hey say losing one’s job is like a death. I don’t know who ‘they’ are but the process of acceptance parallels similar feelings I experienced post dad’s funeral. A foggy disbelief settles in fueled by a lot of pointless masturbation, snacking and staring at walls in coming to terms with my grim reality; I have no place to go tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the one after that one. And that’s another thing that quickly occurs: I’ve lost all sense of routine and timing. My pre-dawn coffees are now comfortably debuting around 9:00am. My first thoughts this morning were how to spend Saturday. Only today is Sunday. In less than a week one’s routine flies out the window. And you learn just how structured your little rat-mazed, pointless webinar office existence really was. And you’re glad to be away from that slow death.
Because it is like a death. In the days and weeks ahead I’ll share my experience and observations on losing my job. Not that my job loss is unique; oh hells no, sweeties. The October unemployment stats released last week; our nation’s unemployment rate now hovers at 10.2%. The highest number since the economic struggles of 1983. There are currently 16-million Americans out of work. Seventy five percent of that number are male. October also signaled the beginning of the end of unemployment benefits for nearly 7,000 people a day. That’s a helluva’ lot of folks who’ve been out of work for a full year. If I think too much on how long I may be out of work my heart races while I mentally scan closets for things to eBay.
But back to that death thang. On Tuesday, September 29th, I learned that our long valiant struggle to keep the agency afloat was ending. Figuratively our CEO pulled the plug; I suppose literally, too. One could hear the life of the agency suck out of the conference room that morning as we grasped fresh goddamned truths. We were done. All that remained was the systematic shut down of operations. Only it wasn’t systematic at all; it was fresh ‘women & children first’ Hell. As I knew it would be. Years ago I worked with a retailer who bankrupted; it took three weeks to box inventory, trash signage and displays while once-loyal employees stole the place blind. All the merchandise we’d so carefully and proudly steamed, stacked and inventoried either tossed into large rolling plywood wardrobes or the dumpster bins. I vowed never to repeat that experience.
ut priorities shift and twenty-something dramatic pledges are wasted on the stupidity of youth and trim waistlines. The truth of the matter is this: I wanted to stay till the bitter end. In my twisted fucked fashion I willingly chose to play agency loyalist, an acolyte in Christ’s final tortured trudge up the mount. It’s that hero thing I noted earlier. I thought maybe there was something I could do. Or maybe my sheer will, presence and puppy dog eyes would prevent the roving scavengers that descended once our office inventory hit Craigslist. You’d be surprised what folks will pry off a wall when it’s free. I’ve learned that civilized society and the rules that govern that concept hang by man’s delicate thread of cultural rules and decorum for what’s acceptable in any given situation. That breaks down when one thinks nobody’s looking. I’m surprised our toilet stall door remained. But I digress.
Death is anger. Well it’s one of the stages one traverses to acceptance. That’s what tassel-loafered therapists tell us. And my anger is real and raw. The very last question I want to hear right now is “what are you going to do?” It’s far too early for that challenging answer. The morning I learned that my 30-year career was finished filled me with a white-blue hot hatred I’ve not felt in years. I wanted to punch something. Someone. Break something. I wanted to scream. And cry. And shout “NOT ME” even though why not me. And that keeps me focused; I did not fail. There are 16-million others out there who know what I’m talking about. Who can feel what I’m feeling. It was a blue-skied morning that found me violently flinging my office in-bins and scraggy desk plant into filthy dumpsters; it was part rage and part Joan Crawford melodrama. I took my crown of thorns on a dark loading dock.







