wasn’t my Number One problem. I still couldn't find a job – seemingly, no one in L.A. wanted a database developer. I was driving the B of A’s stolen truck, without insurance, and now, I couldn't pay my rent. How were we going to eat? I was supporting three people, a bunny, six birds, and two cats. I felt like Scarlett when she goes back to Tara, and everyone is turning to her, “What do we do now , Miss Scarlett? What do we do? ” Unfortunately, there was no Frank Burns I could marry for $300 . I felt utterly alone.
The n adir of this nightmare was a trip to the Department Of Social Services, a . k . a . , Welfare. I would never apply for Welfare – the very thought made my acid reflux rise . No, I was there for Food Stamps, just one rung higher on t he You Know You’re Fucked When . . . Index . I had already taken the unthinkable step – for me – of filing for Unemployment. I looked around. I was surrounded by young mothers in turn surrounded by screaming, crying kids . Yes, most were minorities – blacks and Latinos – because when the economy hit s the toilet, they are the first ones flushed. I stared at the front row . There sat – of all things! – an Orthodox Jew, his black hat crowning his dangling payot , his prayer shawl hidden by his long Lubavitcher coat.
WT F ?! I wanted to shake him. Isn’t it bad enough that one of us is here ? Do we have to make it into a bris ?!
I sat in th at Waiting Room From Hell, another soul emerging from limbo . One hour passed. Two. Three. My name w as a long way from being called, and the metal seats were hard.
When I heard it, six hours later, I barely had the strength to slouch over to the numbered station. There was an older woman there , a Latina , who listened to my tale of woe and nodded as if she cared . I’m sure she’d hear d a lot worse, especially in tho se days of sorrow . I was handed a packet of forms to fill out – I did, the English ones. I turned in my homework, then slumped out past the guard . I had WaMu to thank for this .
A question I’d often pondered: what was the difference between feudalism and U.S. capitalism? As a serf, you had a job for life ; as an employee, you had the “Work At Will” clause, which meant you could be shit- canned at anyone’s will . Serfdom was probably preferable, since you didn’t have to deal with sterile state agencies like this one : s creaming children, wasted time . I stepped into my outlaw’s truck. Christ, I was tired.
The depression that had been trailing me hitched a permanent ride, and no amount of Paxil could dispel it . I had always been prone to black moods – can you tell ? – but since I’d gone on SSRI ’ s , a numbness had replaced the sadness, and that was OK by me . Now , m y anesthetized self tore away in strips, leaving only panic .
I started to feel worthless. No one wanted me, after all . Was I good enough? Did I even have any skills? Was I kidding myself that at fifty, I was still viable in the workforce ? There were no Banks left to work at – they were either gone or gorging at Uncle Sam’s trough. There were no studio jobs – the industry was closed tighter than Rupert Murdoch’s asshole . I wouldn't have minded a temporary slot – making latt é s at Starbucks; taking inventory at Target – but these jobs, too, were un attainable , with lines of hundreds round the block, fray ing suits on aging bodies, pain etched on once-happy faces.
For once, I couldn't thin k my way out of this impasse -- invent some clever plan that would make everything right. I started to fantasize about crime: could I become the Bernie Madoff of wire fraud ? Episodes of American Greed reran in my head , but always with the same finale: jail. Then came the more insidious thoughts: of suicide.
I hadn’t considered this since my twenties , when I’d been bouncing off the ceiling at Fox. But now, in the dark days of November ’09 , s pent lying on my inflatable bed , sending résumés
The n adir of this nightmare was a trip to the Department Of Social Services, a . k . a . , Welfare. I would never apply for Welfare – the very thought made my acid reflux rise . No, I was there for Food Stamps, just one rung higher on t he You Know You’re Fucked When . . . Index . I had already taken the unthinkable step – for me – of filing for Unemployment. I looked around. I was surrounded by young mothers in turn surrounded by screaming, crying kids . Yes, most were minorities – blacks and Latinos – because when the economy hit s the toilet, they are the first ones flushed. I stared at the front row . There sat – of all things! – an Orthodox Jew, his black hat crowning his dangling payot , his prayer shawl hidden by his long Lubavitcher coat.
WT F ?! I wanted to shake him. Isn’t it bad enough that one of us is here ? Do we have to make it into a bris ?!
I sat in th at Waiting Room From Hell, another soul emerging from limbo . One hour passed. Two. Three. My name w as a long way from being called, and the metal seats were hard.
When I heard it, six hours later, I barely had the strength to slouch over to the numbered station. There was an older woman there , a Latina , who listened to my tale of woe and nodded as if she cared . I’m sure she’d hear d a lot worse, especially in tho se days of sorrow . I was handed a packet of forms to fill out – I did, the English ones. I turned in my homework, then slumped out past the guard . I had WaMu to thank for this .
A question I’d often pondered: what was the difference between feudalism and U.S. capitalism? As a serf, you had a job for life ; as an employee, you had the “Work At Will” clause, which meant you could be shit- canned at anyone’s will . Serfdom was probably preferable, since you didn’t have to deal with sterile state agencies like this one : s creaming children, wasted time . I stepped into my outlaw’s truck. Christ, I was tired.
The depression that had been trailing me hitched a permanent ride, and no amount of Paxil could dispel it . I had always been prone to black moods – can you tell ? – but since I’d gone on SSRI ’ s , a numbness had replaced the sadness, and that was OK by me . Now , m y anesthetized self tore away in strips, leaving only panic .
I started to feel worthless. No one wanted me, after all . Was I good enough? Did I even have any skills? Was I kidding myself that at fifty, I was still viable in the workforce ? There were no Banks left to work at – they were either gone or gorging at Uncle Sam’s trough. There were no studio jobs – the industry was closed tighter than Rupert Murdoch’s asshole . I wouldn't have minded a temporary slot – making latt é s at Starbucks; taking inventory at Target – but these jobs, too, were un attainable , with lines of hundreds round the block, fray ing suits on aging bodies, pain etched on once-happy faces.
For once, I couldn't thin k my way out of this impasse -- invent some clever plan that would make everything right. I started to fantasize about crime: could I become the Bernie Madoff of wire fraud ? Episodes of American Greed reran in my head , but always with the same finale: jail. Then came the more insidious thoughts: of suicide.
I hadn’t considered this since my twenties , when I’d been bouncing off the ceiling at Fox. But now, in the dark days of November ’09 , s pent lying on my inflatable bed , sending résumés
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