Today I wake up in full-blown panic. THERE IS A CHARTREUSE POST-IT WAITING FOR ME DOWNSTAIRS. I left it for myself before bed. Classic to-do list. Heinous tasks involving INTERACTING FACE-TO-FACE WITH OTHER HUMAN BEINGS. Horrendous, death-defying feats related to MONEY AND SUPERMARKETS AND JOB SEARCHES.
Grimly, I get up. I am breathing funny. Kids, with D. Dogs, loaned out to W. It is quiet enough to think, but my hyperventilating kind of ruins the peaceful setting: cute kitten chasing after crumpled receipts, sun shining in.
Ah, crap. Here we go.
The worst thing on the list is a weekly trip to the Department of Transitional Assistance. This does not mean they help you onto buses or airplanes or skateboards. No, these are the folks who answer questions about WIC and Earned Income Credit and jobs that no one else, even in this economy, wants to do.
I give my name at the desk. They see so many people every day, they do not remember me.
“Mattern. Like ‘pattern,’ with an ‘M’.”
“Right. And you’re here for?”
“To see one of the Job Specialists. About a job. I saw it in the thing—”
“Right. Have a seat.”
I smile wanly at a jovial man in his 50s sitting across from me. We roll our eyes at each other, shake our heads. Neither of us wishes to be here. He could be an out-of-work neurosurgeon; I could be an out-of-work writer. We know that we are and that we are not better than this.
I am an out-of-work writer. But I can’t get back to being an in-work writer yet. Tech writing, marketing writing—right now, the meds I take to keep the polar bears in check fuzz up the chunks of my brain that I used to use for the dry, organizational writing that pays bills. It’s alarming, to be presented with the old work, and to find the capacity is no longer there—or, at least, not there right now, not with these chemicals swirling in my noggin.
“Jennifer?”
A grizzled chap with poor teeth (I can say that, because I’ve got crooked bottom teeth, so) waits impatiently by the door to the innards of the building.
I stand up. “Hi. Yes. Present.”
“Follow me.”
No introduction. No handshake. Nothing. This is how it always is. There is the sense that one is being called in to the principal’s office.
I follow him obediently to his cubicle. “DAVE SMITH,” says his cubicle nameplate.
He asks me what I want. It’s that flat. No points for effort here.
I take out the job newsletter that describes a job I might be able to do. I’m not sure I can do it, but I might be able to. I ask DAVE SMITH what he knows about it.
He doesn’t know a thing about it, and doesn’t seem to care much. He taps listlessly at his computer keyboard, leans back in his creaking chair.
“All I know is what it says on the paper. You can fill this out and bring it back here.”
He shoves another piece of paper at me. I am a paper magnet, these days.
“You don’t know anything else about this? Do you know what the starting pay might be?”
“No.”
I lean back in my chair.
“I’m a single mom. Two little girls. I’m transitioning out of writing work. It would help to know what I’m dealing with, you know? Financially.”
“You’ll have to talk to them directly.”
“But I’m supposed to bring my application to you,” I say.
“Yeah.”
This is how it goes. These social service people are exhausted. They work deadly hard to keep the whole damn world from unraveling. We, the ones who have been rolled and spit out by the crashing wave of the recession, are exhausted too. Everyone is really frickin’ exhausted.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” says he.
I stand up to go. I turn back around to face DAVE SMITH. “You know, you guys should at least introduce yourselves. I didn’t know your name until I saw your cubicle.”
DAVE SMITH looks surprised. “It’s easy. It’s just Dave, David, and Dave over there. Three Daves.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know that. I gave you my name, and you didn’t give me yours. It’s already pretty demoralizing to be here, you know? We kind of schlump in from the waiting room. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“You didn’t really SCHLUMP IN, I didn’t notice that, no.”
“I’m just saying. It would go a long way. Introducing yourself. One name.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Jenn. I’m sure I’ll see you again, Dave.”
He shakes my hand, leans in. “I know what it’s like. Transitioning out of writing. It’s not a bad thing to transition out of.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say.
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