Giving Thanks

This is what it’s like. In a desperate attempt to extract yourself from the Land of Entrapment (a.k.a the Land of Enchantment) and move to a state with an actual economy, you drain your bank account. Every single penny.

Unfortunately, you do this just as the nation's economy is getting bent over the couch by Wall Street. The entire country becomes the place you're trying to leave.

Every day you get out of bed, you fall further into debt. Every bite of food, every watt of electricity, every drop of gas consumes a non-renewable resource called cash.

It gnaws at you. It infests your sleep.

You once enjoyed the luxury of being self-supporting. But that requires a job. You wonder why you get headaches every day. And you wonder how long before the stress and the strain and the mounting hopelessness splits you and your girlfriend.

There isn’t any government assistance. You’ve got a dried-up carcass of an IRA that, seven years after 9-11, still isn’t worth now what it was then. But that won’t stop the government from snatching a third should you decide to cash it in for impulse items like food, gas and rent.

Or from finding hundreds of billions of dollars for the vermin who flushed us down the toilet in the first place.

You mull over the fact that because you have an IRA that wouldn’t cover an appendectomy, you’re too well-off for food stamps. You attempt to reconcile this with the fact that you have given-up taking pictures because you can’t afford to develop them.

You haven't gone to a movie in a year and-a-half. But the government says you’re rolling in it.

You make a note of it.

You haven’t held a job in over a year, unless you count the two-months you spent in a hell-hole known as the Van Ru Credit Corporation. Fifty-percent of the employees don’t see their three-month anniversary because the training isn’t worth the shit up your ass.

If that's not enough, your supervisor is delusional.

Joyce Tillis sees herself as the Oprah Winfrey of the collections world, and will lead her team of inner-city African-American women not just to meetings, but to life-changing empowerment. She will then receive national exposure and a talk show of her very own.

There are just two problems: you're white. And you have a penis.

When she’s asked what’s wrong with this picture, the answer is you. You’re the speck of plaster the paint didn’t cover. She humiliates you. Lies about you. Makes no effort whatsoever to conceal her resentment of you.

She accuses you of stealing another agent’s call, and becomes apoplectic when you deny it. She threatens to run a report. You suppress the urge to tell her you hope she runs reports better than she does teams.

When it becomes clear you are innocent of all charges, it goes without saying the bitch doesn’t have the balls to apologize.

On the other occasion you impress decision-makers, you have a job offer withdrawn because after receiving two, you inexplicably choose the permanent one over the temporary one.

You’re not some poor, dumb fuck trying to stay dry in the sewer-bound torrent of 2009. No. You’re a sneaky, manipulative con-artist who pulled a fast one on the company and needs to be removed before you spread, virus-like, throughout the entire chain.

At least that’s what Laurie Colson, the manager who low-balled you with the offer of temporary employment, says when her inflamed ego can't bear the indignity of seeing you work for a competing Half-Price Books store.

Your continued employment is an affront to her self-perception as a savvy, experienced manager.

The remaining companies who express an interest in you are the backbone of newspapers and job sites everywhere because their openings are permanent. The only way they could retain an employee is to dress them in a straitjacket and lock them in a burial vault.

In an act of transformation Dr. Phil would appreciate, employees in these jobs morph into Harry Houdini with alarming regularity.

You’re over or under-qualified for everything. Apply for menial jobs with a college degree and employers assume you’ll be bored and unhappy.

Go up market and there’s invariably some twenty-three year-old with a master’s degree, fifteen-year’s experience and every one of the one-hundred fifty-eight characteristics the ideal candidate should possess.

This includes setting-up and collapsing a Mongolian yurt in under ten-minutes.

Which isn't to suggest business is unreasonable. Far from it.

You recall an article from the Wall Street Journal titled "Only the Employed Need Apply" which attempts to explain business's belief that only the employed deserve consideration. The thinking is that those still employed are a strain of super-employee, impervious to the cutbacks, layoffs and rampant downsizing so many of the rest of us have fallen prey to.

Despite the fact that 60% of jobs are currently found through networking, business insists the time-honored maxim of it's not what you know, it's who you know is untrue. That those drawing paychecks aren't just friends, pals and buddies.

This is very different from performance-based employment. This is also very different from being good at what you do.

But then, what do you know? You forget that in America, intelligence is measured in dollars.

