I was reduced to bargaining. After considering all my options, I agreed that I would reset my alarm clock to 10:30am, no 10:45am, and then I would get up and do “something”. Within minutes I was back asleep. I was dazed and disoriented when the alarm clock buzzed its static buzz two hours later. I re-negotiated the terms of my previous agreement. I would get up and do “something” if the sun came out. In the meantime, it was raining and if my luck held out, it would continue to rain until 3:00pm. That was when the kids came home and I had to don my costume and make-up for my role of “a mom coming home from work.” Well not really. I had told the kids a few weeks ago that I was working from home. At first they viewed my claim with suspicion. We live across the street from the school so by recess it was obvious from my car still parked in front of the house that I had not gone anywhere. Their suspicions were further validated by my matted hair and pajamas that I had been wearing all day and then two days and ultimately nearly a whole week. Finally, one of the kids blurted out in an accusatory tone, “You got fired didn’t you?”
“No, of course not” I said in a deliberately matter of fact way. “I told you I wanted to spend my time with you and have decided to work at home.” Then added, “Don’t you like having mommy here when you get home from school?”
My ploy to shift the focus back on him worked. He quickly tired of the conversation and when out to play. I seized my chance to spend time together after school by taking a nap in the lawn chair in the yard. I rationalized that it was like spending time together as we were both outside and if he came in the backyard for any reason, I would be there so we would be together.
I had never been fired before. I was one of only two employees and we worked out of a windowless warehouse. Our employee handbook was copied from some other company and our boss came by once a week for an hour for our weekly staff meeting. A part of me was secretly happy to be fired. I graciously accepted my termination, even embraced it, believing this was the universe telling me to take another path, sit back and enjoy the ride, grab life by the balls so to speak, and pursue my dreams.
I spent the first week watching everything I had TiVo’d for the last six months. I spent the second week shuffling through the on-screen program guide looking for new things to TiVo. I pushed my do “something “deadline” back because of Mothers Day. There was nothing happening on Mother’s Day to stop me from “grabbing my life by the balls” except that in the absence of going to work, you have to look beyond the usual 9-5 to mark time. The anticipation, planning for and participation in Mothers Day theoretically took up the whole first half of May. With my eye on Memorial Day, I could see where this was headed so I reluctantly acknowledged that I better come up with a plan or I would be TiVo-ing my way through Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin.
Being home all day and night is an un-natural state of being. Without the social contact of work, the television became my new window to the world.
The television gave my day a kind of order. From 9:00am-11:00am there were back to back episodes of Little House on the Prairie. At 11:00am, I discovered The Hallmark Channel aired Highway to Heaven which wrapped up what I began to think of as my mornings with Michael Landon. At noon, I watched Locked Up Abroad, basically, a daily tribute to the naïve actions of young 20 something people, “away on holiday”, when they suddenly find themselves (their words) “strapped for cash” and stumble blindly into the drug trafficking business, only to get caught by third world customs officials, forced to sign a confession in a foreign language, sentenced by a corrupt judicial system for an undermined period of time. The final segment of the show is an unabashed testimony of shame for what they did to their family’s friends and themselves, followed by brief epilogue. Every day a new pair of innocent convicts tells their story in voice over from their third world jail cell.
From 1:00pm-3:00pm I flip between three different channels to watch concurrently three repeat episodes of Law and Order. I have timed the whole operation so that I can flip between the three channels avoiding nearly all the commercials and never miss more than a second or two of each show. One afternoon, to make things interesting, I bet myself that I would not hit one commercial for the whole Law and Order marathon. I lost. To punish myself, I sat through a whole set of commercials before I could turn the channel.
As luck would have it, there was a commercial with a snappy little jingle that I liked so much that I spent the next two days learning the words to the song Free Credit Report.Com. In weeks to come, I developed a certain fondness for the main character in the song who, like me, didn’t get a free credit report and was now forced to drive an economy car. He also had to dress like a pirate which kind of made me feel better about my own situation.
While I was grabbing my life by the balls, I was doing less and less every day. One afternoon I forced myself to look through a box of books that I was planning to read but never had the time. All of the books were works of non-fiction and among them was a book called Lost to the Sea. I wrapped myself up in a blanket and curled up in my chair to read.
The book was a tedious account of life aboard a commercial fishing boat in Dutch Harbor.
