Life as a freelancer is surreal: the day before writing this, I negotiated a rate with a translator for a (potential) project in Izamal and conducted an unrelated interview with an Arizona state Senator, in between taking a bus to Tulum to pick up a car and drive to Playa del Carmen, where I coordinated story assignments for a team of roughly 40 freelance writers before going to bed in a hotel room and waking up to write ad copy for a metropolitan daily newspaper.
Somewhere out there, in the crazy multiverse, there’s a vestige of a Jacob Bielanski that went to work at an office building around 7:30 a.m., came home at about 5 p.m., watched some T.V., played some video games, went to bed, woke up and started over.
That alternate-universe Jacob Bielanski (who once existed in this universe) thought, with hard work, maybe he’d be able to move his new bride to a nice place on the outskirts of Madison, Wisconsin, after securing a nice, non-freelance, middle-management IT job. There’d be two weeks of vacation–maybe get back to Myrtle Beach sometime? Or check out the French Quarter, if we save enough?–a modest four-bedroom home, a couple of dogs, a couple of cats, a few kids, taxes, khakis and maybe the occasional night out.
I was born in Chicago, raised in Wisconsin, and currently “live” between New Orleans and Madison. But I’m not “living” in either of those places at the moment, as I’m renting an apartment in Mahahual, Mexico. But I’m not there right now, because I’m on the road (traveling?) to Merida, Mexico.
Never have I missed that other Jacob. But there are days I wonder: when he was brutally executed, where did they bury the body?