The UnTexan

REMEMBER ME? THE UNTEXAN SAYS GOODBYE TO ALL THAT JOB STUFF AND TURNS THE PAGE

"The key to success is taking shit."

When I saw that quote from the new movie Horrible Bosses, I couldn't help but think about the people who still work where I used to. It's been more than a year since I lost my job and things are working out just fine for me now. I don't have to take shit (or write weekly reports about it) any longer. That's good. But the best part is that my wife and I are free to go. We will be leaving Texas soon.

Before we go, I feel like I should do something nice for the people where I used to work -- send them a sympathy card, recommend a good therapist, a good lawyer, send them a gift membership to the Hemlock Society, a hazmat suit for those days when things are especially toxic, something appropriate, practical, useful. Not the people I worked for. They have what they deserve: my utter contempt and undying enmity. But I miss my former co-workers sometimes. For the most part I feel sorry for them simply because they're still there and I'm out here (and life is so much better out here). And I want to remember them fondly, but I can't. I still have hurt feelings over the fact that more than a year has passed and almost no one has bothered to give me a call, drop me an email, see how things are going, have a drink, dinner, a chat, express their churchy compassion or offer to keep me in their prayers (not even in Korean), anything.

These are people with whom I did more than work for seven years. We lived our jobs day and night (and weekends and holidays). I was in their houses and they were in mine. We discussed work the way co-workers do; we fretted, fussed, gossiped, politicked, cursed our fate and our bosses. We also discussed art, books, photography, history, sports, gardening, food, music, movies, everything, the way friends do. We seemed to be more than co-workers. Much more.

But we weren't. It turns out we were not friends, not really, not ever. I am mostly disappointed in myself for not seeing them sooner for what they were and no doubt always will be: jobbists, fakes, scaredy-cats, hypocrites, shit-takers. We all know that in the tiny hothouse world of work, anybody's work, lies are so commonplace that real deceit is difficult to see and even more difficult to measure. It can catch you by surprise. I can swear to that. And maybe if it catches any of them (SURPRISE!), they can give me a call, leave a message, drop me an email, and maybe I will do something nice for them - like I said before: sympathy, therapy, a lawyer, hemlock, whatever they need most - but I probably won't. I wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea and think I actually care. Besides, what's done is done and they've already done it - or not

As for me, it's taken time and therapy but I've quit beating myself up about it. Now I am saying goodbye to all that. As I said, soon I will be moving on. Our house is for sale. In a few months Mr. and Mrs. UnTexan are going back to New Mexico where we belong. But I'm not through with Texas yet.

(NEARLY) INSTANT KARMA

Six months ago a guy took my job away. A couple of days ago somebody took his job away. The news left me feeling very merry indeed.

Did I know this would happen? Sure. I even predicted it. Do I have other predictions for the future? Of course. Am I interested in sharing them? Nah. That would take the fun out of it.

It's John Lennon's birthday. Eat, drink, be merry, and join me and John in singing "Instant Karma."

 

MERRILY WE SING ALONG

JOB ADVICE FOR THE UNEMPLOYED: NEVER GO TO WORK FOR A MIDGET OR ANY OTHER GUY WITH A COMPLEX SHORT-GUY COMPLEX

"Now you see this one-eyed midget/Shouting the word 'NOW'" -- Bob Dylan

There are good days and bad days for the unemployed.

A couple of weeks ago I had energy and clarity for a few days. I was organized and focused. There were things to do and I did them. I thought things were improving at last and I was in the clear. It was almost like having a job. That's what jobs provide isn't it? Organization? Focus? That's one reason it is so difficult to be unemployed.

Find a job if you must. But take my advice and no matter how tough things get: Never go to work for a midget. I did. Of course, I didn't realize the guy was a midget at first. He seemed bigger, taller, especially when he talked, but the little fuckers are sneaky that way. And by the time I figured it out, years of my life had been structured  around the little guy's rants - sometimes a bit psychotic, other times more than a bit silly - and narcissistic whims. And sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I even miss the midget. Because sometimes a little something is all you need.

Especially on days like this when my head is a congestion of voices and I can't understand a thing they are saying. Not one of them is willing to speak up. It's a problem. I have spent nearly two years in therapy (of course, organizing my life around a the rants and whims of a midget with a complex short-guy complex eventually led to therapy. Where else could it lead?). And last week my therapist looked a little shocked when I told him that sometimes I wish I could be a schizophrenic just long enough for one voice to rise above the others and speak clearly to me when my head fills up like this. That is the kind of despair that comes with losing a job without warning. You end up in an enervating mumbling muddle.

