blacklisted

A few weeks ago, I had an interview at a company and was promptly sent a rejection letter. Interview on Monday, rejection letter by Wednesday. I can only assume that no sooner had I left the interviewing room than a letter was being drafted to inform me of the company’s non-interest in me.

Two weeks later, as I was engaging in my Sunday ritual of scouring through the Sunday classified ads, I came across the exact same posting for the exact same position which I had applied to and been rejected for by this exact same company. Granted, I’ve come to realize that my talents and skill level are mediocre at best, but my mediocre talents could have more than accomplished what this job entailed.

So under the guise of trying to improve my ‘future interviewing performance’, I called the lady who had interviewed, and rejected me. She answered, and I mentioned how I had interviewed, been rejected, and then saw the posting for the job re-run that Sunday.

“I was wondering what I could do to improve my interviewing skills,” I asked. Though what I meant was, ‘what the hell are you looking for and why was I not good enough?’

In a rather cold and curt tone, she told me, “I’m not at liberty to discuss this with you.”

And I found her comment rather cryptic. She could have easily blown me off by saying that it was ‘lack of experience’, or ‘lack of education’, or a ‘lack of anything’ really, but to say that she ‘wasn’t at liberty to discuss this’ sounded like their decision not to hire me was of national security and was thus labeled ‘top secret’.

It sounded fishy, and I suspected that perhaps I was receiving a bad-mouthing from my ex-employer. I realize that doing this to a former employee is technically against the law, but I feel quite certain that it happens all the time. So I called my ex-employer to verify my own employment. My thinking was that I would catch them red-handed in dragging my name through the mud and sue them for millions of dollars, thus making the need to actually ‘get a job’ moot. Granted, my plan was poorly constructed past the ‘calling them’ phase, but I was sure that it would flesh itself out as the call progressed.

So grabbing my old Walkman tape recorder in order to clumsily record the call, I began dialing. True, the Walkman hadn’t been used in over fifteen years, but it was a Sony. And knowing the good work ethic of our friends overseas in Japan, I was confident in the quality tape recorder that I’m sure they produced.

But, upon calling, all I got out of our human resources clerk was the confirmation of my job title and dates of employment. I even tried leading her into saying bad things about me. I’ve watched enough Law and Order on television to know that in a court of law this would constitute entrapment, but I figured that I could erase that part of the tape later on. But even with all my subtle leading of the witness, I couldn’t squeeze a bad report about myself out of her. Still, I felt that the whole thing smelled like a cover-up.

Obviously, there was a conspiracy at work here. There must be some ancient and secret society of HR personnel, I reasoned. Clearly, I had been blacklisted and my name was placed upon a ‘do not hire’ list that was shared by members of this society. If only I knew the secret handshake or code word that was needed to gain entry into the underbelly of the human resources field, I could find out what terrible things were being said about me and why my name was on this list. Because how can someone find a job when you’re viewed as an enemy by the entire human resources profession?

It was like something out of the movies, and I envisioned a younger Harrison Ford, playing the role of me…granted, in real life I more closely resemble one of those Hobbits from Lord of the Rings, but being that this was my fantasy, I got to do the casting. Harrison would uncover mystery after mystery to slowly unravel the secrets of this sinister HR sect. Finally, after risking life and death, he would gain access to the inner sanctum, retrieve the scroll upon which was written the names of all the un-hirables. And, set against a crescendo of music, he would pull out a pencil and erase my name from the list. Thus ending the evil, tyrannical conspiracy to keep me from getting a job.

As for now, though, I still feel like I’m being blacklisted.

unemployments anonymous

I received a letter from the unemployment office telling me that I had been selected to participate in their re-employment assistance program, or RAP, the cutesy acronym that the program was referred to throughout the body of the text. The letter went on to say that, while my participation in this program was not mandatory, there was a good possibility that my unemployment checks would stop if I failed to show up. So, motivated both by the promise of a new job and the fear that my unemployment checks would be yanked, I headed off for their little RAP session this morning.

Chuck was waiting for us, the unemployed, as we filed into a windowless room with rows of computers stretching from the main door to the back wall.

“Just grab a seat,” Chuck told us. “As you’ll see on your screen, we’ve been working in conjunction with the local careerlink offices and have developed a search engine in which you can locate employers that are hiring in the area. Now, if you simply click in the upper left-hand corner on the ‘job seekers’ button, you’ll find that we have over 1,300 jobs listed in our database. The goal, of course, being to help you find gainful employment.”