The author seemed preoccupied with giving the reader the boat’s compass bearing, which appeared about every three paragraphs. In the past, I would have donated the book to the Salvation Army and started reading another, but in this un-natural state, I continued to toil away , learning which is the best place to “put down pots” for the big haul. Around chapter three, I found a show on The Discovery Channel called The Deadliest Catch. It was a reality show about life on a commercial fishing boat. It was as if the lifeless words and colorless story I had been struggling to read burst into Technicolor. I did some research (scanned the on-screen program guide) and discovered that the series was in its fourth season. Thus I dedicated the rest of the week to the work of finding any and all earlier episodes that had previously aired. I then dug out a couple of blank pieces of paper from my “old briefcase” and created a system to track episodes as I “captured” them on TiVo. In all, there were 63 episodes and my diligence paid off when I found all of Season One airing at 2:00am daily. I began using fisherman terms, referring to a string of consecutive episodes as a “line”. When the current season aired a new episode, I referred to it as the “main line”.
Of course, all of this referring in fish terminology was done in my head as I was now spending days at a stretch in total isolation with the exception of the people that work at the school across the street. I chat with the secretary in the morning, the lunch aids at recess, and the school social worker is my new best friend. I mark time with them as they count down the days till summer vacation, their summer vacation.
I was beginning to worry about my ability to re-enter the work force so I made a rule that I had to apply to at least two jobs every morning before I could reach for the remote. I found the silence in the house intolerable so I decided to interpret the rule to mean that I could have the TV on while looking for a job, but only the news and I couldn’t use the remote.
There were times when the only incentive I had to fill my quota of sending out my two resumes per day, was the promise of watching something I had TiVo’d the night before.
Long after I had fallen asleep one night in a drunken television stupor, the sound of the television jerked me awake.
I fumbled for the remote and hit rewind then fast forward then rewind before I found what I had heard through my dreamless slumber. “Tomorrow on Today” the announcer blared, “learn the latest on the Rob Lowe nanny scandal, fashions for the third trimester and a special interview with Matt and the Dalai Lama.”
I glanced at my messy night stand and the unread book, The Essence of Enlightenment and thought, “I got to TiVo this.” I scanned the channel guide and scrawled until I came to the Today show, hit record and fell back asleep.
The next morning I rushed through my daily job search so I could watch Matt and the Dalai Lama.
Forgoing my daily dose of Highway to Heaven, I grabbed the remote and scanned through the list of recorded programs till I found what I was looking for. I hit pause and poured myself a drink as I planned out my next move. I could watch the whole three hour program and wait for the Dalai Lama interview, closely scan the entire program in fast forward and hit play when the Tibetan monk appeared, or use my third option which was a button on the remote called Skip Forward. I spent weeks pondering what Skip Forward was, but was never able to determine how far the Skip Forward button “skipped” through a program, and with three hours of Today to wade through, I decided to scan in fast forward.
After scanning through the first hour, I became impatient and picked up the pace, by speeding up the fast forward. As I rounded the corner to the third hour I realized that Matt wasn’t even on the air anymore. Rewind, fast forward, rewind, fast forward. Another two hours past and I could not find Matt or the Dalai Lama. Impatience turned to anger, disbelief turned to shock, denial turned to despair. My TiVo had betrayed me. In my vacuum of a world, I had lost all perspective. The fisherman of the Berea Sea had become my co-workers, my job was learning the words to Free Credit Report.Com and New England Technical School beckoned me from my arm chair to consider a career as a dental assistant.
The sun was out, it is almost noon and I have run out of counter offers to negotiate for a few hours of television. Left with no option, I start to look for a job.
Fired!
I was reduced to bargaining. After considering all my options, I agreed that I would reset my alarm clock to 10:30am, no 10:45am, and then I would get up and do “something”. Within minutes I was back asleep. I was dazed and disoriented when the alarm clock buzzed its static buzz two hours later. I re-negotiated the terms of my previous agreement. I would get up and do “something” if the sun came out. In the meantime, it was raining and if my luck held out, it would continue to rain until 3:00pm. That was when the kids came home and I had to don my costume and make-up for my role of “a mom coming home from work.” Well not really. I had told the kids a few weeks ago that I was working from home. At first they viewed my claim with suspicion. We live across the street from the school so by recess it was obvious from my car still parked in front of the house that I had not gone anywhere. Their suspicions were further validated by my matted hair and pajamas that I had been wearing all day and then two days and ultimately nearly a whole week. Finally, one of the kids blurted out in an accusatory tone, “You got fired didn’t you?”
“No, of course not” I said in a deliberately matter of fact way. “I told you I wanted to spend my time with you and have decided to work at home.” Then added, “Don’t you like having mommy here when you get home from school?”
