Adventures In Unemployment

I reacquainted myself with that happenin' hub of social interaction last week when I filed for unemployment. My previous attempt to do so led me to the Elgin office, where a woman with a significant amount of blonde chin hair listened to me explain that I would be out of work for one month at the country club. She said nothing of assistance in filling out my claim and a few short weeks later, I received a nice notice from Gov. Rod Blagojevich telling me, basically, "Tough titties, kid. Guess you're not going drinkin' this month."

One of the cooks I got liquored up on regular occasions told me when we returned to work that the man filing his claim told him how to answer. He had a very enjoyable month off.

I didn't really drive to Aurora with visions or hopes of checks just arriving week after week while my former employers shook their fists and cursed in Greek at the very thought of me. Okay, maybe the possible ire caused by an unemployment claim could be fun.

***

While rewriting press releases and researching how former high school stars are doing at college was fun for a while, it was nice to finally have the editor at the newspaper give me some, you know, real work. Now that I know my voice recorder still works and the telephone hook-up for it has been replaced, I'm starting to remember why I went back to school.

"Did you receive your check yet?" the editor asked me a couple weeks ago.

Surprisingly, the fact that I was supposed to be getting paid for this kind of slipped my mind. Now, well, I'm starting to wonder when I am going to get paid. I start covering games this week for spring sports, which is great. But gas costs money and Hinsdale ain't exactly within walking distance.

***

Before I took that second job at the Italian fine dining place last Christmas, I applied at a less posh Italian place (re: a pizzeria) where a girl I knew worked. They didn't have an opening at the time.

Fast-forward to my current state of panic and desperation, and you might be able to understand why I decided to go back in and take up said girl on the messages she's been leaving me for the past month about how, suddenly, the restaurant's owner needs help.

Yeah, yeah, yeah ... I know I said I wouldn't work in a restaurant again. But you try telling your girlfriend that you'd like to take her out if you could afford it.

Then again, that probably would've been preferable to what I ended up doing: Taking the serving job that would require me to work mostly weekend nights. Since the lady works regular nine-to-five type hours, that didn't go too well.

So three shifts later, I quit so I could spend the weekend downtown. I told the owner I had been offered an immediate opening that I couldn't refuse. If I were being honest, I would've just said, "I'm going to two job fairs this week. Wish me luck."

***

A lady from the unemployment office called me to get my side of the story. I knew I was going to have trouble trying to explain how telling a sixty-something-year-old female supervisor to "Fuck off."

Still, it's fun to think that immediately after calling me, she had to place a call to the waffle house "pancake house" ("We're a step above other pancake houses," the boss used to say at meetings; to which I often thought, "Yeah ... but it's still a fucking pancake house all the same.") and talk about that final day with my former employer.

I'm not getting my hopes up about receiving anything. But that's okay. If I get rejected, I can appeal. And the longer I can be a nice little thorn in the side of that family's daily business, well, you just can't put a price on that.