You Ain't Allowed To Do Them Things

Day One and I was down in it. The first night was bad. Interrupted by several bouts of sleeplessness, anxiety ridden jolting and tossing and turning. I wasn't sure if I was mad, or hurt, or angry or what. What I did know was that my phone was ringing constantly, with a lot of people telling me not to worry about it, and that my bosses were jerks, and that things would be better. While I appreciated their sentiment and the fact that they called me on my worst day instead of just, you know, a normal day, it just didn't help.

I had made plans with my friend who had also been let go to meet him at the Unemployment Office so that we could make as quick a strike as possible in making sure our funds kept coming, whatever the size of the hit would be dropping from a real salary to an approximation given to you by the State.

The Unemployment office is all the way across town. I had been given word it opened at 8 a.m., so I made my way down at 7 a.m. There was already a line by the time I found the place and parked my car. Fifteen people or so deep. They'd obviously been here before and gone through it. Some were sitting on the floor leaning against the wall of the building catching a quick snooze and other were reading a True Crime novel that was dog-eared and beaten down from multiple perusings. After several minutes there, many more people had arrived. Some had greeted others as if this was a regular occurrence. I called my friend, who had not showed yet, and told him he might want to make it down there with the quickness so he'd have a shot of being there with me while it went down. Frankly, I was glad he was in this with me, because I, at the heart of it all, was just scared. I wanted someone I knew, and was comfortable with, just to be there. To talk to and to make jokes with, and to try to get my brain off of what was suddenly suddenly the all-encompassingly deep end of the pool which was currently my life.

He finally showed right as the doors were opening. There was a fork in the line of "People who had been here and signed up" to the left to stand in one line, and "People who had never been here before and hadn't signed up" to the right, where we were ushered into a room full of strange seemingly late 1990's desktop computer with CRT screens and bulky laser mouses to sign up on. A fully functioning disinterested team of state drones were our multi-headed Charon, leading us down the River Styx that is the Path of Unemployment. Answering questions about why we were currently unemployed (My answer at the time, if answering honestly, would have been "I don't know.") and how long we'd been unemployed ("One day") and the other staples of signing up for anything, from a newsletter to your temporary monetary lifeline were all on this computer screen.

Once all that was filled out, I saw on the screen what they estimated that I would be making. I was disheartened because it wasn't much, or at least as much as I was used to, but I was happy that it was more than I thought I was going to make.

I pulled out my iPhone, hit the "Camera" button and took a picture of the computer screen just to keep a shot of what I would be making as a reminder for later, in case there were any discrepancies. I then clicked "Next" and moved on in my sign-up form.

Not five seconds later I felt an over-manicured bony hand grip my shoulder and I looked up to find a bright aqua/turquoise/purple/hot pink monstrosity of a flowery print dress attached to a woman with a fucking flat top who was staring a hole through me.

HER: "You ain't allowed to do THEM THINGS."

ME: "Excuse me?"

HER: "You ain't allowed to be takin' no cam-er-uh pickshas with your tela-phone-uh."

ME: "Oh, uh...well, I didn't know that, I was just trying to--"

HER: "You were just tryin' to what?"

ME: "I was just trying to keep what I was making for my records, just so I'd know-- "

HER: "They give it to you on A SHEET."

ME: "Well, I'm sorry...I didn't kno--"

HER: "You didn't know?"

ME: "No, ma'am."

HER: "Mmm-hmm..."

And she walked off.

I was shaken.

I was pretty shocked. I was pretty pissed. I was pretty shocked and pissed. There was nothing in this building that said I couldn't take a picture of the stupid computer screen just because I wanted to have on record what the hell I was going to be making because I was now unemployed, which I might add, was not something I wanted to fucking be. Who the hell are you, and why are you being such a bitch and why is it such a big deal that I took a picture anyway. FUCK.

I took a deep breath. I was about to get crazy.

I saw "Flat-Top" walk by again, looking just above the eyeline of everyone trying to get her attention. I tried valiently to get her attention (because hey, she'd at least talked to me, unlike the other ladies who were just walking around staring down the Great Unwashed that they were forced to cohabitate with.) to ask her a question about a different part of the sign-up but she was in full ignore mode by that point as well.

