. We really went astray on that one, C. I think of our $300-apartment in North Beach? Then there are the freshly retired, moving here after selling the big-ass suburban house and buying a sparkling new condo in SOMA. An empty-nester with a nest egg. We missed that boat too. Then there are the dot-commers who, being creative types, do have a genuine propensity for the Barbary Coast’s famous bohemianism but technology is corporate/government by nature and there’s no getting around it.
Alas, I am none of those things. I am and was a bohemian and that species does not find the later years to be easy if you really were a true bohemian and spent your life in the margins of the system, on the outskirts of the economy with no pension or savings or established business or career. I thought I might like to write a book in the true bohemian spirit for future generations to find a way to live alternatively but I have to admit I am not a success on any level and would be embarrassed to put it all down. I can barely have a conversation with family members without feeling ridiculous. They try to ignore me but once a year they all get together and have a hand-wringing session on my behalf. Then my mother calls with the results. I am in no mood for any of it having a blithe spirit that is so out of fashion that no one even remembers that it was a fashion. This is not the way it was supposed to be. (It’s hard to change a radical approach at the eleventh hour but I do try.)
So here I am looking for work in a young person's town, competing with kids who were more skilled in high school than I am after a life of working and when I go for interviews, I am ridiculous to the young people interviewing me. They are so startled at my age when I walk in they forget themselves and cannot think of the preordained questions they are supposed to ask, and only go through the motions. You know, those hypothetical explorations they have been trained to solicit, to find out if you can be useful to the company and/or not a flake? We both ended up looking at our watches and wondering how to end this charade making us both irritable. Perhaps they see their mother and are; a) wracked with guilt, b) irritated beyond words, c) clueless, d) thankful their own mother is safely at home in the suburbs planting the petunias. It truly is disheartening, C. Are you experiencing any of this?
I try to laugh at myself, find the humor, and this is certainly a absurd episode in my life, so ludicrous it almost shames me and I feel it is not funny at all but something pitiful though I'm not inclined to thinking of myself as pitiful, (You know how arrogant I can be) and refuse to accept my pitiable condition. That I need a job, any job at this time is too preposterous although I do see older women working in stores and there's no reason I shouldn't but somehow working and/or not working for meager wages are both ridiculous at this age.
Yes, I could write that book on the essence of bohemian living but if you end up in a homeless shelter what would be the purpose? No one wants to end up homeless at 60 especially a woman but that is how I have played my life, or should I say my cards and I could mope and say I have been unlucky but mostly I've had decent luck: I've just come to a fork in the road and whenever that happens, I tend to choose unwisely though I've had my fun. Now my fun is my discredit. I could laugh, say at least I didn't sit for thirty or forty years in a cubicle or in any of the other dreary occupations that lead to a respectable retirement, a place in the sun but instead I have to say I was probably not correct in my thinking and should not pass this information on.
Some of our old crowd, C., died of drink and/or drugs early on. Maybe that is the respectable way a bohemian lives and dies: Young. It does seem like a better idea than hanging on when there is no place to call home and are a burden to family and an embarrassment to yourself but I’m being overly dramatic. You always said I had a flair for theatrics when pressed.
I could have done things differently. I've had many opportunities for a prosperous working life but I chose painting even though I knew I could never make a living at it and was only moderately good at it. Hardly anyone can. It is hard to be a painter when you move so often as most bohemians do although there are exceptions such as my friend Richard who hasn’t moved in thirty years and still has his vinyl collection completely intact. I envy him that. I have paintings scattered about and it grieves me that they are in boxes and not on my wall; at the moment I have no walls unless you count this hotel room I'm residing it as I write this. It is a nice room and at one time I did have paintings on the wall, D. insisted, but I decided to pack them up and store them so I can travel light if I have to. More ridiculousness, is there no end?
I should have gotten serious about writing sooner, I knew I had a bent for it, I was told that in college by my beloved W., but never felt I had a great deal to say. That is before I discovered a penchant for fiction where you don't have to have anything to say, you just make it up as I am possibly doing now. I did write a short novel in my 30s but when it was rejected I put it away and have no idea now where it ended up having moved so many times. Yes, I did write some very respectable poetry in my 30s and 40s, thanks for mentioning it, but what can you do with poetry except go to readings with other poor souls? The book that was to be published never even made it to the printer before the publisher went bankrupt. Ah, the bohemian life.
