“W.I.T. – Whatever It Takes.”
*****
Growing up and well into (what passes as) my adult life, unemployment insurance fell in with things like Stepping on a Jellyfish and Abandoning Your Car by the Side of the Road under the general heading of “Things that I Will Never, Ever Have to Worry About,” aka, “Shit that Happens to Other People.” These weren’t even people that I knew. They were friends of friends. Or friends of friends of friends, or, even more removed, just things that I knew happened because I saw the proof, even if I was a long, long way from the actual event. A story about a girl who was at the ocean in Virginia, took an innocent enough step in knee-deep water, and the next thing she knows she’s on the beach with her foot the size of an eggplant. A car in the ditch on the way to Kansas City, a piece of cardboard in the back window: “Pink Floyd or bust!” Apparently they busted. This was unemployment to me.
Disconcerting, how quickly we are all on the verge of becoming “other people.”
Though I absolutely believe that the government has the responsibility to help its citizens when they can’t take care of themselves, I have always prided myself on being one of those people who can take care of himself. Leu and I have never borrowed money from our parents, though we certainly don’t decline it when they offer of their own accord (we’re proud, not stupid). We’ve bought (and sold) two houses, on the strength of our own savings and credit. We paid/are paying for our own education.
Point is, when my wife was laid off after taking her maternity leave, part of me hesitated to collect the unemployment that was available to her. Why do you need it, I thought though was smart enough not to say. You’ll have another job soon enough. Three years later, “soon enough” has yet to arrive, and who knows what kind of financial weight we would be under now if she had been unable to collect unemployment for the majority of that time.
But even so, part of me justified it as a supplement. We weren’t really living off of it. We were living off of my modest paycheck by living even more modestly. I’ve long held that stay-at-home moms should receive some kind of payment for the mostly unacknowledged work that they do, so there it was, unemployment as a stipend for stay-at-home moms. Even the sum that she collected fit this idealistic view: $405 a week could hardly be expected to sustain you in Manhattan. It was walking-around money. Buy the kid something nice, and with what’s leftover, get a little something something for yourself, complete with a condescending nudge to the jaw.
Then suddenly the jaw was mine, and it wasn’t a nudge but a full on punch.
If I didn’t have a pregnant wife and a son, I doubt I would have collected. I would have been too prideful, too stubborn. But I do, so I did. And to my surprise, I learned that many of my friends did as well. Friends who I just assumed were independently wealthy or amassing huge amounts of debt had really been living off the state all this time. This realization made me wonder if I had been missing something all along. Here I had been the one pitying them and their unsuccessful search for work when really I was the one who deserved the pity.
“Did you hear about Kirby?”
“No, what?”
“He’s got a job.”
“Oh, man.”
“Nine to six, everyday.”
“Everyday?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“How awful.”
“I know.”
“How’s Leu holding up?”
“She’s coping.”
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| You rarely see sushi lines for the unemployed, but that's because nowadays we just order in. |
When I started collecting, I felt like I had joined a secret club. My friends and I would eat sushi and discuss whether we qualified for Tier 1, Tier 2, or Tier 3. Until then, I never realized that the unemployed even ate sushi. I thought their diet was restricted to the odd tire or shoe.
Claiming your weekly benefits is hardly the bureaucratic hell that I envisioned it to be. You can do so online, which, I’m sure, goes a long way toward erasing the stigma. You just have to answer a few questions, though some of them do get surprisingly personal.
The questions for the great state of New York are as follows:
During the week ending XX/XX/XXXX, did you refuse any job offer or referral?
How many days did you work, including self-employment, during the week ending XX/XX/XXXX?
Excluding earnings from self-employment, did you earn more than $405?
How many days were you NOT ready, willing, and able to work?
How many days were you owed vacation pay or did you receive vacation pay?
How many days were you owed holiday pay or did you receive holiday pay?
Have you returned to work full time?
At what point did you know it was just a matter of time?
How long did you feel like you were faking it?
How many of your friends have consoled you with the “things happen for a reason” defense?
Of these friends, how many did you want to hit right in the fucking face, hard, like with a tire iron?
(circle one) This really was/was not the job for me.
(circle one) Your résumé is over/under five years old?
