People always say the best time to look for a new job, is
while you already have a job. People always say that because its one hundred
percent true-----one hundred percent of the time. Until this period of my life,
I’d never been unemployed. Working since I was seventeen, I grew up believing
that welfare, food stamps and unemployment were for poor people, lazy
people….bad people. But now, in this tilt-a-whirl economy, I find my opinions
and beliefs indubitably changed. Interview after interview after interview! And
still nothing. My head, a sea of amassed rejection letters from every
conceivable direction. Each day plays out like the beginning of the movie, Erin Brockovich: enduring countless dismissals while holding a smile. Only I don’t
have kids, and possess slightly more of “some” college education. And I’m not
that thin. [Enter first sigh of the day here.] As my future teeters
precariously in the distance, it’s hard to feel like I have any sort of control
over anything. I ask myself: Is this my fault? Did I wrong someone? Is the
answer right in front of me? Is this my movie? Even at night, when I lay my
head to rest, everything is fair game.
A few months back, I had a dream that I got hired at Trader
Joe’s Grocery Store. It was one of the top ten most thrilling moments in my
life…and it didn’t actually happen. The dream took place during my first day on
the job. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, I remember standing at attention during a
welcoming ceremony. All of my favorite crew members were there, positioned in a
circle around myself and other rookies. One of them winked at me as the general
manager placed a Hawaiian Lei around my neck, another raised the 'sign of horns' while wagging his tongue. My chest rose in a ginormous sigh of relief. Not only
was my two-year stint of unemployment coming to an end, but it was happening at
one the most sacred places of all…to me anyway. The day continued with new tasks: learning inventory,
stocking dairy and helping customers. Even goofing off with fellow staff in the
salad section. We laughed in slow motion and pushed each other rambunctiously
through the stock room double doors. For some reason I was quicker than the
other recruits, learning and working twice as fast. And there atop a wooden
wine crate, against the Cabernet Sauvignon, my crewmember crush “pinned” me. He
was angelically backlit; wearing a red “crew” shirt with the sleeves ripped
off, and had shiny-black Scott Baio hair. Without looking down and with one
hand, he groped my left breast, pinning the red nametag to my shirt. His
fingers lightly grazing the engraved lettering, which read, “Crew Member since 2012.” His smirk
gleamed as my eyes trailed down in awe, my thumb tilting the tag into my view.
Our peers huddled around us, cheerfully shoving our shoulders. I imagine I must
have been smiling absurdly, as I lay in bed, blissfully asleep.
But like most good things in life, and most dreams for that
matter---it didn’t last long. The sun began to set upon the bustling parking lot
and fresh cut flower shelves outside. There was a still hum of commerce when things suddenly started to go wrong in that quick-flip dreamy
kind of blur. Out of nowhere,
customers began running out of the store. “We’re being attaaacked!” they shouted.
Others screamed of terrorists, bombs and assassins. The building was shaking
and rattling furiously, the ceiling cracking above us. It was the end of the
world and we knew it. “Nooooooooooooo” I wailed over an artichoke pyramid. “Not
today! Please God for fuck sake not TODAY!” I cried and fell to my knees in
defeat. My eyes welled with tears as I slowly looked around the room. Panic,
shear terror and hysteria flooded the aisles. Staff huddled together against
the walls, forming a plan of escape. Suddenly I began to choke as someone
grabbed my collar from behind and started to drag me. My sneakers chirped as
they skidded along the floor. Stammering, trying to grab everything in my path,
I tried to pull away but his force was too strong. As he pulled me into a small
room, I saw my crush, running through frozen foods. Suddenly he was struck---shot
in the head, his body falling to the ground at the produce border.
My back pushed against a wall, eyes clouded with tears, I
began to scream as my head shook left to right violently. SLAP!! The bastard
slapped me. I looked directly at him; sweaty-faced and eyes’ now focusing it
was…Liam Neeson. Dressed in black gear, he grabbed my jaw, gun in the other
hand. “I’ve got a particular set of skills…” he began as I my eyes squinted at
him in disbelief. “I will keep you alive, if you do EXACTLY what I say,” he
instructed. “Its Liam Neeson” I began whispering aloud to myself. He took out a
large black duffle bag, pulling out clothes and shoes. “Put these on,” he
demanded. “We’ve only a moment before they arrive.” Pulling the black vest over
my chest, I continued, “Liam Neeson!” Pants on, pulling a black combat boot
over my foot, “FU-CK-ING LIAM NEESON!!” I yanked a double loop around my
ponytail. Standing guard at the closet door, he peered through a crack.