Following Chuck’s instructions, I clicked on the button and, true to his word, 1,300 jobs were found. Upon closer inspection of the jobs that needed filled, however, I soon found that the majority of these jobs were ‘counter help’ positions that paid ‘competitive wages’…which, I felt quite sure, was simply a fancy way of saying that there were openings for retail workers at $7 per hour. Thus, while employment could be secured, my definition of ‘gainful employment’ was quite different from Chuck’s.

Not bothering to apply for any of the ‘competitive wage’ positions, I began glancing through some of the various flyers that were handed out as we walked into the room. On one was information regarding weekly ‘job club’ meetings that were offered at the unemployment office. As Chuck made his way through the aisles, I stopped him and asked what, exactly, a job club was.

“Well,” Chuck told me, “our job clubs are a chance for people to network. You may not realize this, but networking is a very valuable resource in securing a job.”

“But Chuck,” I asked, “aren’t most of the people in this club unemployed? How is networking with someone that doesn’t have a job going to help me get a job?”

“These people all know other people. And you never know which one of these connections that someone else has may help lead you into a job,” Chuck reasoned.

“Uh-huh…but if these people actually had connections like that, don’t you think they’d use that connection to get a job for themselves? Meaning that they wouldn’t be unemployed and wouldn’t be attending the job club in the first place, thus making the whole networking idea moot.”

“Look,” he told me, “it’s the skill of networking that’s important. You may have to attend several job club meetings, but the skill you learn from participating is what will ultimately help you find a job.”

And with that, he disgustedly walked off and left me thinking that a ‘job club’ meeting sounded more like a support group than something that would benefit you in the form of a paycheck. And with any support group, the first step is admitting that you have a problem.

Hello. My name is Terry. And I am unemployed.

does buzz lightyear even have a penis?

With the abundance of free time that I now have since the whole job loss thing, I decided to catch up with my friend Cindy, who I haven’t talked to in several months.

Cindy is married to a psychologist and has a young son. Being married to a psychologist, she has become very intrigued by the study of human behavior. Freud, Skinner, and Piaget have become her new idols…a spot that, in her younger days, were reserved for David Cassidy, John Travolta, and Leif Garrett.

And with her interest in all things psychological, her son has become an unwitting test subject that provides countless hours of study. Lately, Cindy has been looking for subconscious meaning in the drawings of her five year old boy. Taped to every wall from her kitchen to the family room and leading up the stairway to the second floor are pictures that her son has drawn. And every single picture depicts Buzz Lightyear in some type of action pose.

“He’s really been into that Toy Story movie lately,” Cindy offered as explanation to the plethora of Buzzes buzzing around on each and every drawing. “I’m a little concerned however,” she continued, “because, if you look, most every Buzz has a pointy penis sticking out from between his legs. I’m wondering if perhaps this manifestation of penis as a spear means that he views his penis as a ‘weapon’. I think that perhaps he’s equating his penis as a signifier for power, and I worry that this may lead to him thinking of women as ‘lesser beings’ later in life.”

I looked at a few of the pictures on the wall. Although I’m no psychologist, nor am I married to a psychologist, I formed my own theory on the whole ‘pointy penis’ dilemma that Cindy was so worried would corrupt her boy.

“Cindy, I’m pretty sure that all these pointy lines between Buzz’s legs are just the flame from his jet pack that he uses to fly around with,” I told her.

“Oh yeah, that theory makes sense too. So you think I might be reading too much into his drawings?” she asked.

“Perhaps just a bit,” I responded. Though I cringe to think of how this poor kid is going to be analyzed when he’s caught looking through his first Playboy magazine.

preparing for battle

In the week leading up to the release from my job, the grapevine was rampant with stories concerning Debra…an employee who had been ‘released’ two weeks prior. As rumor had it, Debra was fighting the company in order to collect unemployment.

“They deny everybody unemployment,” Barry said. And at two years with the company, making him one of the most senior employees there, I figured that he should know. He had seen many people come and go, thus adding a certain sense of finality to his statement.

In retrospect, I guess I should have seen this conversation as a sign of foreshadowing. That I too, would soon be the topic of conversation around the office. But at the time, I paid it little attention. My life has remained void of allegories, iambic pentameters, and all other literary devices, so I didn’t even think twice that this unemployment conversation at the office would be foreshadowing anything that might relate to me. Though, now that I have found literary devices at work in my life, I will surely start looking for some kind of happy ending…preferably one that involves a large beanstalk and a golden egg laying bird of some type.

Once I was terminated and sat in the parking lot with my box of desk items sitting next to me on the passenger seat, I could only think of Debra’s dilemma and steeled myself for the inevitable battle that I knew would be coming.