My ploy to shift the focus back on him worked. He quickly tired of the conversation and when out to play. I seized my chance to spend time together after school by taking a nap in the lawn chair in the yard. I rationalized that it was like spending time together as we were both outside and if he came in the backyard for any reason, I would be there so we would be together.
I had never been fired before. I was one of only two employees and we worked out of a windowless warehouse. Our employee handbook was copied from some other company and our boss came by once a week for an hour for our weekly staff meeting. A part of me was secretly happy to be fired. I graciously accepted my termination, even embraced it, believing this was the universe telling me to take another path, sit back and enjoy the ride, grab life by the balls so to speak, and pursue my dreams.
I spent the first week watching everything I had TiVo’d for the last six months. I spent the second week shuffling through the on-screen program guide looking for new things to TiVo. I pushed my do “something “deadline” back because of Mothers Day. There was nothing happening on Mother’s Day to stop me from “grabbing my life by the balls” except that in the absence of going to work, you have to look beyond the usual 9-5 to mark time. The anticipation, planning for and participation in Mothers Day theoretically took up the whole first half of May. With my eye on Memorial Day, I could see where this was headed so I reluctantly acknowledged that I better come up with a plan or I would be TiVo-ing my way through Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin.
Being home all day and night is an un-natural state of being. Without the social contact of work, the television became my new window to the world.
The television gave my day a kind of order. From 9:00am-11:00am there were back to back episodes of Little House on the Prairie. At 11:00am, I discovered The Hallmark Channel aired Highway to Heaven which wrapped up what I began to think of as my mornings with Michael Landon. At noon, I watched Locked Up Abroad, basically, a daily tribute to the naïve actions of young 20 something people, “away on holiday”, when they suddenly find themselves (their words) “strapped for cash” and stumble blindly into the drug trafficking business, only to get caught by third world customs officials, forced to sign a confession in a foreign language, sentenced by a corrupt judicial system for an undermined period of time. The final segment of the show is an unabashed testimony of shame for what they did to their family’s friends and themselves, followed by brief epilogue. Every day a new pair of innocent convicts tells their story in voice over from their third world jail cell.
From 1:00pm-3:00pm I flip between three different channels to watch concurrently three repeat episodes of Law and Order. I have timed the whole operation so that I can flip between the three channels avoiding nearly all the commercials and never miss more than a second or two of each show. One afternoon, to make things interesting, I bet myself that I would not hit one commercial for the whole Law and Order marathon. I lost. To punish myself, I sat through a whole set of commercials before I could turn the channel.
As luck would have it, there was a commercial with a snappy little jingle that I liked so much that I spent the next two days learning the words to the song Free Credit Report.Com. In weeks to come, I developed a certain fondness for the main character in the song who, like me, didn’t get a free credit report and was now forced to drive an economy car. He also had to dress like a pirate which kind of made me feel better about my own situation.
While I was grabbing my life by the balls, I was doing less and less every day. One afternoon I forced myself to look through a box of books that I was planning to read but never had the time. All of the books were works of non-fiction and among them was a book called Lost to the Sea. I wrapped myself up in a blanket and curled up in my chair to read.
The book was a tedious account of life aboard a commercial fishing boat in Dutch Harbor.
The author seemed preoccupied with giving the reader the boat’s compass bearing, which appeared about every three paragraphs. In the past, I would have donated the book to the Salvation Army and started reading another, but in this un-natural state, I continued to toil away , learning which is the best place to “put down pots” for the big haul. Around chapter three, I found a show on The Discovery Channel called The Deadliest Catch. It was a reality show about life on a commercial fishing boat. It was as if the lifeless words and colorless story I had been struggling to read burst into Technicolor. I did some research (scanned the on-screen program guide) and discovered that the series was in its fourth season. Thus I dedicated the rest of the week to the work of finding any and all earlier episodes that had previously aired. I then dug out a couple of blank pieces of paper from my “old briefcase” and created a system to track episodes as I “captured” them on TiVo. In all, there were 63 episodes and my diligence paid off when I found all of Season One airing at 2:00am daily. I began using fisherman terms, referring to a string of consecutive episodes as a “line”. When the current season aired a new episode, I referred to it as the “main line”.
Of course, all of this referring in fish terminology was done in my head as I was now spending days at a stretch in total isolation with the exception of the people that work at the school across the street. I chat with the secretary in the morning, the lunch aids at recess, and the school social worker is my new best friend. I mark time with them as they count down the days till summer vacation, their summer vacation.