And you're broke.

Confronted with your six-billionth attribute inventory, you want to retch. That these are gateways to mansions in Florida for the slicks who sell them seems invisible to every HR department in the country.

You want to get this straight: no business using them has ever had to fire a single, solitary employee, because every hire was a perfect fit. Is that correct? Because you know differently.

Then you remember the expression “Monkey see, monkey do” was inspired by the business world. And if it wasn’t, it should have.

If America’s corporate managers aren’t the most-obedient bandwagon-jumpers in existence, you're too big to fail. If personality profiles are this year’s model, you can bet the thirty-five incher in the living room that business will be the first in line and want one in every color.

While applying at the local supermarket, you answer one-hundred eighty questions about your moods and self-esteem and whether feelings are important in the workplace. About how strongly you believe in rules and hierarchies for a minimum wage, part-time job placing boxes of cereal on a shelf.

No health insurance, no benefits, no vacation.

Just one-hundred eighty questions bent on finding out how hard you’ll squeeze your eyes shut and pretend the shit you’re being served is caviar. And that the piss you're drinking is champagne. One-hundred eighty questions bent on finding out how desperate you really are and just how much you'll take.

You’re a fucking circus dog. Beg. Roll-over. Sit.

Afterwards, you visit the supermarket you applied to and buy a newspaper. The cashier is able to wordlessly express a multitude of thoughts and emotions. Namely, that she'd rather be the subject of a televised gynecological exam than ring-up you and your goddamned paper.

She snatches the dollar bill and pounds the register keys. She accuses you of wanting a bag. The register drawer springs open. You say you don’t. She slams the drawer shut, rips the receipt from the printer and hands you your change in an angry blur.

Before the quarter hits your pocket, she’s reaching for the next customer's purchases. It couldn’t be more clear you’re in her way.

You wonder how she answered the questions about moods and leaving problems at home and not just meeting, but exceeding customer expectations.

Yeah, you wonder.

Blog Therapy

A friend of mine (Marcus) graciously re-posted a story of his, one called The Book Collector.

It is a tale haunted by regret; one which resonates with the consequences of the road not taken. It is the story of choosing safe and sensible over passion and dreams. It is a story which demands to be read.

And I have—many times. The narrative is Luke’s, and I identify with him completely.

When I was young-enough to be making such decisions, I wanted to write. Photograph. Paint. Make music. In my eyes, the traditional work world was a place steeped in the stench of slow, insidious death.

If you’ve ever seen Brazil or Joe Versus the Volcano, their office scenes captured what that world looked like to me. A place where people turned grey and lifeless. A place where unthinking regimentation and soul-sucking conformity gnawed away at you every single day.

But like Luke, I was afraid. Afraid to take a chance. And I have come to understand that was the biggest risk of all.

My father was a free-lance writer. Despite being talented-enough to support a family of six, he needed to supplement his job as the managing editor of a quarterly industry publication by selling the odd article to whatever publication was interested. It was, in its way, a grueling life.

True, my father didn’t have to fight rush hour every day or battle the office sociopath. But out of necessity he sequestered himself in the bedroom and banged away at his typewriter from eight in the morning until nine or ten at night. It was a ceaseless grind of research, queries, deadlines and rejections.

Despite my love of words and pictures and music, I knew I didn’t want to work twelve or thirteen hours a day sans benefits and with only an uncertain reward to show for it. There was also this nagging question as to whether I even possessed the talent. I wanted stability and security.

All these years later, that reads like a sick joke. There is no stability. There is no security. And there is certainly no fulfillment.

I lost a publishing job because, in the words of my boss, a financial wizard in New York City figured trimming payroll was the fastest way to boost stock values, and in turn, excite shareholders.

I lost a job in telecommunications when a union-hating gentleman by the name of Joe Nacchio engineered the ouster of my co-workers and I by reconfiguring our jobs so that it was virtually impossible to meet its sales goals.

Then there was Kathy Lovett. She was a company director so disliked by her peers and subordinates that she sat alone at the office Christmas dinner until there—literally—wasn’t another seat in the room.

This same woman made it agenda item number-one to rid the company of me, and succeeded.

The only clue I have for her intense dislike was that I negotiated my wage with her. And judging by her reaction, you would have thought it was coming out of her check.

It wasn’t.

You are familiar with my latest tale of woe.