It has been several days now and I still can't concentrate. I lack focus. I cannot get organized. But I am trying. Yesterday I bought a cork bulletin board and hung it on the wall above my desk where the map of the world used to be. It is empty, but I envision it filled with an orderly procession of note cards held in place with thumbtacks. On them I will write down what comes first, what comes next, and what comes after that, etc. I will tack the first card in the upper left hand corner of the board. When my days muddle and congest, I will look up at the board and a note card will spell out what comes next. It is a small thing. Sometimes a little something is all it takes. Perhaps my bulletin board will be enough.

Somewhere back there the capricious midget raves on. The sound of his voice fades, lingers. It is not easy to be unemployed, but it is better than that.

Like I said. There are good days and bad days.

 

UNEMPLOYED: THE GUINEA WORM AND THE HOUSE-SIZED LIFE

Here it is the beginning of August and I have been officially unemployed since March. Six months. My life is now the general size and shape of my house. I don't get out much. Most days I live along a line that runs between my bedroom and my office, which are not even 20 feet apart.There is a bathroom off the same hallway. A couple of mornings a week I water my garden and read on the patio while the sprinkler runs. Some days I go to the grocery store and back; when I need prescriptions I go to the drug store and back. Then I return to my office and from there I wander down to my bedroom. And back. I read some. I write some. I clean and cook some. In fact, I do those things more and more, which I suppose is a good sign. For the first few months my rage over losing my job occupied almost all of my time. Dishonesty, cowardice and betrayal can affect a person that way. And I am not a very forgiving man in the first place. I will not forgive and forget. Still, time passes. Little by little my rage has scabbed over, but I can feel it under there, growing, burning like a Guinea worm traveling under my skin. The time will come when it will fester, blister, pop into the open and I will have to get rid of it completely, pulling the worm out of me, winding and winding it carefully and painfully onto a stick. But for now I snug my house around my shoulders like a shawl. I read and write, cook and clean. I wait with my stick.

UNEMPLOYED: VACATION

Even the unemployed need some time off. So I will sit here on the beach and think about the jobbists and wage slaves back at the old office. And smile as I watch the tide roll away.

UNEMPLOYED: THINK I'LL JUST STAY HERE AND DRINK

A couple of nights ago I had a few guys from my old job over for dinner. This was an unusual thing for me to do because I don't do stuff with guys. I am not particularly fond of guys. Guys in groups do guy stuff and talk about guy shit and given enough time will fuck things up and convince themselves it's a good idea. Vietnam, the Lions Club, Kiwanis Club, the Ku Klux Klan, General Motors, General Dynamics (general corporate bullshit - any table full of corporate execs), Gen. Custer, God-the-Father-ism (and for that matter God-the-Sonism and God-the-Holy Ghostism, Allahism, Yahwehism, Jehovah-ism, Mormonism, L. Ron Hubbardism, McCarthyism), George W. Bush, Ronald Reagan, Ronald McDonald, the Republican Party, Sarah Palin and, of course, Texas. It's what happens when guys get together. I try to avoid it. That includes dinner with guys. But unemployment messes with a man's life in unexpected ways.

And these were guys I enjoyed working with and work always has been where I spent time with my friends. Work has been my social life for years. So I don't cultivate male-bondage friendships away from work. Never have. The guys who are my non-work friends can't come over for dinner. There aren't many; they are old friends and they live in Tennessee, New Mexico, North Carolina, Wisconsin. Outside of work I enjoy: 1) being alone with my wife and 2) being alone. But now I am jobless and what was once solitude sometimes becomes loneliness. What was once unthinkable becomes thinkable.

So I had the guys from my old job over for dinner, drinks, etc. They're good guys, smart guys. We had a good time. A little whiskey, a little wine, steaks and talk. It was almost like we work together. And we will probably do it again. But did it make me wish I had more guys to hang out with more (or more often)? No. So until we get together again I think I will follow Merle Haggard's advice. I think I'll just stay here and drink.

Because I can. Because I want to. Because I need to. Because sometimes solitude is lonely. Just because.

UNEMPLOYED: HOW I JUDAS-ED MY INNER JESUS, GOT MYSELF TAR-BABIED AND ENDED UP IN THE BRIAR PATCH

"Didn't the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy the next evening.

"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born - Brer Fox did."

                                                                         "The Wonderful Tar Baby Story"

                                                                         Joel Chandler Harris

1. BRER RABBIT (He looks a lot like you and me)

Once upon a time, one way or another, we all are stuck at Tar Baby, Inc.

How long have you been stuck in your job, Brer Rabbit? Days? Months? Years? Careers? Most of us spend our entire lives that way. Some of us stick with one Tar Baby; others move from Tar Baby to Tar Baby in a sort of serial Tar Babyism. Either way, stuck is stuck and you have been stuck or you will be stuck just like Brer Rabbit got himself stuck to that Tar Baby. Just like I did.