I was beginning to worry about my ability to re-enter the work force so I made a rule that I had to apply to at least two jobs every morning before I could reach for the remote. I found the silence in the house intolerable so I decided to interpret the rule to mean that I could have the TV on while looking for a job, but only the news and I couldn’t use the remote.
There were times when the only incentive I had to fill my quota of sending out my two resumes per day, was the promise of watching something I had TiVo’d the night before.
Long after I had fallen asleep one night in a drunken television stupor, the sound of the television jerked me awake.
I fumbled for the remote and hit rewind then fast forward then rewind before I found what I had heard through my dreamless slumber. “Tomorrow on Today” the announcer blared, “learn the latest on the Rob Lowe nanny scandal, fashions for the third trimester and a special interview with Matt and the Dalai Lama.”
I glanced at my messy night stand and the unread book, The Essence of Enlightenment and thought, “I got to TiVo this.” I scanned the channel guide and scrawled until I came to the Today show, hit record and fell back asleep.
The next morning I rushed through my daily job search so I could watch Matt and the Dalai Lama.
Forgoing my daily dose of Highway to Heaven, I grabbed the remote and scanned through the list of recorded programs till I found what I was looking for. I hit pause and poured myself a drink as I planned out my next move. I could watch the whole three hour program and wait for the Dalai Lama interview, closely scan the entire program in fast forward and hit play when the Tibetan monk appeared, or use my third option which was a button on the remote called Skip Forward. I spent weeks pondering what Skip Forward was, but was never able to determine how far the Skip Forward button “skipped” through a program, and with three hours of Today to wade through, I decided to scan in fast forward.
After scanning through the first hour, I became impatient and picked up the pace, by speeding up the fast forward. As I rounded the corner to the third hour I realized that Matt wasn’t even on the air anymore. Rewind, fast forward, rewind, fast forward. Another two hours past and I could not find Matt or the Dalai Lama. Impatience turned to anger, disbelief turned to shock, denial turned to despair. My TiVo had betrayed me. In my vacuum of a world, I had lost all perspective. The fisherman of the Berea Sea had become my co-workers, my job was learning the words to Free Credit Report.Com and New England Technical School beckoned me from my arm chair to consider a career as a dental assistant.
The sun was out, it is almost noon and I have run out of counter offers to negotiate for a few hours of television. Left with no option, I start to look for a job.
Caught
Crap! The kids found out I was fired. I guess you could say I had gotten sloppy. My initial story was quite plausible. It was plausible in the beginning. A few days after I was fired, I announced to the kids at dinner that I was cutting my hours at work, so I could be there for them when they came home from school. One of my sons had actually said that if he had one wish, it would be that I was home when he got home from school. A week before that he said if he had one wish it would be to get a dog. He said a dog is man’s best friend. He said he was a man without a friend. He is nine years old. Still, I deemed my explanation plausible. Ah again, that plausible thing. Telling them I was coming home early to be there for them, my little cherubs, had the added benefit of making myself appear selfless.
I was like a classified ad for a job as an unemployed person.
Wanted; single mom, willing to make the tough sacrifices necessary to be there for her kids, must love chaperoning class trips to the only museum in town, going on interviews, light housekeeping and some cooking, but otherwise unemployable.
I had been leaving my younger sons alone with their older brother after school after many failed attempts at finding someone suitable to watch them. Their older brother was nearly a rung below suitable and maybe two rungs below acceptable as a babysitter. My plan was to threaten severe punishment to the younger ones if they did not listen to their older brother and bribe their older brother to not so much watch them, but more like not fight with them. It wasn’t ideal. I had them lock themselves in the house and not answer the phone or door until I came home.
A few nights before I left them on their own after school I read them The Diary of Anne Frank as a bedtime story. I emphasized how Anne obediently stayed in the attic.
“How could she stay inside all the time?” asked one of the younger boys.
“Mieps” I told them. “Mieps brought them food, clothing and news from the outside world.”
I was their Mieps.
It seemed like every parent in my neighborhood was conveniently home at 3:00pm when the last bell rang at school. Parents were caked up at the school entrances for up to 30 minutes before school let out. I would wonder how they were home at that hour but the few I asked in fact were adults who moved back home with their elderly parents. The thought of me sleeping with my 4 children in my childhood bedroom was enough the make me shiver, even if it afforded me the privilege of being home by 3:00pm.
