Sometimes You Get What You Need

Sometimes We Get What We Need

Webb Johnson

It was past midnight when my bus pulled into Redding Station and shut down its monotonous, droning engine. I grabbed my parka and my backpack and lurched up the empty aisle. The driver said, “Goodnight. Thanks for riding Greyhound”, as I stepped off and drew a long breath of diesel fumes that pass for fresh air at bus stations.

Inside, the depot was a ghost town. The ticket windows and the refreshment counter were closed. The lobby area was vacant and only dimly illuminated by security lighting. That’s fine with me. No one meets someone worth remembering in a bus depot.

I got a paper cupful of stay-awake coffee from a clunking vending machine and then went to the passenger waiting area to sit until my connection to Sacramento was due to arrive in about four hours. Taking a seat on one of the long wooden benches, I set the backpack next to me as an elbow rest and thought about my do-or-die interview coming up in nine hours. Sleep pulled at me, but I wouldn’t let it win. Not tonight.

The interviewers will decide if I have a thorough comprehension of the practical job requirements, but they will also be judging me on my character and personality.

The job requires that hard-to-define to define quality of sociability and self-confidence required for interacting with strangers in a positive and welcoming way. My degree in Forestry from Oregon State should put their minds at ease about the technical part, but this job I’m interviewing for requires the instincts and disposition to converse amiably as an educator, as a tour guide, and sometimes as an enforcer of laws and regulations. I’m better with trees than I am with people; I’ll botch it. I know I will. My words will choke in my throat.

I needed sleep, but I had to stay awake in the silent, vacant passenger waiting area to be sure I’d be on board my 4:45 AM connection to Sacramento. It’s never wise to sleep in a bus station. You might as well wear a sign that says Come steal my luggage. With the interview just hours away, I couldn’t risk any bad timing, bad men, bad luck, or bad dreams.

I took my beat-up study manual out of my backpack for some last-minute cramming. What if they ask me something I’d missed? Something I’d glossed over? Something I knew nothing about?

I was about to scan the pages when a willowy woman appeared from nowhere. She looked around the large, empty waiting area, and then, spotting the large clock on the wall above the entry doors, she gazed at her wristwatch and tapped it twice. I was amazed when I saw the big hand on the wall clock abruptly move ahead two minutes. At least I thought that’s what I saw.

Then the gypsy-like woman spotted the only other person in the large space, strode to my bench, and took the seat next to me.

She wore a plain, loose-fitting dress and shawl. Jangly bracelets dangled from her thin wrists. Her hair was parted in the middle, pulled back in a bun, and held in place by black netting. She smiled and said, “My name is Pesha. You must be exhausted after such a long bus ride, and quite worried and anxious about your job interview in Sacramento.”

I was stunned! Wide-eyed! I felt a sensation of sand sprinkling on the back of my neck. She noticed my reaction and explained.

“I knew about your journey by reading the claim tag on your backpack. “Departure-Corvallis/Destination-Sacramento.”

“How could you have known about the job interview? I haven’t told anyone.”

“I observed your dog-eared reading material and put it together with the Sacramento destination. No college-age person reads the California State Fish and Wildlife Manual just to pass the time.

“The interview will not go well, by the way. Your dream job will not be offered to you.”

I was overwhelmed. “How could you say that?”

“You do not have a welcoming presence. You became apprehensive when I appeared with a smile, offering you cordiality. You’re not “good with people.” Moreover, your slumped shoulders and your irresolute frown tell me you lack confidence and self-belief. You avoid risk because you always imagine the worst. You worry about losing control or making wrong decisions. It’s written in your expression and in your demeanor. You need the caffeine because you’re afraid to sleep, dreading bad dreams, anxious about missing your connection to Sacramento, or something even worse.

“I can tell from its tatty condition that studying the manual is an endless exercise, not for a lack of comprehension, but a lack of self-assurance. The reason you haven’t told anyone about this job opportunity is that you have a constant apprehension of disapproval. You worry about not being loved. This trait has robbed you of your individuality and your power to control your destiny many times in the past, and it will continue to plague you in the future. The interviewers will feel your uneasiness and social awkwardness even if they don’t see the existing problem as straightforwardly as I have.”

I was staggered! “How could you be so rude? You don’t know me! You don’t know what the word “cordial” even means. What gives you the right to insult me like that?

She answered as if stating the obvious, “I’m a fortuneteller.”

I thought you’re an idiot, but I said, “Oh, so that gives you the right to just walk up and be rude and insulting to people you don’t even know. Is that it?”

“I reveal hurtful reality to strangers only if I am sure I can provide them with what they need.”

Aha. That’s when I figured Pesha for just some fast-talking, petty swindler.

She leaned toward me, knitting her luxuriant eyebrows and looking deeply into my eyes. “Permit me to merge my mind with your mind. Allow me to make adjustments. I’ll give you what you need to make a good impression at the interview as well as in all your dealings with people in the future.”

I didn’t trust her for a minute. It was obvious she was out to take my money. I said, “Now we’re coming to the part where you tell me how much it costs, right?”

“My fee for giving patrons what they need is ten dollars.”

She’s a con artist. I know it. But—hell, what if she’s right? Just once? At least she’s keeping me awake.”

I took two fives out of my wallet and handed them to her, saying, “Okay. Work your magic.”

She took the bills and began rolling them together into a small ball in the palms of her hands. She said, “Close your eyes.” I heard her bracelets rattling and felt my shoulders sag as my lids closed.

In under a minute, she told me I could open them.

I asked, “So, which lotto am I about to win?”

Pesha’s answering smile seemed to be one of self-satisfaction more than good humor or connection with me. She didn’t speak. She gathered up her handbag and said good night with wiggling fingers. I watched as she edged her way to the aisle and disappeared through a side door to the street.

My coffee had gone cold, and I was alone again in the chilly, cavernous waiting area - now out ten bucks with still more than four hours before my connection - plenty of time for some solid shut-eye, and if I missed the 4:45 connection I could always catch the 6:20, and still be on time - no problemo.

I threw my boots up on the long wooden bench, put my head on the soft part of my backpack, and experienced this breathtaking awareness and belief in myself, certain that I was absolutely guaranteed to make an excellent impression and ace my job interview. I wasn’t worried about that or any other damned thing as I floated off into a welcoming dream that featured me as a California State Park Ranger welcoming fascinated visitors to the places I love and long to share.

As I drifted off to dreamland, I hoped to become as good at my new job as Pesha is at hers. She must have had serious doubts along her way to becoming a fortuneteller