Unemployment Blues

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Wouldn't you like to get even with those smug bastards at...
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Jenny Jackson walked through the glass, double, Kawneer doors on the front of the Oregon Employment Division field office in Beaverton at 9:30 AM. The office was a nice single story brick building with tall, radius-head windows and black glass that did not allow anyone to see in from the outside. The appearance was one of red brick with tall, black, keyholes at intervals around the exterior.

A quick look around the office, Jenny spied a table off to one side where it was certain to be missed by the uninitiated. On the wall above the table were two old and faded signs. Someone could probably have made out the printing on the signs sometime back around 1984 but the ink was so deteriorated in 2006 that reading them was impossible. Jenny made for the table. There she found her application, and the "handy employment guide" from the Oregon Employment Division. "Why the hell do they call themselves the 'Employment Division' when you wouldn't come here if you had a job?" she wondered. "It really seems like 'Unemployment Division' is more appropriate."

A long counter ran the full width of the office separating the lowly, unemployed from the higher class of employed State workers. Jenny noticed the counter was taller than most and came nearly to her armpits. It stood there like a great barrier between those behind the counter who held themselves in the highest esteem due to their "job security" and those in front of the counter who had been downsized by the economy and thrown on the garbage heap of unemployed humanity.

Jenny took her papers to a seat at a table near the front of the office and opened the application. The guy next to her tugged at her sleeve and whispered, "Hey, doll. You got a pencil?"

She raised her head to look at this cretin. The classic holes in the knees of his "Can't Bust 'Um" bib overalls was a dead give away as to the intelligence of this moron. "Yes. I have a pencil, thank you," she said dismissively.

"No, doll. I mean can I have a pencil?"

"You actually came to fill out an application having nothing to write with? No pencil? No Pen? No charred, pointed stick? Nothing?" she asked.

The guy looked a bit uncomfortable. "Umm. No. They didn't tell me I'd need one."

"Jesus H. Christ," Jenny mumbled digging in her purse. After a moment, she handed the guy half a "Hot Pink" Crayola crayon she'd picked up after her niece. "This is all I have. Enjoy."

Jenny turned back to her application and began to write quickly. She had gotten down to filling in her most recent employment when there was a tug on her shirtsleeve.

"Yes? What the fuck do you want now?" she said without looking up.

"There's a question on here. Is says, 'Sex (m/f)?' What do I put there?," the moron in the overalls asked.

"Put 'YES-BOTH'. That's what everyone puts there."

"Okay," the man said happily turning to his application.

At the bottom, Jenny signed her name with a flourish and dropped the application in the box at the left end of the counter. She then found a seat on the other side of the office to escape Mr. Bib Overalls. Jenny sat. Jenny waited. Jenny watched the various people moving too and fro filling in applications and dropping them in the box at the left end of the counter. Most of all, Jenny watched the State workers as they chatted around the coffee bar, threw paper air planes at each other and pretended to be working while they chatted with each other on both the phone and the internet.

At 4:15 a black woman came from somewhere in the back of the building and pulled all the applications out of the box. She then turned the pile upside down so she could start with the oldest applications first.

"Ronnie Schwartz?" she said in a loud voice. The woman looked around the office, a stern expression on her face. "Ronnie Schwartz? Are you here?" There was no answer. His application was dropped into a "special" file reserve red for those individuals who were not interested enough to waste an entire day waiting. The night custodial crew would do a proper job of completing the processing when the file was dumped later that night into the dumpster behind the building.

"Annette Haskell?" the woman, who had now become somewhat irritated, shouted. Jenny looked around the office. There seemed to be only seven people waiting in the low-life, unemployed side of the towering counter, while the pile had at least one hundred fifty applications. "What da hell wrong wid des people?" the woman muttered under her breath.

At 4:53 the black woman announced, "Jennifer Jackson?" Jenny jumped up and ran the two steps to the counter just as the woman was about to drop her application into the "special file". "I'm Jennifer Jackson."

The woman looked even more irritated. "Is you da Jennifer Jackson dat live on Cranberry Lane?" she asked eying Jenny closely.

"Yes. 1634 Cranberry Lane. That's me."

"The woman took on an angry look. "Am dis yo social sa-curity number?"

Jenny looked at the application. "Yes. That's it."

The woman turn her head to look over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. "Damn, two mo minutes," she muttered.

Jenny smiled at the woman. "See? It's all filled out. All the 'I's dotted and 'T's crossed. I did orientation yesterday. I know the official handy employment guide by heart. You can test me if you want."

"Damn!" mumbled the woman. "Jes one minute. I be right back," the woman said as the turned on her heel and said something to the woman on the switchboard behind her.

In only a moment a man came running from the rear of the "employed" side of the office.

"What's this all about?" he demanded.

"Dis here woman filled out everyting and even did the orientation," the black woman said. "I think she a troublemaker."

The man picked up Jenny's application and stared at it. "Follow me, Miss Jackson," he said sternly. Jenny followed the man along the counter to the end. There was a buzz and a door popped open. Jenny stepped in. The door slammed behind her. The man was already in the room waiting for her.