Sure enough, a letter came from the unemployment office the other day. I had filed over a week ago, but instead of a check, I opened the envelope to the words, ‘FINAL DETERMINATION’. Being that these words were all in capital letters, I new that they couldn’t signify anything good, because you never receive documents with words in large lettering from government offices that mean something good will be coming your way.

I skimmed through and saw, in bold letters, ‘the final date to appeal is March 24!’ And, just like capital letters on official government mailings, nothing good ever comes from bold lettering either.

I read through the appeal process, and quickly filled out an on-line appeal form. Sitting back, reasonably sure that I had enough evidence to support my case, I prepared for the lengthy trial that would surely ensue. Granted, I’ve never been to any unemployment hearings before, but if there’s one thing that television has taught me, all hearings take place in a court, generally with a cantankerous judge, and enough lawyers to fill a Carnival Cruise ship.

The very next day, I received an email from the unemployment office folks. I clicked on it to see what date my hearing was set for and read, ‘Sir, since we found in your favor and that you are eligible to receive unemployment compensation, there is no reason for you to appeal the decision.’

I more closely read through the letter they had sent the day before and saw that this was true. All of which means that skimming official government related documents isn’t nearly as good as reading these same documents.

I’m just hoping that there isn’t a stupidly clause which they can use to deny my claim.

pounding the pavement once again

With a swift, self induced kick to my own butt, I’ve forced myself out of the doldrums. This means that the bed had to be made, my razor actually had to make a few swipes across my face, and the bills had to get paid…most importantly the cable bill. Priorities, of course.

I also came to the conclusion that work had to be found very fast. And with this thought in mind, I did something that I had promised myself I’d never do. Namely, I seriously considered a job selling insurance.

An email alerted me to an information session being held one afternoon to join the wonderful ranks at Liberty Mutual, thus I pulled out a sport coat and, with resume in hand, headed off.

And now that I’m thinking of becoming a death preparation peddler, I figure that perhaps I could combine selling life insurance and death plots…the two jobs that continually seek my services by sending an email a day to my inbox. I’m already working on my sales pitch, “Gee Mr. Smith, since you’re going to die one day don’t you want your family to be taken care of? This life insurance will do the trick. And you may as well get a cemetery plot as well, since it would be a shame to have your kids end up dumping your body in a ditch somewhere and use the insurance money to fly off to the Bahamas or something.”

I arrived and found a seat among the fifteen other attendees…never realizing just how many people want to sell insurance. John Jackson, our information session presenter, waxed poetic about what a great company and satisfying job it would be if we were deemed worthy enough to become a part of the Liberty Mutual team. We then entered into the written portion of the information session.

“Just some simple scenarios about the sales process we’d like you to answer,” John told us.

The questions, which included ‘How do you close?’ and ‘What sales techniques do you use to seal the deal?’ forced me to start spewing massive amounts of bull shit across the paper. Having never actually ‘sold’ anything for a living, I could only speculate as to how I would ‘close’ and what techniques may or may not work well for me in ‘sealing’ any deals.

I was, however, sitting next to a guy with alligator shoes and slicked back hair. ‘Here’, I thought, ‘is a guy that clearly must know something about selling.’ So, craning my neck ever so slightly, I tried to glimpse his answers to the questions that were posed.

And as I was midway through reading his response to the question, ‘How would you convince a reluctant customer to purchase something?’, I heard someone clearing their throat from behind me. The throat clearer being, none other, than Mr. Jackson himself.

“Just a little crick in my neck,” I muttered, than feebly started rubbing where I thought the phantom crick would look most convincing.

John Jackson simply gave a disgusted snort and continued walking up the aisle.

Having just been caught cheating on my pre-employment questionnaire, I was quite certain that a career at Liberty Mutual was not going to be forthcoming. I slipped out during the break and threw the questionnaire in the trash can by the main entrance, wondering if Nationwide was as picky about sharing answers as Liberty Mutual seemed to be.

the state of things

My bed hasn’t been made for several days now. I haven’t changed out of the sweatpants I’ve been wearing. And bills that are now overdue litter my kitchen table. Plus, I could really use a shave. Yet I have no motivation to accomplish anything.

I tell myself, however, that as long as things inside my apartment are in a better state than things outside in the hallway, I must be doing well. Because for the past several weeks, the management of my apartment complex has been in phase 18 of their ‘renovation project’, otherwise known as, ‘our plan to double your rent project’.