What do I look like these days? I forget we haven’t seen each other since our 30s. I was really clothes conscious then and you were the opposite. I have hardly any clothes now. Most women my age have entire rooms of clothes. They buy a lot and a wardrobe builds up if you don't declutter regularly. I don't even have a closet. I have a dresser with three drawers and they are only half full. I only have enough for a suitcase which is limiting. I'm looking for a job in a clothing store and do not have the outfits to wear if I were hired. I guess I would buy new and that is always fun. I could use some new clothes although I must say, what I have is not bad. Just not much of it. I do have some nice jewelry; I had more but sold half of it when gold prices went sky-high. I still have a nice strand of pearls given to me by D., two gold rings, one yellow gold, one white gold, and a couple of necklaces. It's easy to move around with jewelry so it has been a better investment. Books and CDs are a bitch if you're trying to travel light. Add art supplies, paintings and you might as well hire a truck.
I hate to whine about my situation: it's of my own making. I was warned: Remember how petulant I got that time T. said to me, as we sat in our favorite diner drinking coffee (What was the name of that place?) that, You won't always have your good looks, Jill, so you had better be thinking of what you are going to do for yourself. You won't be as easily hired and you won't always find men to take care of you. I was in my late 20s at the time and it seemed too far off and fussy to think about. Also a little catty as she married for security and wasn't exactly joyous. I lived by the seat of my pants, we all did, and she thought this not the best way to go about having a life and she was probably right. It worked for me for so many years; partly because I did have good looks and an easy personality that was attractive to some. Even God smiled on me more often than not.
Now I’m 60, and while I wouldn't say I was ugly, I do not have those good looks anymore and my free spirit is suspect at this age. Face it, bohemianism is dead. I am completely outdated, I know that. D. is a total boho, a musician who didn't happen to die of drugs or drink--he can drink like an elephant and survived a harrowing addiction to the brown menace--I don’t think you ever knew him. He is also in a plight but is a little older and collecting Social Security though not enough to live on. Together we can whine in unison but that is not particularly helpful and brings us down so that we want to escape each other.
This is turning into a real treatise on aging bohemianism; wry, noble and confessional. I want to make light of a situation in order not to feel too bad but I'm wandering in the desert which of course, is nothing new. I often think of friends I've had in the past--wonder what they're doing, how they survived the tech revolution and in the case of artists, how they ended up. I think of the musicians I knew and wonder where they are today. Sometimes I try to find them online and when there is no mention of them, I worry and wonder: Did they get a job, find a spouse to support them, die young? I have a painter friend who makes his living at it and I know he can't be doing well with that in this economy but his web site is shut down. I think of them all. I also had friends who worked in record stores and like me, gaily thought this was the only job they ever wanted: what are they doing now? Did they grow up or just old? I would often think of you, my dear--where you ended up after leaving Wall Street? It’s funny you ended up in a book store too.
About five years ago I had the brilliant idea to resurrect certain elements of my bohemian past, our good old days, and return to San Francisco. I can't say I regret it, I am not yet in a homeless shelter though it is not far-fetched which brings me back to my job search at 60 and my ridiculous embarrassment. Yesterday I had an interview in a very chic clothing store on Fillmore. I am a good writer so I often get called based on my spontaneous, high-spirited cover letter. It's all bullshit but not hard to do. When I walked in the door it took the young woman who was so eager to interview me--called twice, e-mailed twice--a full minute and a half to register that I was the person she was expecting and then she glazed over and tried to end the entire episode before she too felt ridiculous. “Just leave your resume, okay? I’ll get back to you to set up the interview,” she mumbled. A startling departure from her telephone directive--You can start this weekend, can't you?
In my defense, I would look good in the shop's clothing line: it was just my style but it would be hard to get that across to someone who could be my daughter and found me seasoned with age. The reason I applied at that particular store is because I could wear those clothes if I could afford $300 dresses. My old friend P., counterculture with a job, laughed at the very idea of $300 dresses, too ludicrous to be taken seriously. But he spends $300 easily on booze each month so why is a dress so absurd? I told him I don't drink much or eat in restaurants so I should be able to spend $300 for a dress or $200 for a blouse but that is not in the least bohemian. But given the choice, I would pay $300 for a dress before I would spend it in a restaurant. Neither are bohemian but markedly bourgeois. The thing is, $300 for a dress is not considered at all extravagant these days in this city. This is not the San Francisco of old, C. You will find many changes if you come back.
