Getting from Point A to Point B with Bruce Rauner

Cousin Brucie is at it again.

His latest proposal to alleviate Illinois' budget crisis is to gut government subsidies to mass transit, including the Chicago Transit Authority, METRA and the Regional Transit Authority up to sixty-percent.

Despite my fondness for public transportation, I'll be the first to admit these bodies suffer undue difficulty in making ends meet, even as they enjoy large-market monopolies as providers of their respective forms of transportation.

But crippling them isn't the answer.

All three agencies have warned that deep service cuts and steep fare hikes loom if these suggestions are enacted.

And that, of course, is the operative word—enacted.

This could be nothing more than a political maneuver, a red herring meant to divert attention. Or a stratagem designed to scare constituents and make whatever budget cuts follow appear benign by comparison.

It could also be a genuine expression of contempt for what Rauner has repeatedly called “the welfare state” of public transportation in Illinois. Of course, in light of his stated goal of creating jobs and bringing business to Illinois, it's a curious beginning.

Chicago-area job postings regularly make mention of a maximum distance the successful applicant will reside from the job, an obvious cop to the outrageous congestion and commuting times which plague the metropolitan area.

It's hard to see how making a potential labor pool less—and not more—mobile, increasing, rather than decreasing, commuter's reliance on cars and adding to the burden already shouldered by Illinois' brittle motor vehicle infrastructure will improve anything, aside from spiking gasoline tax revenues.

It's also difficult to walk away without feeling that while Cousin Brucie may well want to make Illinois business-friendly and create jobs, he is not quite so interested in people actually getting to them.

Giving You the Business

In a perverse and ironic sort of way, I am grateful for the business world. 

Just when I think I've seen and heard it all, and that my sense of wonder is hopelessly atrophied, a study issued by the National Retail Federation appears which provokes peals of healthful and much-needed laughter.

Excuse the outdated cultural references, but I find it funnier than George Carlin, Monty Python, Firesign Theater and George Bush number-two combined.

In response to government data which the Federation feels unfairly skews retail pay downwards, their report attempts to present the retail sector as the creator of good-paying jobs which offer Americans an alternative to wage-slave sustenance and which bolster our flagging middle class.

See what I mean?

The Federation's second punchline is the assertion that the average retail employee makes thirty-thousand dollars a year. The Federation claims these employees earn an average of $2,582 per month, or $30,984 per year.

But you should know there are more strings attached to their definition of 'retail employee' than on all the helium balloons festooning graduation, retirement, anniversary and birthday parties the world over.

The Federation's numbers are based on something called a “stable” employee, which is an employee employed for three months of a calender quarter. If this fuzzy indistinct-ness leaves you with more questions than answers, feel free to join the club.

The next time you're in an expansive mood and wish to share your mirth, relay this information to a sales clerk, stock person or cashier employed by J.C. Penney’s or Home Depot. 

I am positive they will find it equally-mirthful.

Because I am long-term unemployed, I have recent experience in retail. I have that experience because retail is one of the few sectors desperate-enough to risk employing people like me. They are desperate for a reason. And it isn't because they're doling out 30K salaries. 

Despite fulfilling the Federation's dodgy definition of stable, I didn't earn half of what the Federation says I should have. And there are reasons for that, too.

First off, aside from managerial personnel, no one in retail works full-time. It is practically against the law. Secondly, with certain rare exceptions (The Container Store and CostCo come to mind), wages are low.

I made $8.40 an hour as a cashier at a local Home Depot. I made even less as a supermarket checker in a Milwaukee suburb. Adjusted for inflation, that didn't even equal the $2.00 an hour I earned washing cars at a Pontiac dealer while in high-school.

Unless you're a clerk at Harry Winston's, the only way you're going to clear 30K a year in retail is by working three jobs.

The Federation goes on to add that if you're lucky enough to fall within the 25 to 54 age group, retail is an even more splendiferous fount of riches. Those folk enjoy an average monthly bounty of $3,198, which adds up to a very pleasant $38,376 per year.

