On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) Read Free Page A

T-shirt, made myself a tomato and cheese
sandwich, poured a glass of water, and headed for the couch. After a few
minutes of channel surfing, I settled on a Masterpiece Theatre production of
Jane Eyre. Losing myself in another time and place was just what I needed after
such a crazy day.
    Later,
when I was awakened abruptly by the rattle of Duncan’s key in the lock, I
stretched and yawned, surprised that I had fallen asleep.
    “Let’s
celebrate!” he said, holding up a bottle of champagne. Tall and slender, with a
thick shock of blond hair and blue-gray eyes, he always insisted on recognizing
every victory in my life, however small.
    I
smiled at him affectionately. “Champagne, Dunc? You spoil me. Not that I’m
complaining, of course.” I got up from the couch. “I’ll get the glasses.” I padded
to the kitchen and returned with two champagne flutes. With fluid motions
acquired during his years of waiting tables and tending bar, Duncan popped the
cork and filled our glasses.
    “To
new jobs and paychecks!”
    “New
jobs and paid rent,” I answered, draining my glass. “Thank goodness something
turned up because who knows when Tremont will get my paperwork sorted.”
    “It’s
just a matter of time, I’m sure.” He paused thoughtfully. “The longer term
question is whether you want to continue teaching in the spring, or look for
something different.”
    Months
earlier, when the opportunity to teach part-time at Tremont came along, Duncan
had advised me to turn it down. “Job security? Zip. Status? Peon. Pay? Crap,”
had been his succinct assessment. I didn’t disagree, but had wanted to give
teaching a shot. Art school had been the happiest time of my life. In its
small, separate world, artworks lived and breathed, young artists labored late
into the night, and I made my first acquaintance with the exuberant highs and torturous
lows of creative work.
    But
I wasn’t teaching in an art school. Tremont University was a world-renowned
research powerhouse, but its arts programs were an afterthought, its arts
students a motley collection of the untalented, the uninformed, and the
uninspired. The talkative, ambitious student with little talent or imagination,
hacking out endless Picasso clones. The dreamer, fantasizing about chic New
York galleries but failing to turn in assignments.
    Most
distressing of all was the human driftwood who occupied the margins of the
classrooms. Lacking any discernable interest, motivation or direction, they
worked quietly, always near the back, never raising a hand, asking a question,
or offering an opinion, as if sheer inoffensiveness should merit a passing
grade today, and hopefully a diploma tomorrow.
    “I’m
not sure what I’ll do in the spring,” I replied. “I’d like to try a graphic or
web design job, but applying for jobs over the past couple of months has been
an education for me. Employers want people with experience. Even for
entry-level jobs. I’m starting to think that I may need to do some design work
for free, just to build up my portfolio. Maybe volunteer my skills at a
non-profit.” I paused. “But right now, I’m grateful for what I have: two jobs,
neither of which is ideal, but at least I’m employed, and one best friend, who
is perfect.”
    Throughout
the stress of the past few months, Duncan had been my rock. Always there for
me, always thoughtful and reasoned about whatever was going on in my life.
    “You’re
drunk,” Duncan laughed. “No one’s perfect.”
    “You
are. Except, of course, when hogging the remote when we watch TV. In that
respect, you’re definitely a standard-issue American male. More, please,” I
requested, holding out my glass.
    “Like
you never grab the remote? Please. You win a fair share of the time. Anyway,
tell me more about your new job,” Duncan demanded as he poured. “Details,
please.”
    “It’s
at a transcription agency in Kendall Square. Perfect Transcripts. Ten dollars
an hour. Twelve for medical or legal