In which the new food editor wanders around his brand-new home and eats whatever strikes his fancy…
I’d done just about as much time sitting behind a desk as I could. I’d filled out paperwork, tried (and failed) to memorize a dozen new phone numbers and passwords, made potentially life-altering decisions about medical coverage, accidental death and dismemberment insurance and what I want it to say on my business cards (Jason Sheehan: Amateur Pie-Eating Champion, ex-Fry Cook, Professional Sonofabitch), and I’d had enough. Officing has never been my strong suit. There always seems to be something more interesting, more vital, more not-sitting-on-my-fat-ass-and-staring-at-a-computer-y that I could be doing. There was a whole city out there filled with fried chicken, dumplings, dirty-water hot dogs, tacos, cheesesteaks, ice cream and foie gras, and I’m stuck in here trying to figure out withholding allowances? Fuck that. It was time to go.
“So what are you going to do now?” someone asked me, standing in the door of my office while I hastily shoved what were probably very important papers into unmarked drawers. And I shrugged, looked around, said, “I dunno. Think I’m gonna go take a walk and see what kind of trouble I can get into.”
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