I later discovered what my neighbors were actually doing home all day, watching The Dog Whisperer, smoking cigarettes and eating cheese sandwiches with their elderly parents. I would sell all my stuff on eBay first.
When I lost my job last spring, I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least my boys didn’t have to hide from the Nazi’s while I was at work.
It wasn’t quite that easy though. My kid’s school, being across the street from my house, meant that my kids had a full view of my comings and goings through-out the day. Of course there was little of either so I would sometimes move my car to the side of the house, out of view from the school yard. Between 4 kids and recess and gym and extra recess, it was not uncommon to see at least one of the kids with his face pressed against the chain link fence, the fence that separated me from them at least six hours a day and hearing them call
“Mom, Mom come out here?”
Every time I succumbed to one of their pleas I would immediately regret it. Like ants running to a sticky Popsicle stick, their classmates would all cake up on their side of the chain link fence.
Most of the time the kids didn’t even say anything, they just stared at me in my paint stained t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I’d stay long enough to acknowledge my kids and try to get them to rejoin the rest of the group before the faculty noticed me hanging around the school yard. Every time I relented to my kids pleas to come over and see them I feared someone from the faculty coming over and accusing me of loitering or worse.
Summer vacation came and despite numerous interviews, I still had no job so I rationalized that staying home with the kids was cheaper than sending them to camp. I was truly wrought with fear as to how I was going to spend the entire summer with people who could raise the specter of violence over who got the better water goggles at the pool. Plausibility was becoming a challenge though as the kids were now home all day. I soon announced selflessly at dinner that I had chosen to work at home for the summer so we could have a special summer together. My expectations of adulation and gratitude were met with,
“Does that mean I can’t go to camp?”
“You want to go where?” I said as if I never heard the word before. “
“Don’t you want to spend the summer with mommy?” I asked rhetorically.
Ignoring me, I was met by a chorus of protests that ranged from the reasonable,
“I thought I was going to the YMCA next week,”
to the less reasonable, “
“I wanted to go to sleep-a-away camp for a whole month,”
to the totally unreasonable,
“We all want to go to sleep-a-way camp for the whole summer.”
I recoiled from them in fake horror.
“I planned to spend the whole summer with you” I say as if any sane adult would choose to stay home with four kids under age 12 for the whole summer.
“We are going to go camping, and tubing, and staying at grandpas and swimming in the lake.”
I told them in a deliberately cheerful voice.
“I hate camping” said one,
“I’m afraid to go tubing,” says another,
“I won’t swim in a lake,” says a third and in unison they proclaimed,
“I don’t want to go to grandpas.”
“Well Screw You!” I tell my little cherubs.
“That’s the plan and we’re sticking to it.” Then add.
“I didn’t arrange to work at home all summer to be treated like this!” followed by the chorus of
“I’m sorry, sorry mom, so sorry.”
As we grew accustomed to our summer routine, I typically spent the mornings on-line applying for jobs. I applied for jobs at colleges, hospitals, homeless shelters, government agencies, and mistakenly responded to a posting that elicited an immediate response and requested for me to come in for an interview for what turned out to be a job with the PeaceCorp. They were very interested in me. They only wanted a two year commitment. They were willing to give me a stipend of $900.00 dollars a month for living expenses. They asked that I do not accept any other employment while serving.
Fall came. School started. I had all but forgotten about plausibility, working at home, shortening my hours, and moving my car.
I spent as much as 4 hours a day applying for jobs. I got a lot of phone interviews. No real interviews. The unemployment numbers remained high. My son asked me if I was fired.
“Fired?” I said as if he asked if mommy had a sex change. “What makes you say that?”
“Grandma told me. Anyway, you are always home.” He said innocently.
“What does anyone know about my business?” I said defiantly. His older brother entered the room.
Do you think I’m fired?” I asked him emphasizing the word THINK.
“Sure,” he said. Everyone knew. “You’ve been home for months.”
I wanted to protect them. I wanted to protect myself. Protect us all from fear, worry, the unknown.
“I wasn’t fired.” I said leaning back and even crossing my legs as if to show this is the most matter of fact thing we are discussing.
“Well why aren’t you going to work anymore?” they asked.
They were really too old to be lied to. They were too smart to be lied to.
I decided instead to act. I was performing the role of the reassuring mother.
“Well, not that it makes any difference, (I lie) but after having such a great summer with you (lie), an opportunity presented itself (I don’t even know what that means) and I made the decision to work at home (lie).