Are you getting too old for this kind of shit?
Do you ever expect to actually retire?
Really? I mean, come on….
Those commercials with the talking heads that are all animated like from Waking Life, how much of those commercials do you actually understand?
How much do you believe those commercials apply to you and yours?
Do you have any idea what COBRA costs for a family of four?
What is a 401K?
What is a Roth IRA?
Oh my god. You really are pathetic, aren’t you?
How seriously are you considering leaving the city?
How far would you have to fall to move back in with your parents?
How much farther, I mean?
Which is more important: making money or knowing that your children respect what you do?
(fill in the blank) My dream job is _______________.
(circle one) I do/do not expect to realize this dream.
(circle one) I’m giving myself more/less than five years before I chuck it all and settle for a life that I really don’t want.
(circle one) More/less than three?
Yes or no: I’m ready to chuck it all right now.
On the night that you were let go, how long did you stand outside the door of your apartment and gather yourself before facing your wife and son?
Do you prefer lying on your back with your pillow over your head or on your side with your legs curled in the fetal position when you lock yourself in the bedroom and stifle sobs?
Is it true that your wife said Don’t jump off the bridge when you told her you were going for a walk?
What’s your porn-to-job-hunting ratio? Two to one? Three? Don’t tell me it’s four! (For research purposes only, which site do you prefer? The place I usually go is getting a little stale.)
Do your parents know?
If yes, at what point during the ensuing lecture did you put the phone down and just walk away, man, just walk away?
If no, what’s the matter with you, you ungrateful son?
Are you finally willing to admit that your dad was right all along?
When you tell people that you are no longer working, do you say that you were let go, laid off, or fired? Were you axed, canned, or given the ol’ heave ho?
And, finally, please feel free to use the back of this sheet, if necessary: Do you have any plans for the future? Any plans at all?
My friend Jim says it used to be a lot worse. He says you used to have answer in person.
Ba-dum-pa!
 |
| On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would sit here for as long as I wanted. |
*****
“[u]ncanny ability to focus on what is useful in a situation”
*****
A day in the life of an unemployed man:
On Tuesday and Thursdays I drop the boy off at day care while Leuinda substitute teaches, which means I wake up at 7:00, hit “snooze” until 7:15, then drag myself to the coffee. I open the door to Jonah’s room while I pat about the apartment in the hopes that the creaking floors will wake him up without me having to do so. I get as much done as possible before he awakes: dress, teeth, bag for Nana G’s, unfold the stroller. Eventually he calls “D-a-a-a-d-d-d-e-e-e-e,” and I go in. What’s up, buddy? Where’s Mommy? She’s at work. He doesn’t know what to do with this information. He’s not a bad riser, but he doesn’t really wake up until he’s been out of bed for 15 minutes. I carry him, blanket and all, to the couch where he rests against my chest and watches Sesame Street. When he says, “I want juice, Daddy,” I know he’s ready to go.
I sit him at his little table in the chair that Nana got him (“Nana” my mom, not “Nana G” of the day care). I bring him a banana. We peel it together. Look, Daddy, there’s stripes on it. Do you want Cheerios or Rice Krispies? I want Puffins. We don’t have Puffins. Cheerios or Rice Krispies? Rice Krispies. I sit next to him on the floor and spoon cereal into his mouth while he watches Curious George. We’ve started buying the generic brand, but they still snap, crackle, and pop, if not quite as vigorously.
We hurry and get dressed between ten-minute episodes of George, so when 8:26 hits we can get right in the stroller. Day care is new enough that he still fights it, so much of the bundled trip on cold mornings consists of preemptively massaging the day. Are you going to see Gage and Oliva at Nana G’s? Do you think you’ll go to the park today? One way we’ve softened the experience is by bringing him treats when we pick him up, so we talk about whether he wants a red apple, a green apple, or an orange. I confirm the choice no fewer than five times.
He’s OK until we get there, but when we knock on the door he clings to me like a vine to a tree. I have to pry him off, gently, telling myself that it’s the right thing to do and then confirming by peeking through the window on my way out. He’s showing a car to a little friend. He’s fine. Better than me, actually.