There's an old adage in academia that says PhD stands for piled higher and deeper. Evidently, the National Retail Federation's report hasn't reached them yet.

In cash-starved post-recession America, how is it that oceans of retail positions go unfilled in the face of such economic largesse? Like my earliest attempts at arithmetic, it just doesn't add up.

The truth is, the Federation's "report" is flimsy and transparent PR which is the product of an entitled entity feeling a little put out because we don't show it enough love. 

My heart bleeds.

Permanently marked-down employees aren't a big, gift-wrapped expression of love? 

How about the ability of a private business to shift a worker's housing, medical and food expenses onto the public as they steadfastly refuse to hire full-timers or pay their workers a living wage in order to keep their billionaire shareholders happy?

It adds up to big, gigantic wealth creation. Big, gigantic government-subsidized profits for businessmen renowned for their dislike of socialism and *cough* big government.

And still it's not enough. Like the supposedly entitled employees they hold such contempt for, business wants more. And when it has that it wants more. It is never enough. 

It is not enough that we have government-subsidized employees working for private businesses. We must love those businesses, too.

And lastly, we must never, ever tell the truth. Apparently, parasites have feelings, too.

Like I said, pretty funny.

You and Your Job

In my ongoing efforts to supply you, the valued Square Peg reader, with timely and relevant blog content, I offer this highly-scientific profile builder designed to articulate your feelings about work.

It will tell you whether it's time to look for a new job or get measured for a boardroom-ready designer suit. You need only to respond to the statements below to discover if you and your job are just a tawdry one-night hook-up or a bona fide LTR.

Read each of the eleven statements and choose the true or false answer that best matches your feelings. Hint: first responses are usually best.


01. Work is a continual annoyance, like a stone in your shoe which cannot be removed. True or false.

02. Only kidney stones pass more painfully than time at work. True or false.

03. When you exit the building at the end of the day, you look skywards, spread your arms in supplication and beseech an uncaring and spiteful god with the words “What did I ever do?” True or false.

04. You’ve ceased listening to Highway to Hell because it bears an uncomfortable resemblance to your drive to work. True or false.

05. Every day you don’t claw your eyes out in sheer agony is a small, but significant, victory. True or false.

06. Sartre’s concept that hell is your co-workers (admittedly a rough translation) may be truer than anyone suspects. True or false.

07. Only a proctologist sees more assholes than you do. True or false.

08. You understand the significance of the German expression arbeit macht frei, and wonder that your employer hasn’t inscribed it on the walls of the cafeteria. True or false.

09. Horrible Bosses isn’t a comedy, it’s a documentary. True or false.

10. Inducing internal organ failure is becoming an increasingly reasonable alternative to getting up and going to work tomorrow. True or false.

11. You are troubled by recurring dreams of animals chewing off their limbs to escape a trap. True or false.


Scoring:

For each true response, give yourself three points. For each false, zero. Total your points and match the total to the profiles below.

00 – 00 Once, you were upset at work. But you don’t remember why. You wonder why you’re paid, because you’d work for free. Work is fun. Like a puzzle. And you like puzzles. And singing songs. And just having fun. At least until your meds wear off.

03 – 12 Stealing office supplies provides temporary, short-term relief only. It’s not a cure. In other words, when you find yourself in a hole, put down the shovel. It’s time to update the resume and begin the search for new employment.

15 – 21 You regularly experience significant discomfort at work. Ditto the realization that sleep aids and anti-depressants only camouflage symptoms. Time to increase your dosage, find a good therapist and ramp-up your search.

24 – 33 Elvis isn’t the only one who’s left the building, is he? Let’s face it: at this point, quitting is just a formality. Like our favorite besotted and jump-suited singer, you left the building a long time ago.

Much Ado about Nothing

I will admit right off the bat that life could be much worse. I could have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer this morning. I could be homeless, or filing for bankruptcy. I could be off to the hospital to visit my girlfriend after she was raped and beaten last night.

But I’m not.

Yet at the same time, it could also be a great deal better.