“What do you do?” asks my older son
Think quick, think quick. “I work for a company called (lie) Systems Data.”
I see their shoulders relax. “I input data into systems.” What data? What systems? I had no idea.
“So they don’t have a building?” they asked.
Oh sure they have a building, (lie) a big building, (lie) I’ve been there several times, (lie) but like, everyone who works for them, like works from home (lie) and emails in the reports (lie).
“What are the reports?” they ask.
“Data!” I smile.
I Can Be Flexible…
I did what they said. The article in parade magazine encouraged job seekers to keep looking for a job and not get discouraged. I am no longer unemployed, I am a job seeker. The article said to reinvent yourself. I reinvented myself into an adoption specialist, a pharmacy tech, a teen crisis counselor, a tour guide, a party planner and a patient advocate. Still there were no takers. Not even a nibble. My only comfort was the news with its grim faced analysts and reporters telling us, the American people, that things are as bad as we think they are.
I changed my resume. I changed my resume every time I applied for a job. Should I actually land an interview, I would have to be sure to remember what resume I sent for the job.
I did get a call for a job at the Knights of Columbus. They invited me to come in for an interview. I looked through my cover letters and job applications, searched through Career Builder and Job Monster but could find no evidence of my applying for a job with the Knights. As the interview neared, I upped my efforts to find out what job I had applied for but to no avail. My hope was that maybe some clue would be revealed early on in the interview.
I prepared for the interview by searching the internet for information about the Knights of Columbus. I was surprised to learn that it was a wholly Catholic organization, started by a priest, functions through local churches and funds catholic charities. Being Jewish, Gay and a single mother, I interviewed for the job knowing I would not be going to their company picnic.
My morning of the interview I looked for the Tootsie Roll building, that’s what the man on the phone called it. As I spied the New Haven skyline I found the brown roll towers pointing towards the sky.
I attempted to park my car in the Knights of Columbus parking lot but was stopped by a security guard, who seemed to know I was coming and then informed me that I was at the Knights of Columbus Art Museum. He pointed across an abandoned lot adjacent to the building and told me where to park.
I arrived at the administrative buildings to find a very congenial security guard who treated my appearance as though I was a long waited guest. He directed me to a small chair and informed me that I needed a photo ID, could I please look into the camera and smile.
The flash went off and when my vision cleared I stood but was told to have a seat as I would require an escort to go anywhere in the building. Still I had no idea what job I was there to interview for.
My escort arrived. She held her employee ID badge over a sensor that led us to a small vestibule where there were two elevators.
She swiped her card through a card swiper that brought the elevator to us.
When we entered the elevator I made small talk about the security in the building, sure that there must have been some kind of disgruntled employee gone rogue to necessitate my ID badge and escort. The woman, humorless in a grey suit with grey shoes and a grey shirt, seemed not to notice the heightened security in the building.
The elevator doors opened and my escort led me into a small office and pointed to the empty chair across from a desk, her desk.
She identified herself as the head of human resources and asked me if I had any questions before we began. I wanted to know which job I was applying for but I knew that wasn’t what she was asking. I had with me over a dozen resumes hoping that during the interview some clue would be revealed about the job and I could grab the right resume, but no, no clue was given. Instead I was asked to fill out a standardized test. It reminded me of the kind I took in junior high to show where I had an aptitude for a future vocation. She then reviewed at length the benefits package. It was so exhaustive that it read more like a list of prizes for a game show contestant. There were days off, then extra days off, then vacations, trips, parties, bonuses, raises and free lunch in the cafeteria. By the time she was done I wanted this job more than any job I ever wanted. Still I had no idea what the job was.
My interview with the woman lasted almost two hours and when she stood. I assumed the interview was over but instead she escorted me back to the elevator and we went up two floors to the sales department. Ok, I thought, it’s a sales job. I don’t want to work in sales but with all the benefits and the employees all seemingly happy, I could talk myself into selling things, maybe even catholic things. I was brought into a room that had a large map of the United States on the wall with small illuminated lights identifying different cities.
An older man entered the room after a few minutes and sat down across from me at a large oval table. He made no small talk. He looked me in the eye and told me he was the regional manager for the Northeast region of the Knights of Columbus. He asked me what I knew about the organization and I drew upon my best singular fact that I could remember from my Google search. I prattled on about Father McGivney helping out a widow back in 1881. He seemed familiar with the story but uninterested in my version.