I am a serial Tar Babyist, fueled by ambition, boredom, enthusiasm, dissatisfaction, whimsy, serendipity, stupidity, salvation (need for, lack of), love (need for, lack of), limited foresight, malice aforethought, bad planning, dumb choices, dumb luck, etc. I have been stuck at several jobs for varying lengths of time. The most recent one falls under the category of DUMB DECISIONS (COMPROMISED VALUES). And this time was the worst, the longest -- and for the most unforgivable of reasons: I was in it for the money, something I promised myself long ago I would never do. Not only that, I was only in it for the money in a place I don't like. I also promised myself long ago I would never stay anywhere because of a job. And here I am in Texas and I am not a Texan of any sort. Seven years in one job (a record for me); nearly eight years in Texas when the plan was for four). I vowed when I was young that I would never be bound to a job or a place by money or by habit. I broke my vow this time. I sold out my principles to stay in a place I don't like for a job that was wrecking both my mental and physical health. I Judas-ed my own inner Jesus. But I didn't do it alone. My wife helped me.

How can two smart people make such a dumb decision? A few years ago my wife and I looked at the check book, the bank account, the paycheck and the calendar and convinced ourselves I could do my job for the money for a few more years. We thought it through. Or at least we thought we did. And it was for the best of reasons (especially if we left out the parts about greed and the panic of the no-longer-young). But no matter how much money I was paid after that, I was stuck up against the Tar Baby-est Tar Baby ever. And the more I fought it, the more stuck I became. A promotion here, a little more money there, promises, promises, promises. For a while I convinced myself I wasn't trapped at all and that I was sticking around Tar Baby, Inc., because I wanted to. But I wasn't. I was stuck. And finally, just like Brer Rabbit, I realized I couldn't unstick myself. So there I was, sold out, stranded, depressed, physically ill, but I kept on bringing home the bacon because that is what we agreed I would do.

BRER FOX (You know the type)

Behind every Tar Baby, Inc., there is a sly old Brer Fox, a Head Honcho, a Big Cheese, President, Chief Cook and Bottle Washer, Director, Manager, a Whatever-They-Call-Him-Wherever-You-Work (or -Used-to-Work). They're the ones who think their shit don't stink. You know the type. In their deluded state, they get the Holy Spirit and the Entrepreneurial Spirit confused and when he (or she) looks into the mirror they see the Face of God staring back at them. And not just any god. They see the Old Testament God (the unleavened and unJesused punishing God of the Jews), the one who spoke the world into existence (the Let-There-Be-Light God). "Let there be light. By god, that's me," they say to the face in the mirror, but it's a case of mistaken identity. Most often they rise only to the level of a less-than-god who never made it into anybody's holy book, a failed god who keeps trying to speak the world into existence but can't because: (1) they don't know precisely what they want to say or (2) when to shut up. There never can be real light (not Let-There-Be-Light kind of light) in Brer Fox's world because he/she is always telling somebody to change the bulb. But no light, no matter. Brer Fox is going to keep on talking. You know the type.

Brer Fox (a.k.a. Brer God, Brer Boss, Brer Whatever) likes to say the sort of thing from time to time that terrifies anyone who ever found himself - or herself - stuck at Tar Baby, Inc. "I'm gwinter bobby-cue you one day fo' sho." Which is a pre-Ebonics Uncle Remus-y way of saying: "You're going to be stuck to my Tar Baby until I decide to cook your fucking goose." And over the years you see other geese bobby-cued all around you for good reason or no reason. But you convince yourself it'll never happen to you. You have history, loyalty. You have friends. You even have friends in high places. But sure enough the day comes when one of Brer Fox's Tar-Babysitters (yes-men, ass-kissers, shit-shovelers, toadies, etc., you know the type) gives you the grim news. And no matter how they do it or what word they use - terminated, laid off, eliminated or bobby-cued - it always means the same thing. "You're fired."

THE BRIAR PATCH (or There's No Place Like Home)

First you're scared. Then you're mad (that won't go away for a long time, believe me. I don't know how long because it's not over yet). You feel betrayed. You feel useless. You feel bent over and -- well, you know the painful feeling. You feel like you have been flung into the briar patch in the worst possible way. I've been feeling all of that plus some for several weeks now. Still do.

But think about this: For the first time in a long time (days, months, years, careers) you are Brer Rabbit (or somebody a lot like him) and you are free from Tar Baby, Inc. Think about it. Brer Fox (Brer Boss, Brer Flunky, Brer Shit-Don't-Stink) thinks you're a goner. But you're not because the briar patch is where you live (at least you used to back when you had promises to keep). And you are home free, which I'll admit can be a very scary place to be, especially if you don't recognize it at first. But while you are waiting for the scary-ness to wear off, remember what Brer Rabbit said to Brer Fox after he had been flung into the briar patch:

" 'Bred and born in the briar patch, Brer Fox -- bred and born in the briar patch!' And with that he skipped out just as lively as a cricket in the embers."

