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.

Getting What I Want

I found one of those "foot in the door" type openings at a small newspaper around here toward the end of January. It's not much right now, you know, with "budget" issues and so forth. But the idea is that I'll get back to reporting on some high school games when new seasons begin for spring sports. Considering that it's getting to be just too damn close to a year since I graduated, I feel a little relief.
I call my editor on occasion to see if there's anything new for me to do, and shortly after the Super Bowl while working on a local athlete's profile, I mentioned I'd have plenty of free time on that Tuesday since I wouldn't be attending the parade I had switched days for.
"Sounds like you're taking this whole thing kind of rough," he said.
Far from it. Actually, I got over the Bears' loss rather quickly.
The friend who had driven me to the party was actually a Packers fan. He would later say that, as a Cubs fan as well, to have the White Sox, Cardinals and Bears all win world titles in such a short time span would likely cause him to commit suicide.
Of course I was a little pissed that the Super Bowl turned out the way it did. But I figured with all the other friends being depressed and calling it an "early night"—seeing as they all have, you know, real jobs—I would just go ahead, have the Packer fan drop me off at the bar so I could play darts. After all, when your team loses the Super Bowl, nothing eases your pain like getting drunk and throwing things.
The problem was that we couldn't play darts. All the tips were already broken. So, plan A was out the door.
To make matters worse, I called my cab company to arrange a ride home. But there was no answer. Upon calling a second cab company, the female operator informed me it would be more than an hour until something was available. "That's fine," I said, to which she replied that now, suddenly, nothing was going to be available.
I tried to desperately plea my case—not having a ride; it's cold outside; if you're coming from Batavia and going to Elgin, I'm along the way; etc.—to no avail. Recognizing a man at the bar as a regular at one of the old restaurants I used to work at, I relayed my shitty situation and asked if a ride home was possible. I bought him a beer before asking for the favor.
He groaned that he was already giving two others a ride home. After asking me where I lived, he turned to a girl nearby and asked if she'd mind giving me a ride home, since I was at least along the way for her. After she said it was no problem, she passed off the duty to another friend of hers.
Ironically, the girl now giving me a ride home was someone I'd been either meeting eyes with at the bar or was guilty of leering at in a sort of creepy fashion (One older woman used to call the look my "rape stare," which sounds a lot less flattering than the innocence behind it). But on the ride home, still feeling somewhat low about the letdown of the evening, we got to discussing that I looked familiar to her and vice versa. She's been in my restaurant once before and she'd actually remembered playing darts with me and a few others on a previous occasion. Long story short: She asked me to call her the following day. And to think, if the Bears had won, I probably would not have met her again.
And that would have been a real shame because I've ended up seeing her with such tremendous frequency now that I'm growing a little concerned about how quickly my feelings have developed for her. This, of course, is not a bad thing, but I don't want to get overly sappy here.
For example, when she's graciously allowed me to gripe about still being a "waffle waiter," she can relate to shitty restaurant environments. Of course, as a recent graduate herself, she's landed a pretty sweet gig she more or less loves for the couple weeks that she's been there. And a co-worker of hers who landed a job at the same time as her recommended applying at a staffing service—something I'd toyed with before, but allowed to slip my mind when sending resumes via e-mail is so much easier and far more unproductive. It took a simple day and a few hours to drop off a handful of resumes at a few staffing agencies, and before I knew it, there were phone calls and offers to take tests for placement. Despite never having used PowerPoint in my life, I fared pretty well on that portion of the test as well.
While I wait for my social security card to arrive so I can fill out tax forms and begin working something resembling more of, you know, a "real job," I promised the girlfriend I'd be quitting the waffle house by the end of the month. After asking why I put up with some of the abhorrent ways this family of Greeks treats their employees, I promised, "My notice will be in before you get back from vacation."
Fast forward to today, exchanging the long-distance "miss you"-type text messages while adjusting to the loss of one hour of sleep (Thank you, daylight savings). After one party of five or six people left, I saw my cash sitting on the table and thought I would wait to pick it up after the patrons moved further away from the table. It just looks polite, I figure.
After having a sip of my coffee, I came back to find the table reset and no cash anywhere in sight.
My first instinct was that my boss' neurotic mother more than likely was the cuplrit. Yesterday, she grabbed two tips off my tables and threatened not to give them to me until I apologized for telling her to, ahem, "Chill out." When I reminded her that she hadn't apologized for telling me to "Shut up" on numerous occasions throughout the day, she eventually gave me the cash in all its wadded glory.
But claiming she knew nothing about what happened to today's tips, I immediately went to my boss and told him I had a tip swiped. They'll deal with it later, I figured, and then do nothing about it. As another text message came in from the lady, I printed up a sheet of paper and wrote:

MARCH 30 IS DEREK'S LAST DAY

That alone would have been enough to celebrate tonight, but it got better.
My boss' mother has a penchant for hassling myself and the two other male servers who work there about anything and everything under the sun. I joked with one of the hostesses not too long ago how at every meeting, we are reminded that the boss' mom has never fired anybody, but still has the power to do so. "I want to be the first person she fires," I said.
That must have been more than a month ago, but today, when being yelled at for drinking my coffee after just having made sure everything was okay with my tables, sure enough, the old bag comes up to me and begins berating me for not listening to her demand that I put the coffee down.
"Do you plan on doing any work today?" she asked me.
"It'd be nice if I get paid for it," I replied, "But apparently someone else is getting my tips."
"Good," she said. "You deserve it."
That response was just about all I needed to hear. I took another sip from my coffee and then simply said, "Fuck off."
She looked rather shocked and then told me to get the hell out of the restaurant. I handed her my nametag and pager, grabbed my coat and walked out the front door. I lit up a cigarette and smiled the entire way home.
They've got me listed for six shifts next week, but I'm not going to hold my breath for my boss to call me and apologize. Rather, I'm assuming he'll just expect me to show up and beg him to let me keep the shitty job that I planned on quitting anyway. Let him hold his fucking breath, I say.
After all, I've got plenty of better things to do.