First we had the elevators updated, then the mailboxes got replaced, the parking lot was repaved, we got new windows, and now the hallways are being stripped of the wallpaper (circa 1962) and are being prepped for paint.

Thus, once you exit out my front door, you’re met with spackled holes, an overpowering scent of fresh paint, and a haze of dust from the sanding which has been going on all week…a dust which frequently sets off the fire alarms. In addition to this, the hallway carpeting is now decorated with multiple paint splotches and many scraps of ripped off wallpaper.

All of which culminates in making my apartment building look like the most overpriced slum residence in the city.

And as long as things remain in better condition inside my apartment as opposed to outside, I can continue telling myself that I’m doing alright. That I’m holding things together. Though I fully expect this illusion to come crashing down around me very soon…such as when things like my phone service and electricity are shut off.

And every day for the past week, I’ve been telling myself that ‘tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow is when I’ll straighten up, fly right, and do all those other clichéd things which will mean that I’m getting my life back on track.’ This hasn’t happened yet. And it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen today.

But tomorrow…that’s when I’ll start pulling things together.

when it rains, it pours

Pam and I celebrated our four month anniversary the other night, and I knew that something was up the minute I walked through the door and gave her a hug. Usually, Pam is a great hugger…a woman who is truly skilled in the art of hugging. Her body just tends to melt, conforming to each and every curve on your body. Yesterday, however, her hug more resembled what I imagine hugging a mannequin would be like.

And it’s at times like these that I wish I had some type of superpower. X-ray vision, super strength, or the ability to read minds. Something to clue me in to what’s going on and give me the power to solve it, thus making everything all right.

Unfortunately, I have no superpowers.

It was during dinner that I found out the reason for the bad hello hug. Pam’s ex-boyfriend, Sam or Sal or something, had called her earlier in the week. They had dated for five years, and had been apart for four months when I started dating her. Now, he wanted to reconcile.

“He said he still loved me and that he missed me,” Pam said. “I really like you, but I’m very confused right now. I need some time away from you so that I can sort things out…it’s nothing you’ve done, though. You’re a great guy and will make someone very happy someday.”

This was my consolation prize. I may not have Pam, but I get to retain the title of ‘great guy’. Though I realize that four months can’t compete with five years, and nothing short of a suddenly undiscovered superpower would change this. If I could fly like Superman and reverse time, I might have a chance. If I had rubber arms, like that guy from the Fantastic Four, and could strangle her ex while remaining seated at the table, there might be hope. But no powers of flight or rubber limbs emerged.

In the course of two weeks, I’ve lost both the job and the girl.

And I sit here hoping for better days. Hoping that they’ll get here fast. And hoping that maybe I’ll develop a superpower…one that will help me win the girl, earn money, and save the world.

And if not a superpower, I’ll gladly settle for a secret Batcave. Because at least then I’ll have somewhere to go and sulk.

there's no such thing as a free lunch

I’ve had a Panera Bread ‘buy seven, get one free’ card in my wallet for the last few months. I’ve worked hard on getting this little card filled and, as this clearly shows, I strive to complete goals and am a motivated individual (which is how I justify putting these two items on my newly updated resume.)

And now that the card is filled, I’ve got a free meal coming…which is perfect since ‘free’ clearly fits into my new, now unemployed, budget. So card in hand, I headed to Panera to cash in on some food.

I scanned the sandwich selection on the menu board above the registers, opted for the Garden Veggie sandwich on Ciabatta bread, and headed toward the cashier. I gave her my order, handed her my fully punched Panera Card, and stood back to bask in my accomplishment of eating so many Panera sandwiches that I was now getting one for free. Finally, an accomplishment that I could take pride in, because while I may not have luck with jobs, this surely shows that I can eat quite well.

The girl at the register took my card, glanced at it, and tossed it into the trash.

“Sorry sir,” she told me as she pulled out a new card and began punching holes in it, “that card is expired. I’ll transfer your purchases from that one onto this new card.”

“Do I really need a new card?” I asked her. “I’m still going to have enough punches to get a free sandwich, so why waste another card?”

“Oh no,” she said. “On the old card you needed seven purchases for a free sandwich. On the new cards, you’ll need ten.”

Frustrated, I took the card. “And what happens when this card expires? Am I going to be given another new card only to find out that instead of ten purchases I’ll need 15?”

The girl behind the register just chuckled and said, “don’t be silly, sir. When this card expires, we’ll just throw it out.”

And, as I pulled out the last few remaining dollars from my wallet, I realized that it would cost me a lot more money in order to get a free sandwich.