2004-08-18 - 1:24 p.m.
A Dearth of Career Options
Monday was my five-year service anniversary at my place of employment. I received a check for fifty dollars and an official notice of my lay off. For the past several years here, I’ve been writing and editing books. I thought that counted for something when applying for jobs, but was told “No degree equals no job. Have you tried the customer service area?”
The job for which I applied entailed sending out an e-mail at the end of each day letting employees know what’s going on within the company.
“Sally Jones Celebrates her 55th Year with the Company.”
“Jane Smith Has a Slightly Used Breast Pump for Sale.”
“Studies Have Shown that Working Here Too Long Turns Most Employees Into Lardy, Bitter Assholes.”
Such are the things these e-mails consist of.
The lack of a college degree held me back from getting a position writing such innocuous fluff geared toward the company’s 1,500 or so employees. My current position, however, requires me to write about subjects such as HIV, bioterrorism agents, and what one should do should one notice a discharge from one’s genitals.
The position ended-up going to a person who’s been with the company for more than fifteen years as a secretary. The person has a degree, but (I’m told) no experience. “She was supposed to be my manager,” a co-worker scowled. “She couldn’t manage her way out of a paper bag! I’m glad I don’t have to work with her anymore.” I guess that’s what a career of flying below the radar eventually gets you.
I’m starting to come to terms with being laid off. What I’m having a hard time dealing with is the constant stream of co-workers who come into my cubicle, hang their head, and, in a concerned tone, whisper things such as, “So how you holding up?” They seem to mean well, but I want to shout, “I just watched my mother die a horrible fucking death! I’m losing my job! I won’t have an income AND WORSE, I won’t have insurance! I FEEL LIKE I JUST WON THE FUCKING LOTTERY! HOW T’HELL DO YOU THINK I’M HOLDING UP?!?”
Instead I say, “I’m fine, thanks.” Usually they respond with, “Really? Well, that’s good.” All the while, I’m sure they’re thinking, “You poor bastard. Sucks being you. But better you than me.”
At the opposite end of the spectrum are the co-workers who avoid me as if I have chancres covering my body. I’ve noticed some people walking hurriedly past my cube, giving a sort of sideway glance as they zip by, curious to see the guy who’s getting laid off, as if it’s a disease that they desperately do not want to catch. These are the kinds of people about whom my grandfather used to say, “They’ll pee on your back and tell you it’s raining.” The gregarious, bullshit, corporate types who give you hearty pats on the back, blow smoke up your ass, and in every conversation, call you bud, buddy, or pal. That being said, I think I can deal with these people better than the fake-concerned ones. Their superficiality is obvious and that’s how they prefer it.
My boss is worried because she’s stuck working with a complete mess who’s been here for more than twenty years. “Is she incompetent or lazy?” their boss asked. “Both,” my boss replied. “That’s what I was afraid of,” their boss said. “I wish I could fire her, but I know I’d have a lawsuit on my hands,” she continued. So an acknowledged lazy, incompetent bag of shit gets to keep her job that pays in excess of $80,000 a year, but the guy who’s struggling to make $30,000 a year gets the boot.
“You know, you’ll have to start all over again,” my ex-girlfriend Edna said.
“I know,” I replied.
“Thirty-three years old, and you’ll be working in a mailroom,” she continued.
“I get the picture,” I said. “Anyway, if you need me for anything, you can reach me in care of my new address in the flower bed at Millennium Park,” I said sarcastically.
“You’re already dressed for it,” she responded wryly.
Last night at dinner, I told my friend Joey and his missus that a career in prostitution seemed like good, easy money. “Some guy offered to give me money if I’d let him blow me. Money AND a blow job. It doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Illlllllll,” Joey said, making a face.
“Dude, think about it. The guy said he could maybe hook me up with other clients,” I egged him on.
“You better not,” he said. “Dude, if you become a male prostitute, I’ll never talk to you again.”
“He’s only kidding,” said his missus.
Do I seem that desperate? When I told Joey I was considering becoming a taxi cab driver he had to think about it, and the next day said, “I don’t think taxi driver is a good career for you. I think a lot of people started driving taxis thinking that they’d just do it for a couple of months and ended up doing it their whole lives.” He also nixed truck driver, bus driver, Streetwise vendor, and manual laborer.
“He needs a job being creative,” he tells his missus and Effie. “Get him a job being a creative admin.” Joey is a big lug and has a good heart.
Whatever. Maybe I’ll just take some time off and ponder all the tips that I could be making in one of my career choices of desperation.