Life sucks. Or more specifically, work sucks. Contrary to what we say at meetings and performance reviews and in the hallways, very few of us love it. I take that word to mean we’d do it for nothing, but I don’t know anyone who would.

I failed to locate that elusive place where ability and interest intersect. We make our own beds and then must lie in them.

That being the case, I hear Motel 6 is looking for maids. I’m experienced.

I'm Employed! Wait! I'm Not!

I’m pretty sure that I’m becoming insufferable.

You see, this is my therapy. And I really, really need therapy. So if you feel an eyeroll coming on and need to click that white ‘X’ in the upper right-hand corner of your screen, I'll understand. No offense taken.

This has been a brutal year. A brutal, unforgiving year. I find myself wondering what it is I did. Did I swindle money from helpless and lonely old ladies? Did I rape? Murder? Vote Republican?

I ask these questions because life is beginning to feel like punishment.

Let me explain.

Last week, I found work. My relief was immeasurable. The compensation sucked, as did the hours. But it was a job. A paycheck. Something to plug the nasty employment gap on my resume.

I was ready to sing. Let God on high be praised!

But like all things 2009, it was too good to be true.

I submitted applications to two stores in a Texas-based chain specializing in used books, music and movies. After a year of joblessness, I was asked to interview at both locations. I don’t think the savviest bookie in Las Vegas could have calculated the odds.

It was off the charts. It seemed like a perfect fit, and I was thrilled.

OK. So what’s the problem? you ask.

I accepted an offer for temporary employment because it was the first one offered. (Yes, I'm that desperate.) Then a second offer followed. It was for permanent employment. Caving-in to my selfish desire to remain clothed, housed and fed for as long a period as possible, I then accepted the permanent offer.

Since all my fine china and stemware is in storage, I never entertained the idea that both interviews would yield job offers. Not me. Not in 2009. But they did.

In my view, this was an entirely understandable and acceptable decision. Especially in the revolving door that is retail. But retail isn't retail at Half-Price Books. This was an act of romantic betrayal tantamount to treason. One which demanded only the swiftest and most-severe punishment.

I first detected the foul odor of payback when the start date for the permanent position was postponed.

The next day I received a phone call from a district manager. He berated me for “exhibiting poor judgment”, explaining how I had maliciously played one store against another by interviewing with the second store while in the employ of the first. How I had deviously concealed from the manager at the first store where I was headed.

Firing squad being presumably unavailable, the offer for permanent employment was withdrawn.

As I had yet to even set foot in the first store when I interviewed with the second, I’m confused how I was in its employ. And while under the influence of ignorance, I also don’t understand if I never mentioned store A to store B and vice versa, exactly how did I pit one store against another?

In my admittedly limited experience, the sort of manipulation I was accused of required the disclosure that a second party was involved, which indicated increased demand for a particular commodity, which in turn enhanced one’s bargaining position.

But what do I know? I just write here.

The unemployed are told to remain positive in the face of evidence to the contrary. We are told to look forward, not back. And above all, we are told not to take unemployment and rejection personally. It’s just business.

Yet when the delicate sensibilities of a store manager are offended by an employee choosing a permanent position over a temporary one, it’s not just business. It’s personal, and someone must be made to pay.

Is Rambo available?

It doesn’t matter that the manager had a two-inch stack of applicants from which to choose a replacement. It doesn’t matter that the employee actually showed up for his final shift and even offered to work the following day if it would help minimize subsequent schedule changes.

It also doesn’t matter that the employee expressed genuine remorse for the short notice and explained in detail that his financial situation didn’t allow any other choice.

What matters is that a manager who was angry with herself because she awarded the permanent slots to a couple of dolts while she tossed the temporary slot to the keeper won’t have to bear the humiliation of seeing that employee work for a competing store.

What matters is that her shaky self-esteem has been soothed. What matters is that her out-sized ego has been stroked. That’s right—you’re still in control. If you can’t have him, no one will!

Her ruffled feathers have been smoothed.

Yes, I’m guilty of interviewing at two stores and choosing the best deal. But I’m fairly sure that’s what we do every day at the grocery store. Or the mall. And I’m fairly sure it’s what business does when it shops for a supplier.

It’s even what business does when it (ahem) shops for a prospective employee. It’s—dare I say—just business.

But don’t you try it.