"Now, Miss Jackson, I have several questions for you. First, why did you take the orientation the day before you applied?"

"Why not?" Jenny asked.

"Look. I'm asking the questions here. Now, why did you arrive at exactly 9:28 AM before the rush and wait all day for the interview?"

"9:28? Are you sure? I thought it was 9:30," Jenny said confused.

"Look, Miss Jackson. It was 9:28 AM. We have already reviewed the surveillance tape and confirmed your time of arrival. You drove into the parking lot at 9:24 AM in a blue 2005 Ford, license number KVP639. The car is still parked in the same space. You sat in the car and put on make up. At 9:27 AM you exited your car and entered the building. The question is WHY?"

"Look boner," Jenny said sweetly, "To fill out the application. Why do you think?"

"And why did you give a Hot Pink Crayon to one Rufus Malloy at 10:14 AM? Answer me that?"

"Gee. You mean your surveillance cameras are color. That's pretty cool," Jenny grinned.

"Just answer the question, Miss Jackson."

"Well, the loser didn't bring anything to write with and I gave him the only other writing implement I had. Would you have been more satisfied if I'd used the crayon instead?"

The man looked somewhat flustered.

"So, when do I get my unemployment?" Jenny asked.

"Umm. Unemployment? Umm. You don't."

"And why is that?"

"Look at this nice office we have. Just look at all the people we have on the payroll here. Do you really think we have money to throw away on the unemployed?" the man said, looking somewhat indignant.

"And do you ever give unemployment to anyone? If you don't mind me asking, of course."

"Of course we do. Occasionally, one of our people has to leave the fold, so to speak, and they can expect thirty six full weeks of compensation," the man said with a proud smile.

"And what about all the money my employer paid in each month for me?"

"Well. Like I've tried to explain, it's all a matter of overhead. See, with my salary and the rest of the people working here, new desks, computers, chairs, office parties and so on there just isn't really enough money to pay out unemployment compensation of 'dead beats' you know."

"Dead beats?" Jenny asked, her eyes widened.

"Well, that's what we call them. You know. People who don't have jobs and aren't paying into support the system." The man looked like a contented toad.

"Okay, so let me get this straight. I'm been paying in, or has been paid in on my behalf for twenty years something like six percent of my gross wages, and you have no intention of paying my claim? Is that right?"

"Yes. Exactly. I'm so glad you finally understand how it works here."

"No. I don't think you understand at all, Mr.?"

"Fillmun. Arnold Fillmun," the man beamed.

Jenny looked at her watch. "I need to waste one more minute," she thought.

"Maybe I have one more question, Arnold," Jenny said slyly.

"Why, of course. Ask away, Miss Jackson."

"How does one go about getting a job at the Oregon Employment Division?"

Arnold looked tense. "You can't. I'm sorry. These jobs are all doled out by higher ups in the Division."

"Higher ups? Do you mean by the big wheels down in Salem?"

"Yes. That would be it," Arnold answered. Tiny beads of sweat had begun to form on his upper lip.

Jenny's cell phone rang. Opening the phone, Jenny answered, "Hi, Harry. Right on time. This bozo's name is Arnold. You can talk to him." Jenny handed the cell phone and her attorney to Arnold.

"Umm. Hello?" Arnold said into the phone.

There was a very long pause. Arnold was now visibly shaken. Sweat poured off his face, staining his shirt dark. After a few moments, he handed the phone back the Jenny.

"Hey, Harry. Is Uncle Bob there too? Let me talk to him."

"Hi, Uncle Bob. Do you want to tell this bozo to give me my unemployment?" Jenny handed the phone back to Arnold. This is my Uncle. He's the Secretary of Labor. I know you want to talk to him.

Arnold took the phone. "Hello? Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Umm. Please, Sir. Umm."

The line had gone dead. Arnold handed the phone back to Jenny.

"I guess you get your unemployment," he said sadly.

"Very good. It was so nice doing business with you," Jenny said standing an opening the door. "Oh, and, of course, good luck, filling out your application for unemployment tomorrow." Jenny turned and walked to the double, glass door laughing.

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betrayedbylovebetrayedbyloveabout 6 years ago
Oh Yeah

Just give it a little time. There will be many republicans waiting in this office.

Ha ha

fanfarefanfarealmost 10 years ago
my favorite bueaucracy

The Santa Ana Office of the California DMV. There are big (BIG!) signs out front and inside all over the wall. Warning us unwashed that armed officers are always available to remonstrance with anyone failing to show the proper subservience to the Public Servants.

Last time I was there, a few years ago, they were late opening the office. Armed guards forcing everyone to wait out in that California phenomena of rain on hot pavement. While workmen were busy finishing up patching the bullet holes in the walls and replacing the windows.

AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago
Been There!

Minnesota is worse, especially if you are not from Chicago or Detroit!!

AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
As an Oregonian, I completely relate to this tale. . .

You gotta sense of hummer you do. . .

Thanks

Greg

AnonymousAnonymousover 14 years ago
Bitter sweet irony

Loved it especially the bit at the end - made me laugh

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