I listened intently trying to figure out what he sold but all I got was more questions. What experience did I have with fraternal orders? Was I active in my church? Was I comfortable working with men? I covered my surprise at the questions by waning nostalgia about Father McGivney. Was I really willing to be active in the Catholic Church just to get free lunch in the cafeteria?
He then told me that he never hired a woman for this position. They were an all-male department. How did I like working with only men? The men in the department sold life insurance. They sold life insurance solely to other men in the Catholic Church. The lights illuminating the wall map represented the territories that the Knights covered, that I would cover if I liked working with only men, only in churches. Then just when I was about to surrender, BINGO, he said it, Marketing Director. He was looking for a Marketing Director.
It was almost noon by the time the interview was over. For nearly ¾ of the interview, I had no idea what I was applying for. I met each question, no matter how distasteful with the enthusiasm of a winner. Only winners get the job and I was a winner. By the end of the interview I had nearly convinced myself that I could fake being Catholic.
I was escorted out of the building under the same blanket of security that I was escorted in. I had to surrender my ID badge to the security guy and he walked me all the way to my car. I thought it was creepy. He wished me good luck as if he himself knew all along the job I was applying for, almost as if to say thank you for coming to my tootsie roll building, but you are never coming to our company picnic.
Goodbye, Good Luck, Your Fired!
“Are you eligible for welfare?” my mother asked during our last conversation. I feel a sensation of horror run through me as the words come through the phone.
“Welfare?” I respond in shock as if she is suggesting suicide as a viable option should my unemployment run out. Before I have a chance to respond, my mother rings the last bit of hope she is offering by interjecting that I probably am not even eligible and it’s not enough money to live on anyway.
For reasons that even baffle me, despite the numerous interviews, resumes, cover letters and endless hours of internet searches, I have not lost hope. I remain optimistic that I will one day again be someone’s employee. I don’t let a day goes by that I do not follow up a lead, make a call, or apply for a job.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud?” my mother says, as if pride has kept me from getting a job. “You may have to work at the Home Depot?”
“Mom,” I respond in frustration, “Home Depot laid off 17,000 people today.”
Ignoring me she goes on to share that all the Expo stores owned by Home Depot are closing.
“You would have been great working in one of those stores.” she continues draining what hope in me might still remain.
I tell her about the three jobs I applied for and how I plan to follow up with phone calls later in the week.
“If you weren’t so picky, maybe you would have found a job.” She offers as if I should change my Career Builder search criteria to include, any job, any hours, any location, any pay. I remind her that I would work in Burger King but even The King wants restaurant management experience.
“Well you might have to travel to find a job” she says and then I remind her that I have applied to three jobs in Hartford almost 40 minutes from where I live. “Well you better hope your car holds up.” She counters.
I hang up. I worry that if I stay on any longer, I might soon be discussing my future homelessness.
I turn on the news. I have developed a growing resentment towards them. Them being the entire on air team on MSNBC. They make their living delivering the grimmest news about the unemployment rate. Chris Matthews enthusiastically challenges anyone on his show that conveys the remotest sense of optimism. Granted they are typically the Republicans, the folks that governed us into this mess. He even has a segment on his show called The Big Number. With great zeal he announces one day 35,000 people lost their jobs, then repeats, “That’s the big number of the day.” Another day, he’s almost giddy when he tells his viewers “The big number of the day is 18 billion,” the amount that Wall Street bankers received in annual bonuses.
I change the channel. Even the commercials are grim. Hyundai seems to know that in all likelihood, anyone buying one of their cars is going to lose their job in the coming year. They are undeterred. Their current promotion is predicated on the promise that if, or more likely when, you lose your job, they The Hyundai Corporation will buy back their car. It’s like putting a new spin on repossession. Still, it sounds like I’m going to lose my new car and I haven’t even bought it yet.
I search for the phone to call in my weekly unemployment claim. I have been calling for 5 days. Actually I spent all of Monday trying to file my claim at the Department of Labor web site. With each attempt, I would get just so far and then a strange page with weird symbols appeared on the screen. I powered down, I booted and rebooted, tried to get to the web site using my children’s Wii internet channel. I tried a friend’s computer. I finally gave up.
I started calling. The computer generated voice bleated through the phone informing me that due to unusually high call volume, no one is available to take my call. Please try again later. I try again later. I try 26 times later, hitting redial on the speaker phone, 26 times. I try 26 times for 3 days. I go back to the internet, back to the phone, back to the internet. This is a new low. I feel as though I am being snubbed by Unemployment. If we were dating, I would assume it’s over.
