~April~
There’s always someone panhandling on the corner of Westheimer and Hillcroft—the snowy-haired dude with the limp and robotic, Salvation-Army-Santa hand gestures; the Mexican guy propped up in a wheelchair; the sun-bleached woman with eyes a little too wide and skin so leathery, it looks reptilian—but this one, I hadn’t see him before.
Because I’m stopped at a red light, I’ve got time to examine the man. He is thin, tall, and nerdy looking. Thick-framed black glasses—the kind that prettier people wear to be ironic—slide down his nose. Underneath his non-descript mesh cap, I spy a kempt brown fringe, sensibly cut. Plastered to dude’s chest is a white sign with hand-drawn black lettering that says: “Lost job. Will work. Do not drink. God bless.” The job thing strikes a nerve. He’s a geek—reminds me of every engineer I’ve worked with. I dig through my purse, find my wallet, wrench it open. And: no cash. My pocketbook’s empty, save for a sticky note, some lint and two rogue postage stamps. I sigh and think, if this was a cartoon, feathery moths would’ve flown from the folds.
When the light turns green, I speed through the intersection, leaving the man behind. I navigate a few streets until I find my destination. Once parked, I slip my hands into my pockets and search for hard plastic. I am like the panhandler, except I have this magic card. Nervous, I bring it into the bank and whisper to the clerk, “I’m not sure how this works … I lost my job and the unemployment office sent this to me. They say it’s a debit card and that you can give me money. Is that true?”
The clerk—all blotchy skin and bad suit—regards me with apathy.
As I take the cash, a bloom of fuchsia colors my cheeks. I am embarrassed, defensive. I think, who am I to be pitied? I’m not the stiff in an ill-fitting outfit with the lame-ass bank job. Still, something uncomfortable washes over me. It feels like sadness. It wreaks of shame.
—-
~May~
“I’m having a hard time keeping track of the days,” I tell Mary Helen, my sister in uncertainty. It’s been two months since I lost my job—six weeks since she lost hers, and we are seated on woven wicker barstools in our hosts’, Carolyn and Sam’s cozy kitchen.
“The only reason I know today’s date,” I confide, “is because of the holiday.” I shrug as I speak, smooth a wrinkle from the white linen pants I paired specially with a blue-striped tank and red beaded necklace. Mary Helen—dressed not-so-festively in pair of plaid-patterned board shorts and a white t-shirt with an oversized fedora and the words KING OF POP splashed across the front—nods; she understands all too well. Above our heads, a delectable bouquet of fresh-grilled Cajun sausage and slow-cooked brisket haloes. We salivate, and in my thoughts I muse, there is such thing as a free lunch. You just need to lose your job first.
—-
~June~
Ten weeks I’ve been unemployed and inside me there’s a tectonic shift; the terrain of fear I’d been laboring under, so desperate to keep my job in a lousy economy, is shattered. In fear’s place, (most days) lies an acceptance of what is—that I don’t have a job and that I am still OK—and a curiosity about the future. Where will I work next? How long will it take to find something? Will I be a contract worker or full-time employee? Will I still write for a living? If I don’t write, what will I do? Will I find work in Houston? Should I return to the northwest? These are the questions that bubble in my brain as I lounge by the pool, a golden, sweat-glossed goddess, luxuriating in the fact that I have nothing better to do.
…
Before the calendar flips to July, I’m shaking hands with strangers in a new office. My new office. First day of work and a sensible tab-sleeve blouse and black lattice-top wedges replace the swimsuit and flip flops that were the uniform of my unemployment. As I arrange my desk—carefully placing a framed photo of Andrew and I in the space next the metal caddy brimming with highlighters, pens and company-branded post its—I stop and smile. I realize that losing my job … well, it wasn’t much of a loss.
