Unless you count having only $6.32 in your checking account and the subsequent stress that comes from knowing that your landlord will not accept a handful of stale Raisinettes in lieu of rent, being unemployed is one of the most enlightened states in which a person can exist. It's like being retired, except you're still young enough to enjoy it.

I recently became unemployed, which I keep telling people is a result of my having been laid off. This is a lie, but it elicits fewer questions than the truth, which is that I was fired. Surely you are wondering why. Everyone is wondering why, as if they have some irrepressible desire to make me feel worse than I already do. This is why I have started lying. Witness the difference in the typical exchange:

Me: I was laid off.

Response: That sucks. Stupid economy.


Me: I was fired.

Response: My God, what happened, man? Did you piss someone off? Sleep with the boss' daughter? Sacrifice a goat in your office? What's the story?

Not that I am bitter.

It was time to go anyway. The company was one of those dingy Long Island offices that takes itself entirely too seriously given what it contributes to society (namely, about 150,000 Internet popup ads per month). They're also incredibly cheap, which means the terms they hired me under included a clause that said, in essence, "Should we wish to terminate your contract at any time, your severance package shall be limited to the number of paperclips you are able to steal from your desk on the way out."

And even if I wanted my job back, it isn't like there's a court of appeals I could go to:

Me: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I was supposedly fired for being disorganized. I will disprove this unmitigated bullshit with several key pieces of evidence, which I seem to have left in the car, or in my other pants or something. Hang on a second. (rifles through paperwork)

Appeals Judge: I sentence you to death.

Ha! Unemployment benefits! That's a good one. Apparently I pay less in taxes each year than I do on refilling my stapler, because the amount of money I get from the government is equal to what I might collect sitting on a street grate with a bottle of Wild Turkey in one hand and a Dixie cup in the other. This means, of course, it is time to rejoin the hunt for gainful employment.

Are there any worse circumstances under which one can make career decisions than being hopelessly unemployed? The hunt becomes purely about getting money rather than pursuing one's interests, and unless one's interest is the pursuit of money, this hunt is going to be one of desperation. Every interview is another degrading process of trying to cover the hideous, pus-infested blemishes of inadequacy in one's experience, and whatever job it leads to will invariably waste nine hours of one's day on the doing of something else that makes one completely miserable.

Sign me up!

I have been unemployed many times, and this fruitless process of repeatedly searching for suitable employment has started to take its toll on me. More than once I've been close to taking my blanket, along with the bucket I keep my toilet brush in, and bedding down in a nice cozy spot behind the Port Authority building.

What's that? You have job security? You finished school and got a degree and went into something where the path is mapped out, and though you may not get the opportunity to break free and be terribly creative, at least you know where your next paycheck is coming from, and that you won’t find yourself unemployed every six months? Well, bully for you. But don't give me this piece of advice I keep getting about how, just for now, I should take whatever I should get.

"You know," these people say. "In the meantime. Get a crappy job until something else comes through."

This is always easy for the people with job security to say, because they aren't the ones who will have to do this. They will not be the ones carrying beer kegs around and washing dishes for 14 hours straight. They will not be the ones with the words "Sandwich Artist" embroidered on their chests, making thousands of disgusting hoagies in a roach-infested Subway. They will not be the ones lifting side-by-side refrigerators up three flights of stairs.

I have done these things, many times with some emasculating asshole standing over my shoulder as if I lack the intelligence for the task. And so, I do not wish to appear a snob, but I am a young man with an impressive résumé, deserving of some respect and a little more than six bucks an hour, and I think I've about done about all the slicing, mopping, dicing, stocking, hefting, swabbing, prepping, hawking, scrubbing and spit-polishing I can handle for one lifetime, thank you very much.

On the other hand, I hear Disney's always looking for guys to wear the Goofy suit.

Printer-Friendly Version

E-Mail This to a Friend