This was my lot in life. At this point, I was thinking about Kafka. I was revisiting high school readings of The Trial and wondering if I would ever be told what I was on trial for. Why these people were staring at me and treating me like this.

I looked around and noticed a lot of other people with what probably was on my mind as well. It was best described as a slow moving parade of hopelessness.

I was done filling out my stuff. My friend finished his as well. We walked out of that room and handed a lady our forms. We were then ushered right back into the room we were just in before. Directed to new computers that were in reality old computers, and instructed how to do very simple things we already knew how to do on the computers. We were given usernames and passwords and were searching for jobs that were available in the State's database.

Once we were clear on how this worked, we were pointed to a waiting room. My friend and I tried to make light of the situation. Compared what our answers were to things on the sign-up list, and shared amazement at the ratio of crying babies to drunk looking people. (Nearly even.)

I pointed out a lady who was close to 6'3" with a script tattoo on her arm proclaiming her as "Big Sexy." He pointed out a little kid, probably two years old, that was sitting on the floor by his mother, as she waited in line, loudly yelling "Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-aw-wa-wa-wa-wa-aw-wa-aw-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-aw-w-aw-aw-w-aw-aw-aw-aw-aw-wa" without her so much as raising an eyebrow. Of course, everyone else in line was noticing it.

Forty minutes went by. Then, another thirty. Twenty more. My friend and I were running out of things to talk about. We're staring off into space. I pointed out that one of the State jobs is for an assistant cook at a remote Log Cabin in a State Park followed by an opening for a Pediatrician Doctor. We both agreed we fall somewhere firmly in between, or at least we used to, as far as salaries went. None of that matters now, of course.

They called my name. I quickly got up and followed the person who yelled my name into another room without so much as a "see you in a few" to my friend. I was focused and I wanted to get out of there. I'm led into a room full of cubicles as far as the eye can see. Grey, and boring. No personality. It is freezing. So cold that it hurt. I'm led into one particular cubicle on the front row of the thousands (I possibly might be exaggerating, but in my head it seems like even more, going on, ad nauseum, forever.) The man I am inhabitating it with is a frail-looking, gaunt gentleman with thick sweater on (It's June, by the way) and coke bottle glasses, doesn't acknowledge my presence, and is thumbing through a manilla folder in his cold, freezing, boring little office.

We sit there for at least five minutes and my mind is moving back into wondering what kind of Kafka-esque situation I've entered myself into before he looks up with a faint insincere little grin on his face and mumbles "So, you're here for Unemployment insurance?" I agree that I indeed am here for just that. We then go through what they refer to as a qualification interview. I get to re-answer all of the questions that I had previously answered just an hour and a half before on the computer in the realm of "Flat-Top" and give him the same answers that I gave the computer.

He gave me a print out telling me what I would be making on unemployment. It's the same amount and the same information that I had taken a picture of in the Computer lab. "Flat-top" was off somewhere else in the building -- I'm sure -- feeling quite vindicated in her rightness.

He took me through the rules and the steps of what I'd need to do every week to report to the Unemployment office and finally hands me the manilla folder he'd previously been thumbing through while I uncomfortably had sat in his office in the beginning of our visit.

He reached across the desk, finally making eye contact and sent me on my way with a handshake and a mumbled good luck. As I walked out of the cubicle I looked back at him and he was already onto something else, possibly glad to be rid of the schmuck who had paid him his most recent visit.

I walked out of the cubicle farm back into the holding tank, getting my first view of the rest of the people in the Waiting Room, who are all making the same expression I probably was once the novelty of being in that room wore off. It happens quick.

I made my way through there, and past the Computer lab and out into the humid air. I texted my friend, telling him I was outside and that I'd wait for him in my car. Ten or fifteen minutes later, he came out and we talked about how awkward and strange it was to go from what we were doing the day before to what we were doing on this day. We made a few jokes about the people who worked there and their attitudes. We made vague attempts at making plans in the face of having absolutely no plans and I told him I'd make good on that beer he wanted to go have the day we got let go.

We said our goodbyes and our keep-in-touches, and then went our seperate ways.

I haven't seen him in person since then.