For example, I could have two compatible part-time jobs. Or just one full-time job with a living wage. Or sleep not riddled with eye-opening anxiety. Is an apartment with appliances that don’t date from the Carter administration asking too much?

I am weary. Life has become a slog through wet cement. Round and round and round I go, expending energy and effort but never arriving at my destination. True, you could argue that I now have two part-time jobs, whereas last spring I had none.

But consider this. Part-time job number one mandates where I live. And despite its offering of one week’s employment per month, it forbids me to be otherwise employed, as I must (technically) be available virtually around the clock, each and every day of the month.

Forgive my impudence, but didn’t the Emancipation Proclamation eliminate slavery?

Part-time job number two recently informed me that after September, I will no longer be able to take a week off each month to perform part-time job number one.

This despite my making this condition clear when asked if I had any extenuating circumstances that might affect my availability in a job interview last August.

With their subsequent extension of a job offer, didn't they indicate that this was reasonable and acceptable? That they were okay with it? Or am I just a dumb fuck?

Alas, I ask for too much. What on Earth am I thinking, smoking, drinking or otherwise ingesting? That I could conceivably be self-supporting? That I could conceivably possess two crappy part-time jobs?

My presumptuousness is as alarming as it is outrageous.

On my good days, I think to myself “OK. This isn’t working. Change it.” But it soon becomes evident that I am between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

The apartment? Even within the geographic area allowed by part-time job number one, I’m stuck. Landlords in my adopted state are the definition of provincial.

“You haven’t lived here all your life? You haven’t been at your job fifteen years? Hmmm. What are you? Some kind of transient? A job-hopper? You’re not very stable. You’re a very poor risk. And I can’t rent to you.”

And the job(s)? Logic would decree that if I find my current employment unsuitable, I should seek employment elsewhere. But I’m already playing the lottery, thank you very much.

Which is another way of saying I may as well petition the Yankees to become their centerfielder as apply for a position in the field in which I’ve spent the majority of my work life.

Employers have made it crystal clear that as a prospective candidate, I rank somewhere between a death row felon and a drooling imbecile who smells of feces.

Which is why I find myself in two incompatible part-time jobs that can dictate so many facets of my existence. Only the desperate need apply.

Serfdom, anyone?

The Other End of the Line

A friend of mine recently posted a very funny blog about dealing with the phone company. It doesn’t seem to matter what continent you’re on, the phone company is always The Phone Company.

But the cluelessness isn't limited to one end of the line.

I should know. I spent many years working for one. The following is a faithful recollection of a call I received while working there. I doubt I’ll ever forget it. The names have been changed, etc.

Me: Thank you for calling Qwest Communications. My name is Danny. How can I help you?

Customer: Now listen up Danny. My name is Joe Strocek, and I’m a snowbird from Erie, Pennsylvania. I was told that a technician needs to come out to start up my service, but there’s just no way that needs to happen. There’s been service there before.

Me: Okay. Let me take a look at the address. Where did you want to set-up your service?

(Customer gives me the address of a popular RV park in Phoenix. I run a facility check and it comes up as ‘technician visit required’.)

Me: Okay Joe. I checked the address, and it’s coming up as one that requires a visit.

Customer: Now don’t tell me that Danny. That’s not what I want to hear.

Me: I know it’s frustrating. But at…

Customer: Look. I spent thirty-seven years working for a utility in Pennsylvania. I know when a technician needs to come out, and when they don’t. And a technician doesn’t need to come out here, Danny. Now what are you going to do about this?

Me: Let me double-check with Tech, and I’ll be back to you as soon as I can. Can you hold for a sec?

Customer: Sure.

(I call our facility technicians in Phoenix, and get a status report on the availability of lines at the RV park the customer is moving to. A technician does indeed need to go out and bring a line to the CO for this address.)

Me: Joe?

Customer: Yep.

Me: Thanks for holding. I called our office in Phoenix, and we definitely need to send a technician out to get your service up and running. I wish I could tell you differently, but we need to bring a line to your box. Are there any extenuating health conditions that would allow me to make this a priority install?

