One
I don’t thinkit counts as “fired” if you never really wanted the job. Can’t we just say that Clay & Crescent and I had a mutual breakup? We weren’t seeing eye to eye any longer (or ever), and we’ve decided to go our separate ways. The end.
We do not need to get into the details.
I knew something was up when my boss messaged this morning and asked for a one-on-one. I believe she said, “Just a little chat. No big deal.” Who says that? No one “chats” for no reason. It’s always a big deal! And I’m pretty sure firing someone qualifies as a big deal, dumb Joan. I was so discombobulated by her chatty text that I might have put liquid dish soap into my dishwasher right before I left the house. A lot of it. Like, possibly half a bottle.
I’m not even in my car yet when my phone chimes with an old-timey doorbell. My eyes pop open with the noise and I hiccup. That would be my mother. Maybe the universe has sent her an SOS letting her know that her daughter’s dependable job is nowhistory.
It’s kind of amazing… I don’t even have my box of personal items inside my car yet. But psychic waves have soared through the air and across the state, letting Rebecca Everly know that her daughter has failed … and she better start stressing.
I balance my shoe box on my hip and peer up into the late October sunshine, the pretty bright California sky. Then, pulling in a grounding breath, I set my box on the hood of my Mini Cooper.
The glossy white top gleams in the sun, asking,You lost your job?The black stripes zipping down her front seem to say,How are you going to pay me off now, Stella?
I sigh, blink back at the factory I’m leaving behind, and pull my phone from my pocket.
Yes, Universe, I heard that doorbell. Am I ready to disappoint my mother? To cause her anxiety and pain? Am I ready to hear that dramatic sigh leave her lips? No. No, I am not. Maybe I’ll text her back later… say in three days.
I hit open and read:
Mom: I need you to call me, Stella. It’s important. It cannot wait three days.
Wait. Did my mother just ESP herself into my day? Does she already know that Joan canned me? And how does she know? While I greatly disliked this job, she and Dad could finally stop worrying over me. Finally, their daughter would be putting her useless degree of a Bachelor of Fine Arts in ceramics to use. Something that would actually pay her rent and allow her to eat her vegetables and not just boxed mac n’ cheese.
I like mac n’ cheese.
I may not have been excited about the job I wasmindlessly performing. Anyone can run a Ram press. It doesn’t take a degree. Did it kill a portion of my creative soul making machine-manufactured dishes without any type of vision? Why yes, yes, it did. But it paid the bills. It got me my own place. It helped put a sizeable down payment on my Mini Cooper. It also gave me time to work on my Spiral Song piece. That vase is thirty-six inches of swoops and swirls mixed in with a whole lot of love and time. And after a bazillion hours of work, it’s magical. It’s also up for an award.
Not to mention, along with all that, Clay & Crescent also thrilled my parents. For once, I made them proud instead of causing them stress and worry.
My parents are great at worrying. And I’m great at triggering it.
Ironically, it’s the very thing I go out of my way to avoid causing them. The last thing I want to be is a source of more pain.
So, in an effort to pay my own bills and please my parents, I took that job. I ran that press. I made those uninspiring plates, mugs, and bowls. For one whole year. Consider my soul crushed, my bills paid, and my parents semi-worry-free.
Unfortunately, my parents’ stress over my ability to make money with my pottery is warranted. I haven’t sold anything from my Etsy shop in a month. How can a girl live off that?
Spoiler: she can’t.
I stare at my mother’s text. I could keep her blissfully ignorant of my situation for another day. Or three.
I’m staring and thinking, replaying my little “chat” with Joan, the one I’d rather not tell Mom about.
“See,” she said, holding up the one plate I added one itty bitty swirl on. “This is exactly the kind of thing that’s led tothis chat, Stella. We no longer desire your services at Clay & Crescent.”
I am no longer desired…
Harsh.
Another doorbell chime sounds from my cell, and I peer down at the device.
Mom: I’m serious, Stella. It’s about your father.
“Dad?” I swallow and hit the key fob to unlock my used little beauty. FYI—my parents did not approve of my car choice either.Shocker. In fact, Dad told me that if I were ever in a collision in thisthing, I would be squished like a bug.
I bought it anyway.