I walk to the deli across the street and buy a cup of coffee. They fill my travel mug for a dollar. It’s a good deal, much better than at the Starbuck’s across the street, where they don’t even give you a discount. It’s cold outside. Frigid. But still, I walk up Cabrini to Fort Tryon Park. It’s always pretty up there, but especially so when it snows. The wind bites my cheeks, but I kind of like it in the way that I would like the burn of aftershave lotion if I wore aftershave lotion. I sit on a bench and listen to a podcast. I watch the tugboats push the barges up the Hudson. This is the new image I go to when I can’t fall asleep: a tugboat pushing a barge up the Hudson. It used to be a pitcher warming up in the bullpen. I worry that with my headphones on I am vulnerable to attackers, but then I realize that I would see his shadow creeping up on me, and I feel better.
When I feel like it, I leave. I take the long way home, back behind the Cloisters and down the hill. I skirt Broadway by staying in the park. I consider all of the people who have jobs: the bus drivers, the woman trimming the dead branches from the tree, the clerks at the bodegas. There was a terrible snowstorm recently—one of the worst on record—and there are hordes of people shoveling, like they’re on a chain gang. They all have jobs. I go to the store and pick up stuff for dinner, Jonah’s apple/apple/orange. The guy stocking the shelves, the woman at the register, the manager with the keys? Job, job, job. Suckers.
 | |
| This guy has a job. |
I get home around 11:00. I fire up the computer, search for job listings. There are very few and those that are there are shit. At first I was energized by all of the opportunities, but I quickly learned that the same posts are there every day. I wonder if anyone is actually manning them. I send a few follow-up emails, hope that a friend suddenly has an opening where she works so I can just slide right in and thus bypass the actual application process. Nothing yet.
I read. I watch some TV. I write. I’m thinking of starting this blog thing, so I jot down some books that might be interesting to read and write about. Tony Robbins didn’t even make the first cut. I heat up a frozen pizza, some leftovers. I’m always surprised by how fast the afternoon passes. At three o’clock I select an album from my iPod—I’m on a Smiths kick of late, because of their edge, not their mope—and leave for a short walk before picking up Jonah at 4:00. We play Pick-a-Hand for his treat.
When Mommy gets home I retire to the kitchen to give them some quality time together. She was told by her doctor to eat more red meat, so I prepare steak or my spaghetti sauce with my mom’s secret ingredient (olive juice). We have a family dinner, go through the bath/books/bed routine.
After he’s down, Leu and I watch an episode of Friday Night Lights on DVD, pass a quart of ice cream back and forth like we’re getting over a break-up. I ask how the baby is doing. She says Fine. I ask how she’s feeling. She says Ugh. I put my head in her lap, my hand on her belly, try not to worry.
Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays are actually better, because I get Jonah for the whole day. On nice days we go to Central Park; on not-so-nice days we go to an indoor playground in our neighborhood called Wiggles & Giggles, only Jonah calls it Wiggles & Giggles & Giggles. We enjoy lazy mornings. He bosses me around. We have lunch together, he inevitably preferring what is on my plate to what is on his.
The best part, though, is nap time. I had feared nap time when I first knew I would be home alone with him during the day, because historically his mother was the one who could get him down, mid-day. But after a rough afternoon or two, we settle into a routine: I read him books in the rocking chair, then position him across my lap with his cheek to my shoulder. He squirms a little, but I hold him tight. I sing him songs—“My Name Is Mikey” or “Bushel and a Peck” or “Tender,” by Blur—and 20 minutes later we are both asleep.
My nodding head wakes me. I carry him to the crib like Swamp Thing brings the woman out from the lake. I put him down gently enough to avoid waking him—a skill I thought I’d never possess—marvel at how long his legs are getting, walk lightly out of the room, take a final peek, smile, and close the door.
I feel a little guilty, Leu having to work on these days, but I won’t lie: I love it. I love being unemployed.
One way that Robbins measures success is that he asks his readers to contemplate their ideal day: “What people would be involved? What would you do? How would it begin? Where would you go? Where would you be?” The idea being that the person who controls his day controls his life. Robbins is on to something here, but I liked it better when Bob Dylan said it. “A man is a success,” he said, “if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do.”
Of course, he also said that “there’s no success like failure, and that failure is no success at all.”
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