Educated

Sitting in the unemployment office, the signs on the wall always amuse me. My favorite is the one that says “More education is better.” I chuckle each time I see it. And I see it a lot lately. My social worker, well, that’s what I call her at least, Marlena, has three of them on her wall.

She’s kind of fat. The kind of fat that lets you know she worries about it all the time. She has these huge arms, which tell one that she was once a whole lot fatter, but couldn’t afford surgery or the right kind of trainer to get rid of the arms.

And she loves that motivational poster: “More education is better.”

“How so?” I asked her the first time I was in her office.

“Excuse me, Mr. um, uh, Jones,” she said, quickly glancing down at my file to get my name right. Kudos for the effort Marlena.

“The sign. How is more education better?”

“Studies show that having a high school degree you will make more money than one without. A college degree more so than a high school grad. A masters, more than a bachelors. And so on.”

“So, I should stay in school forever, and eventually I’ll be rich?”

“Well…It doesn’t work thaaat way, Mr. Jones.”

“Really? That’s not now you’re telling me. And your posters are telling me.”

She frowned at my last response. I wished it was more like a Bukowski book right now and she had great legs. Because then I could stare at them instead of those God damn posters. Or her giggly arms. Every time she reached for something – and she reached a lot, for her coffee, a pen, my file, the phone, her cell phone, her teeth, it went on and on – they giggled. It was almost mesmerizing. Luckily, it wasn’t.

“What are you here for today, Mr. Jones?”

“Well, the state says I have to come in here to prove that I’m A-unemployed and B-still looking for a job,” I replied.

“Well are you?”

“Which?”

“Both, Mr. Jones,” she said callously.

“Yes and yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Well, I’m broke and I have the time to come here to talk to you, don’t I?”

“Certainly, but I need proof positive that you are indeed seeking a job.”

I pulled out a stack of resumes and a stack of rejection letters from publishers. I also pulled out three forms signed by jobs I had applied for, interviewed for, and been turned down for. One was at Food Lion as a cashier. One was for a deep sea fisherman. And the last was for a bridge attendant.

“So, this will do,” Marlena said, stamping the files I handed her with her giant rubber stamp. Her arms giggled. I even think her nose giggled a bit.

“Here are some new leads,” she said after a few seconds of sweet silence. “Hopefully, something in there will do.”

I couldn’t help but think of Alan Arkin in Glengarry Glen Ross. I wondered if I was just as sad a character? Then I started thinking of Alec Baldwin holding those big metal balls. I wished Marlena would do something like that. I scanned her desk for any giant balls. Instead, I saw a Furby, a Ziggy calendar and a box of unopened Triscuits.

“I’m sure these will be great,” I said.

“Mr. Jones? May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly Marlena,” I replied, somehow now thinking of “Falling Down” when Michael Douglas is in the Whammy Burger place calling everyone by their first names. I chuckle. Out loud.

“What is funny?” she asks, almost hurt it seems.

“You ever seen the movie “Falling Down?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, that just popped into my head. You should rent it sometime.”

“Back to the questions. Can I ask you something?”

“Like I said, certainly.”

“Do you have an education?”

“Yes. I. Do!”

“How far did you make it?”

“I have a high school degree, as you call it. I have two bachelors. I have six Community college associates degrees and I almost finished my masters in creative writing, but gave up when the professor in charge of my thesis said I was “too God damn repetitive!”

“Oh, why that was mean of him.”

“Not really. It was the truth. But he just didn’t like my answer to his question of why I was so G-D repetitive,” I said, not cussing this time because I saw her wince the first time.

“What was your answer?”

“That I only have one story to tell, and I want to make sure and get it right.”