Money Doesn’t Matter

Once I got back to my apartment, I tried calling Urban Outfitters to schedule another interview day because the one they scheduled for me, Thursday at 2 PM, conflicted with my classes.

I got as far as the chick on the other line saying, “Hi, Urban Outfitters at the Spectrum,” before my call dropped.

I live in a fucking dead zone. It’s the most frustrating thing ever because I always miss important calls (“PARTY TONIGHT?!?!”) and receive text messages hours after they’re sent (“WE’RE GOING TO GO GET BURRITOS!”). Thank you campus-sponsored apartments. Please burn down once I move out.

I called Urban Outfitters again, and this time, I made it farther.

“Hi, could I speak with Crystal?” I managed to asked.

“Uh, sorry, we don’t have a Crystal here—” CLICK.

Okay, this was not looking good. Not only did it seem like I was hanging up rudely, but now I was probably looking even more stupid asking for people that didn’t work at Urban Outfitters. I left my apartment building, and as I drove in my car across the street to Albertsons, I listened to the voicemail I had gotten earlier in the morning. The name that girl said definitely sounded like Crystal.

Full bars in the Albertsons parking lot. Great. I called back Urban Outfitters, asked for the manager, who turned out to be the girl I walked to the second time, and apologized for the drop calls. She didn’t sound too forgiving, just annoyed instead.

“Well, as I was trying to say before you hung up”—she couldn’t have sounded any snider—“We don’t have a Crystal, but we have a Krista.”

That sounded right. I explained to her about how Krista called me about scheduling an interview for Thursday and how I needed to reschedule. She told me she’d tell Krista and have her call me back. I barely got to utter “bye” before she hung up.

This job hunt was going great. I’ll be done with The Education Academy in no time.



In February, I visited my aunt at her apartment in Westminster, and I didn’t come bearing any fucking persimmons this time. The occasion was Lunar New Year, so of course I went there expecting my usual one hundred bucks plus twenty extra dollars in quarters.

I tried to be polite to her, so I offered to stay and eat. Even if I didn’t want to be polite, I still probably would’ve stayed. She made me stewed beef with hard boiled eggs and rice, a favorite dish that my mom and dad also made back at home. The food sat on a tiny kitchen table in a bowl covered by saran wrap, and my aunt told me she had been saving it for me since New Years. Did I mention I was visiting her one week after New Years? No I didn’t, and I figured that hard boiled eggs or any type of cooked egg shouldn’t be kept for more than a day, but I was hungry.

While I ate in total silence, my aunt asked me a bunch of questions, to which I answered with curt one-word answers. This time, she grilled me more than ever about my college major. In the past, she’d drop it in like five minutes after realizing that she’s talking to a brick wall, but this time, my major was all she could talk about. Switch to math. Or do computers. I’ve seen you type really fast.

Fuck, if I had to learn Vietnamese, I would learn enough words just so I could argue with my aunt. The only reason she’s been spewing the same shit about changing my major for the past two years is that I haven’t properly shut her ass up yet. How do you say the following in Vietnamese? I can’t do math or science because not only do I not understand it, but I don’t give enough of a fuck to understand it. I like language arts, and I like working with kids and students. Writing and teaching are my passion. Nothing can change that. Money doesn’t matter to me. It’s not my motivation. All I need is a place to sleep and food to eat. Sofas, HDTV’s, and a two-story house make you happy, not me. Now gimmie money and fuck off.

I nodded my head as I sat at the table, mashing and mixing an egg into my rice. I figured, maybe if I nodded my head this time and lied, saying that I’d follow her advice, she’d stop nagging me. And maybe start giving me two hundred dollars every time I visited for being such a good nephew.

I endured a half-hour lunch and earned my one hundred bucks plus twenty in quarters, like clockwork. Money in hand, I thanked my aunt profusely, which, of course, is mostly an act to show her how grateful I am in hopes that she will continue to feed me her money. I left in a hurry, eager to get out because it was still barely afternoon, and I had things I had to do.

Walking store to store, reading flyers on windows, and seeing my own reflection stare back at me in the dark windows, I found myself, one hour later, picking up job applications. Lollicup? In-N-Out? Guppy’s? Oh, this place promises up to twenty-five hours a week? My paycheck would be like four hundred bucks! That’s three hundred and fifty more than what I get at that damned Education Academy.



Still haven’t heard back from Urban Outfitters. What a fucking fat bitch. That’s ok. President of Urban Outfitters feeds money to anti-gay shit. Though I really would’ve liked an Urban Outfitters discount.

This past week, I’ve sent out applications to Old Navy, Gap, Red Mango, and I’ll send one over to Jamba Juice in Mission Viejo later. More job applications to come.