Then I do a very “woman on the verge” kind of thing. I get in my car and go to the Unemployment office. My only hope is that I am not driven to pounding on the door and begging for a second chance. Until now, I have avoided going to the Unemployment office. I now know why. To enter this threshold is the ultimate acknowledgement of my status. I am an unemployment statistic. When the evening news announces the most recent jobless numbers, I feel like I am waiting for lab results from my oncologist. Am I getting better or worse? The news isn’t good. The economy has metastasized.
I enter the Unemployment offices. There is a crooked paper sign taped to the wall of the vestibule. It is printed on white computer paper and protected by a piece of plastic. It says that aggressive behavior, threats or yelling will not be tolerated. Next to it is taped the same sign in Spanish. I wonder how long the sign has been there. It is the only thing on the walls. It is a foreboding message to those who enter.
The security guard posted beyond the vestibule, smiles and asks me to sign in. I ask where to go to file my claim. He points to a desk a few feet away. Behind the desk are an older man in a suit and a young girl in a t-shirt chewing a mouth full of gum. There is only one person in line in front of me and although there are a couple of other people milling about, the only sound I hear is the buzz from the fluorescent lights. While waiting in line, I notice a bulletin board with a paltry offering of notices, two tattered flyers from area vocational schools that promise a bright future in heating, air conditioning and medical billing. Another flyer encourages the unemployed to take advantage of the Unemployment Job Center that features a copier, a few computers, a fax machine, paper clips, a stapler and paper. The gum chewing girl calls out “Next” and I step forward. I tell her my sad phone filing dilemma and she stares at me as if I am asking for a Double Latte and don’t I know this isn’t Dunkin Donuts. I simplify my request and ask if I can file my claim with her, here, now. She turns to the older man next to her and tries to explain my problem but gets every detail wrong. He looks at me puzzled and I simplify my message to 4 words. “Can I File here?”
He nods yes and asks for two forms of ID. I can’t find my social security card so I hand over my license and passport. He and the girl examine the passport as if I have handed them a document that is not of this world. As they look through the passport I mention that it has not expired and the person in the picture is really me. Finally the older man hands me a scrap piece of paper and asks that I write my social security number down for him. He then hands me a slip of paper with the same questions I have answered every week since I have been unemployed and in a barely audible voice whispers that I need to fill out the paper and sign it. I ask for a pen and he points to a pencil on the counter of the Unemployment Job Center. I fill out the form and return it to the young girl at the desk who looks at the paper as if she has no idea what it is or why I am handing it to her. After a brief awkward moment, the older man takes the form, filled out in pencil, and the scrap piece of paper and says I am all set. Make sure I file next week’s claim at 6:00am on Sunday morning. I am sure I didn’t hear him correctly so I repeat what I think he said back to him.
“I should file my claim this Sunday at 6:00am?” Yes he whispers and reassures me with a smile.
I wonder if he is giving me an inside tip and how to break through their over taxed system or reproaching me for waiting till the unreasonable hour of 8:00am to file. I remember the warning in the vestibule and decide to agree to follow his instructions, rather than ask him if he seriously expects me to wake up at 6:00am on Sunday morning to file. Then there is that shame factor as in, what excuse can I possibly have for not doing whatever is necessary to collect my unemployment check. It’s not like I’m too busy working.
I step aside so the man behind me can approach the desk and I hear him tell the older man and gum chewing girl about his weeklong failed attempt to file his claim. The older man remains curiously calm despite the growing frustration of my fellow jobless American. I intentionally linger long enough to hear his whole story. This is the first unemployed American I’ve seen. He too can’t find his social security card, but when asked if he has a passport, he begins to unravel at what he perceives as a suggestion that he has enough money to go on vacation.
“Why would I have a passport? How can I afford to go on vacation? His voice rises. The older man is so quiet, he is nearly inaudible. If his lips weren’t moving, I wouldn’t think he had said anything. He whispers that he isn’t going to break the law and the law requires that all claimants provide two forms of ID.
“Why are you doing this to me?” says my fellow jobless American. “It’s not even enough money to pay my bills. I don’t even have money for food. Can’t I just tell you my social security number?”
The older man shakes his head no. He whispers something about not breaking the law. He smiles. He can. He has a job.
I ask my kindred spirit how long he has been unemployed.
“Two months” he tells me. “I can’t find work anywhere. No one is hiring, no one!”
We are the same and we are very different. He doesn’t know this is only the beginning. Should I offer him a dose of my reality? I remember the signs in the vestibule and say nothing
[this story ends here]