I know. That sounds *so* cliche, like watching a rainy funeral on a movie, realizing that the director only called for the rain to insert a too-obvious symbol. As if a funeral itself isn't sufficiently depressing.
It wasn't raining when I was on my way to work Monday morning. I walked in about 9:15 a.m., and before I could check my backlog of e-mails that had accumulated over the weekend, I was summoned to the boss' office.
To make a very long story short, there was a fancier, more important boss sitting in my boss' office, and with one swoop of the axe, my services at the local newspaper were no longer needed. The firing itself involved a story about an inability to play the guitar and "you're a good person, really" and the review of documents and blah blah blah...but, in the end, I was fired.
Tell mom I didn't cry. (I didn't.)
I walked out of the newsroom feeling numb. I fumbled around in my purse for my cell phone and slammed it on the desk without even saying goodbye. I was going to be back later that afternoon anyway. I got into my car and drove about two blocks to my attorney friend's office, so he could review documents before I signed anything.
By the way, here's some friendly advice from the recently unemployed--don't go to your attorney friend's office less than five minutes after being fired if you're a semi-depressed emotional baby like I am.
I hadn't even had time to process what had happened, and there was a point in the brief meeting where the attorney friend was on the phone talking with another attorney, and I suddenly realized, "Oh, crap. People need money for food and shelter and doggie medicine and electricity and NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
So I cried, and he prayed the Holy Ghost down, and I left with my papers and some snotty Kleenex.
I sat in my car for a minute, replying to fifty million texts asking me what had happened--less than an hour after it had happened. Word gets around fast in Pascagoula. I had parked under a tree, and my car's windshield was covered in yellow leaves. That's when it began to rain. I remember, because the windshield wipers swept the leaves away.
I forgot to get the attorney's office to notarize the papers, so instead of embarrassing myself, I drove to ANOTHER friend to get the papers notarized, but I had to wait an hour before he would be in his office, so I drove to the beach and sat in a parking lot and fielded phone calls from concerned friends. I thought about walking on the pier over the water and just jumping off, but it began to sprinkle, and I figured I would risk becoming a vegetable instead of a suicide victim. The height was not great enough, I concluded, "and, besides, it's sprinkling. I'll get wet."
Then I drove to the library and sat in a parking lot and fielded more phone calls from concerned friends. A train passed on the tracks in front of me. Rain poured down, like a cheesy metaphor of my life that day.
I eventually had my papers notarized. I felt kind of embarrassed, really, but I hid that feeling with a little too much cheer. It feels embarrassing to be unemployed.
Then, I drove back to my former office. I was going to get it all done today, I said. I wasn't ever going to step foot in that office again.
I worked in a small newsroom. My filing cabinet was in a room shared by four other people. They were all there to watch me fish out those things that were mine and listen to me make jokes about all the junk I was leaving behind for the company to clean up and all the stupid junk I thought was worth taking with me. The new intern who was using my desk when I arrived leav
I walked out with a bag and a box of stuff. A co-worker carried the box out for me. It wasn't raining anymore, but the skies were gray. Another co-worker followed. I shook hands with them and said goodbye and drove away.
I spent the night at the home of some friends. I ate a yummy pulled pork sandwich and watched children decorate a Christmas tree, so being unemployed didn't hit me until about 11 o'clock that night when I looked at the clock and--for a moment--told myself that I really needed to go to bed, because I had to get up early in the morning.
Obviously, I didn't have to get up early. I had no appointments the next day. No real plans. Nowhere to go and nothing I had to do. My life felt like my employment situation--nothing.
It hit me again the next morning about 10 a.m., when I realized that the work day had begun, but I had not begun with it. I was in my oversized hooded sweatshirt and track pants. My gainfully employed co-workers were wearing work clothes and being productive. I, on the other hand, had to look forward to busy work with no immediate payoff. Updating a resume, sending it out, scouring the web for jobs, calling friends to "network," convincing the apartment management to let me renew my lease for 3 months instead of 6--just in case I have to move away soon, confirming to fifty million people that, "Yes, I really was canned."
Now, a day later, I've made at least 34 jokes about being unemployed and said "I was canned" at least 20 times, but it's still weird to be sitting here at 7 p.m. with the realization that I have no reason to wake up tomorrow. If I didn't wake up tomorrow, nobody would notice except my dog, who depends on me for food and water and pee breaks.
No comments:
Post a Comment