Exhausted and confused I scanned over my shoulder, standing crew members
dressed in similar getup, bleak and starring at the ground. He shoves a glock
into my chest and says, “here we go.” My heart pounds, beating out of my chest.
Somehow I know how to cock my gun and the door swings open, blinded by light I
run out…screaming into a roar.
Annnnd that’s when I woke up. Sweaty, confused and totally
freaked out, I sat up in bed. “I just had the most fucked up dream,” I
whispered to the boy. “Reeeeeallyyyyy?” he murmured, rolling into a snore. I
spent the next few days wondering what the hell that was for? And Liam Neeson?
I mean I LOVE him but why would my subconscious pick him to be my savior? Needless to say, I decided to hang on to my Trader’s
application. I figured the end of the world could wait a while. Plus I was more
afraid of being rejected and not getting
the job. As long as I held onto it, I’d still have a chance, as backwards as
that sounds.
Flash forward to now: unemployment running out, less hopeful
and still very unemployed. A few
weeks ago, I’d decided that fear was no longer an option. I need a job and must
do everything in my power to attain one.
So I pulled the old application out, updated it and added a few photo
sheets of my artwork. Just to demonstrate my abilities incase they needed a
store sign artist. I marched over there and shook hands with the on-site manager.
I stood by patiently as he separated my artwork from the actual application.
“We just have to send these over to corporate—bare bones,” he said. “Ahhhhh,” I replied confidently. Hoping to
mask my concern as my personal stock began to dwindle. He started out with a
couple of routine questions. Which lead to a short, delightful conversation
about Tabouleh and segued into frozen Kobe Beef Burgers. We laughed, swapped
recipes and ended on the firm standing of Joe’s Diner Mac n’ Cheese: bypass the
guiltless version all together. “Go big or go home,” when it comes to the
frozen Mac. He gave me his card
and told me to call him if I didn’t hear anything in a couple weeks. “This could
be good!” I said to myself as I drove home….confident.
And yet, at exactly two weeks gone by, it came. “Fuck,” I
whispered to myself. Standing at the mailbox, “I didn’t even know they still sent
these via snail mail.” I pinched the envelope between my thumb and index finger,
it was thin. I didn’t have to open it to know it was a rejection letter. Walking
up my stoop, I sliced open the envelope with a pocketknife. As I sat down in
the kitchen, my eyes glided along the words, “Thank you for your interest,
we’ve decided to go another direction.” And ending with my personal favorite,
“Good luck in your search.” Sigh. Followed by several more, slightly heavier
sighs. With one fell swoop, I knocked the papers off the table and retreated to
the couch in defeat. I probably would’ve cried, but the Xanax I’d taken twenty
minutes prior made it impossible to produce any lavish emotional outbursts.
Instead I buried my face into a throw pillow and fell asleep, broken-hearted.
I guess to fully understand my exaggerated despair; you’d
have to be privy to my obsession, nigh cult following of Trader’s Joes. I ADORE
TJ’s. The boy often refers to our shopping trips as, “a grand day out.” I love
to peruse at my leisure, stop by the demo table, and graze the “new items” end
cap. I am the slow shopping asshole that all the much busier people are trying to
get around. But I can’t help it! It’s my second Tiffany’s. I can only explain
it as Holly Golightly loving referred to her heaven in Breakfast at Tiffany’s:
Holly Golightly: Listen, You
know those days when you get the meeean reds?
Paul Varjak: The mean
reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The
blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long,
you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid
and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
Paul Varjak: Sure.
Holly Golightly: Well, when I
get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to
Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it;
nothing very bad could happen to you there.
Unnnnless you’re me, who apparently happens to have a close,
tactical friendship with Liam Neeson and its your first day at work. Lol. [Enter
another long sigh here.] I don’t have any answers right now and I’m struggling
really hard. Probably struggling harder than I ever have before---in my life.
But regardless of how crazy this experience is making me, I have still have hope. Even if it comes in the shape of a semi-automatic weapon and an ass kicking, Irish omega male.