Customer: Now look here, Danny. I know you have a switch there by your desk. Will you please just flip the dang thing so my wife and I can have our phone service?

Me: Joe, we’re a for-profit company. Believe me, if we could start billing you now we would. But we can’t.

Customer: I know this game. Okay? Now will you PLEASE just flip the damn switch?

Me: Joe, this is what I have in my cubicle: a computer, a bunch of binders and manuals, some pens, a cup of coffee and a scratch pad of paper. That’s all. No switch—I promise.

Customer: JUST FLIP THE GODDAMN SWITCH!

(I'd already spent over ten minutes on this call, and it was going nowhere. It was obvious that only a technician visit and the subsequent sound of dial tone was going to convince Joe. Which is why I said...)

Me: Okay. It’s flipped.

Customer: Thank you! (click.)

I left extensive notes on the account explaining the conversation and what had (and had not) been confirmed, but never checked back to see when ol’ Joe got his telephone service.

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.

Work

In addition to making the posterior portion of my anatomy really, really sore, work has also taught me many valuable lessons.

My first job was a very short one. After two days of being a go-fer at a car dealership, I was informed by the service manager after showing up for day number three that I had been hired without the knowledge and/or consent of the owner and had to be let go.

It wouldn’t be the last time.

Lesson: Like water, blame only flows in one direction—downstream.

A few weeks later, I was hired for a similar job at another dealership. I worked six days a week—3 PM to 9 PM Monday through Friday and all day Saturday (even after my senior year of high school began). After five months of faithful service I was let go when the dealership found someone who could come in an hour earlier than I could.

It hurt, but at least I got the last laugh. My replacement attended the same high school I did, and I knew him to be an irresponsible fuck-up. Sure enough, a few weeks later the same man who fired me was on the phone asking if I was working.

Lesson: Like you, your employer is always looking for something better. Take nothing for granted.

While a freshman in college, I worked as a stock boy in the china department of Marshall Field’s. I got along famously with the department manager, her assistant and the floor manager. I didn’t mind work a bit. In fact, it was rare it felt like work.

Imagine.

But however sweet it seemed, it was after all, a workplace. A workplace rife with all the jealousies, conflicts and grudges that workplaces have. And the perception that the china department had its own stock boy because the department manager was in a relationship with the floor manager ran deep.

And while the store was air conditioned, precious little of it made its way into the stockroom. As a result, hours spent heaving sixty-pound boxes of china onto stockroom shelves made me rather warm. To cool off, I would remove my stock jacket when I went to lunch.

Somehow, the store manager got wind of it (it certainly wasn’t because we dined at the same places). I protested, saying the stockroom was hot and I needed a breather. Besides, I wasn’t being paid for lunch. What business was it of theirs what I wore?

I even took to walking outside the mall—all to no avail. After a heated meeting with the floor manager, I resigned myself to wearing the bloody jacket.

Lesson: There is always someone looking to undermine you. Watch your back.

I graduated from college in the early-eighties. Like now, the economy wasn’t very good. It especially wasn’t very good if you were an English major. I worked temporary jobs during the day and one of the most-dangerous jobs in America at night.

I worked the graveyard shift at a convenience store.

Oh, the stories I could tell: the woman who arrived in high heels and a men’s white dress shirt. The guy who emerged from the bathroom in his dress shirt and a hard-on, asking if I could “help” him.

Ugh.

The drunks, the thieves, the cops, the cons. There was never a dull moment in the convenience store trade.

I worked every other night. When I wasn’t breaking up fights or kicking out drunks, I was anticipating armed robbery. It happened, but to the other guy.

That was when I got really serious about finding a full-time job.

Unfortunately, that was when the other guy got really serious about finding a full-time job, too. And since he found one before I did and the owner couldn’t find a suitable replacement, I worked thirty-six nights in a row.

Enough was enough.

The owner was making a very nice living from the store. I but an hourly wage—sans benefits. I decided he could assume the risk and work the graveyard shift and gave notice that I would no longer be able to do so. Not one but two nightmen were found.

Lesson: The squeaky wheel gets the grease.