The briar patch is the place to be.

As for Brer Fox and the rest of them? They are still stuck back at Tar Baby, Inc. And I almost feel sorry for them. But only almost. Feeling sorry would mean I give a damn. And I don't. You think Brer Rabbit felt sorry for Brer Fox after he tricked him into tossing him into the briar patch? Hell no! For that matter, do you think your friends back at old Tar Baby, Inc., really give a shit about what happened to you? Hell no! I would like to see the whole bunch of them from the Brer-iest Fox to the Toadiest Toady La Brea-ed in their own tar pit. In fact, if I caught them standing at the edge of the pit, I might be tempted to give them a little shove.

I read recently that losing a job is just about the worst thing that can happen to a person and I am not about to claim that all of the zip-a-dee is back in my doo-dah and I am not yet as lively as a cricket in the embers. But for now I am feeling a little more at home in my own private briar patch every day. That's enough.

UNEMPLOYED: IT MAKES ME WANT TO SHOUT

Me at age 3.

This is what happens when something needs to be said and words fail. And something must be said. Soon. I know who needs to hear it, but I don't know how to say it. And trying to figure it out ruins my days and my life. But it is too loud in here to concentrate. "Shhhhh," I say and, "Shhhhh!" But the boy won't shut up and listen to me. And with all of his noise, I can't think. And if I can't think, I can't figure out what to say and get on with my life. And I really want to get on with my life. I do. First something must be said. But I am at a loss for words. This frightening, screeching, furious boy is what happens to me when I am at a loss for words. Life is dangerous without the camouflage of language. So I must teach the screaming boy inside me what to say. Soon. I must concentrate. I must. "Shhhhh," I say.

UNEMPLOYED: PAIN AND JOBLESSNESS

I lost my job.

Now

I have tennis elbow.

But

I don't play tennis.

Though

I have time to play.

Since

I lost my job.

UNEMPLOYED: PULLING PORK AND CALLING PEOPLE NAMES

0n Sunday I made pulled pork barbecue. It took most of the day. I made vinegar-based sauce. I made red slaw. My wife made potato salad and used Duke's mayonnaise. We ate big pulled pork sandwiches heaped with meat and slaw. It was enough to make a North Carolina boy weep with joy. Other North Carolinians should have come over. It would have been a wonderful meal to share, but my wife and I knew the company would have spoiled the rest of the afternoon. Company is more often endured than enjoyed in my experience. The only thing I like better than being home alone is when my wife and I are home alone together. Sunday was a comfort when I needed comfort.

I lost my job a month ago today and it continues to piss me off. I still want to call various people motherfuckers, fucking assholes, chickenshit cocksuckers, backstabbing bastards, use various racial and ethnic slurs, etc., but I resist the urge. "Fuck 'em. Forget 'em," I say, but I'll admit I say it without much conviction. My days are a jumble. Nothing comes into focus. I cannot do any sustained writing. I am a writer and I can't write much of anything. I try, but I can't concentrate. I hate it. Then I hate the people who did this to me and want to call them ugly names. So far I have kept the urge under control. I have been assured by someone who seems to know what he is talking about that after a trauma, people recover according to an agricultural clock (or at the "speed trees grow") and that I cannot rush the seasons or the trees. I believe him. But it doesn't kill the need to call people names while waiting for the seasons to pass. Besides, sometimes I desperately want instant gratification.

And there is something else. I worked closely with the same group of people for seven years or so, saw or communicated with them every day. I came to think of many of them as my friends. They have been to my house, I have been to theirs. We worked together long and hard. So, what happened? The day I lost my job a couple of people called to say, "Sorry," but that's it. There are others, many others, who have not called even to ask how I am doing. Nothing. Nada. Nobody. Not a call, not a card, not an email. I want to say, "Fuck 'em, forget 'em," to them, too, but it's not that easy. They were my co-workers, my friends, wading through the bullshit together and saving each other from drowning when somebody slipped and fell. It was that kind of job. Maybe they fear that unemployment is contagious. Maybe they are busy. Maybe they will call. Maybe we weren't friends after all. Maybe I should quit waiting for that to happen. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe it's for the best. Or not.

The good thing is that I am not losing any sleep over any of it. In fact, I am sleeping better than I have in years. My health is improving. The knots in my gut have loosened. And if you were to drop by for a big old sandwich piled high with pulled pork and red slaw, I would tell you I am as happy as Br'er Rabbit when the fox tossed him into that briar patch. It turns out a job and a Tar Baby have a lot in common. And I will leave the ___________ (pick an ugly name from the list above, the uglier the better and feel free to improvise) and the "friends" stuck to the Tar Baby, where they belong, nod farewell to the fox, and head on down the road.

Eventually. But it's still sticky.