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.”

hank williams songs

Falling into the trap again. It’s all I can think of while I’m sitting on the couch. I’m tired as hell. I want to have a beer. I want to laugh more. I want to not be so god damn sleepy. But, it’s 1:30 in the morning and I have to be at work the next afternoon. That after a four-plus hour drive to the office from where I am right now.

But I don’t want to go. I wish that something would happen. Anything. But it isn’t.

I’ve been in this situation way too many times in my life. Sitting with a woman. Hanging out with a woman. Conversing with a woman. Over and over again. Meeting up for drinks. Going to interesting places and events. Yet, nothing happens.

It can’t always happen. It doesn’t always happen fast. But most of the times, nothing happens at all. You fall into that place. That zone of friendship. You know that neither of you really wants it to be so ordinary, but it happened. How to get out of that, is always the interesting question. It takes guts to pull out of that nosedive. It doesn’t to just allow it to stay the same.

Which is what usually happens. It just gets left to stay. Eventually, one or the other gets up the nerve to do something. Sometimes. Most of the time, however, it just dies off. Either by choice of one, of just by inertia.

As I’m slumped on the couch, petting her cat and watching re-runs of her favorite cartoon, the shear awfulness of it all sits there like an extra person in the room. Subtle hints become anvils to the head. At least you feel that way about them. Yet nothing changes.

A couple of drinks later, you realize how uncomfortable it is in her apartment. It’s hot. The heat has been blasting constantly since you got back from the bar. Five hours ago. Your eyes are dry. You head hurts from that “you starting drinking, but then you stopped” feeling. Ugh. The drive home in the morning is going to be painful. Especially since it ends, not at home, but at the office. Ready for another eight-hour day of cymbal monkey-ing.

But then I look over my shoulder and see her sitting there. She gives me a look, I try to figure out what it means.

“You spending the night?” she asks.

“Nah. I have to get up early to go to work. And if I stay here, I’ll be up half the night.”

“Ahh.”

Yes, that’s simply the way it is.

It’s been that way for a while now. The jump the shark moment, it either came a long time ago, and it wasn’t noticed, or we’re still in the pilot episode. We just don’t know if we’re going to be picked up yet or not.

Much like a Hank Williams song, you know what you’re getting when you start it. Sad songs and heartache.

Wow. This sucks.

#30#