That slim, blond, generic store manager might not think a stylish wardrobe is important at 60 but then again, that is when maintenance is paramount. I may not have my youthful good looks but if I have on a $1,000 suit, I am not so pitiful, right? It's all a matter of perspective. Clothes are extremely important to some and not at all to others. I've always liked them but as I said, have to travel light. I went through a period when I bought expensive handbags: Now I use a five-dollar backpack to carry my stuff around the streets of the city, every day is a hike--a lot of walking up a lot of hills, you need your hands free for getting on and off buses and making quick transactions. I look at handbags now and would love to own some of them I see but know it is not happening in this chapter of my life. The one I have left after selling the others may end up in a homeless shelter and feel ridiculous right along with me.
After that disastrous non-interview, I went into the nearest bookstore knowing full well that was hopeless but at least the owner was pleasant and happily took my resume even though he told me what I already know: the retail book business is almost finished. At least he took me seriously and said he would surely call if he had an opening. There, I did not feel ridiculous but at home. I should have started my own bookstore years ago but then today I would have even bigger troubles. Or not. I wish I had my own book store but that is not traveling lightly though it is bohemian. Think Ferlinghetti and City Lights. (Remember the night he asked you to leave because you were too drunk and fell down the stairs to the basement? We were with that guy from the Dead Kennedys who was a friend of yours. I keep remembering our silly days and nights living on upper Grant.)
I am happy to report that since I have been ceaselessly unemployed, I have been writing fiction and essays and have been pleased with my progress. But how do you get published with any speed when time is of the essence, as they say? I'm not even sure what that phrase means and it sounds like a cliché, I suppose. I have to weed out clichés if I want to be published I am told.
I think this is where I should end this letter. I've been typing like mad, I‘m really up to speed with my typing, I should try for an office job but I never pass the tests at the agencies. You were always better at getting office jobs than I was. I don't know why I have gone on so long: it has turned out not to be humorous in the least but rather sad though I'm not looking for pity; just the opposite. What I need is money to live my life out the way I have always lived it but at 60, I may not be able to get the jobs the way I did in my youthful attractive days but I was warned, wasn't I? Even if I get a job, it will probably be menial which will hurt my self-esteem and I'll get prickly. But you never know, sometimes menial labor can be a solace if you are able to forget you are 60 and pretend you are still a youthful attractive girl who could do anything but just as a lark, wants to work in this grocery store stocking shelves. That is the true bohemian spirit I suppose; transcendence. I pray that as life gets more futile and gnarly I can transcend.
That would be the endgame of a life of frivolity, but you would have to be enlightened in a way I suspect I am not at this time. Perhaps I should take a trip to the Himalayas and improve my life skills in the margins of society. But then that ridiculous thinking is what got me into this mess of looking for a job at age 60 in a recession. Don't you just love it? I could go on and on but will stop here: I don't have the courage for suicide and I do not drink enough or do serious drugs to expect an early demise. I never smoked, what was a thinking? I should go for longevity? What is a poor bohemian to do? My phone just rang and it's someone wanting another interview. I'm tempted to tell them my age to save us both agony but they would not be allowed to discriminate and would be worried about getting sued so we will have to go through with it. I'll just take my chances and try not to feel too past-date. This chapter will end as all others have; that is the subtext of the bohemian life--to take things in stride, to be conscious of impermanence.
I should find consolation in the fact that my youth was lived in a more optimistic time with a cultural insouciance that has been shed like last year’s dress in a fashionista's closet. That's D.'s philosophy. At least we had good music, he often says. I used to love this line of thinking but it does nothing for me now. As you said, money has become the litmus test of coolness. It’s the same here. There’s no escape, my friend.
I’m sorry I can’t offer you a place to stay if you return to the states. I live in a hotel room and quite often D. is here with me adding to the claustrophobia. I love him but he takes up a lot of oxygen and space. What I can do is reserve a room here for you if and when you do return. It is not cheap--but cheaper than an apartment. Yes, there are probably a lot of your old friends around. All living in cramped rooms with their artworks, records and memorabilia. Our old friend, L., was smart and left the music business early and took a course in computer programming without even knowing what it was at the time. Now he is the only one with a high-paying job, a snazzy apartment and goes to all the good restaurants and shows. He’s a little bristly so I wouldn’t count on staying with him for long if you're considering it. Just a warning. He’s generous but expects a return. I don’t mind that but could never figure out what he expected, leaving us both with hard feelings.
So yes, I have yet another job interview--a clothing store. I haven’t a hope in hell but I’ll go anyway. Good luck finding a job in London, but if you do come back, expect hard times. As someone said to me recently, This ain’t the summer of love, babe.
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