What Doesn't Kill You (10 page)

He said, “When I come across something I don't know how to do.”

The arrogance—but truth is, it looked pretty sturdy. We chatted about his skiing and my parents. I left unemployment off the discussion topics. Ron had a really nice voice—very soothing, like a late-night DJ, but not the ones who try too hard to sound studly. It made me want to listen more than talk, if you can believe that. Anyway, after a while I went to the kitchen to find us some snacks and when I came back all the doors, shelves and wingnuts were accounted for, but he was flipping through the instruction booklet.

“All of a sudden you don't know how to do something?”

“Yeah. How to get you to let me take you to dinner.”

Guess I walked straight into that. I mean, don't get me wrong. The man was very appealing, but my life was complicated enough and Gerald and I were, I don't know—established? I was going to say like an old married couple, but that was definitely not true. Anyway, we understood each other. Our little thing worked for both of us. This just wasn't the time to be sampling new flavors.

So I was in the middle of my very sensible explanation of why it would be too complicated for us to go out. That's when my daughter walked in, still lazy-lipped from the Novocain.

And Ron cut to the chase. “Would you have any objections if I took your mother out to dinner sometime?”

Amber smiled sideways. “Num b'at d'all,” she said, which I knew meant “None at all,” which blew my cover yet again. Would she have been so quick to second that emotion if she knew how I'd spent her wedding night? I didn't know, and I wasn't about to find out, but I knew it was time to collect my hug, say my piece and leave.

I led my rubber-lipped baby to the kitchen where she accepted my apology without rubbing it in—probably because it's hard to gloat when your mouth doesn't work. Then Amber announced, as best as she could, that she and J.J. were starting to look at houses. I remember my little girl playing house and now she was talking about buying one. At least she'd have a place to put her own Barbies, bikes and other remnants from past phases that had taken up residence in my basement.

Ron walked me to my car, said he'd be in touch. I didn't doubt it. He stood on the walkway, waiting until I drove off. I guess to show me he was a gentleman. It was like I could feel
him watching me and I fumbled with my keys, the seat belt, the gearshift, the lights—like I had never driven before, worse than my mother the first time she sat behind the wheel, which made no sense. But finally I managed to drive off without running into anything.

Which meant there was absolutely nothing left for me to do but go home.

I saw the letter from the Markson attorney as soon as I walked in the door, like it was glowing red or radioactive or something. I picked up everything around it. Tossed out old sale circulars and filed my bills in the rack on my desk in the den, where I keep them organized according to due date; writing checks would accompany my morning coffee, since I needed to catch up with the front of the month. No big deal if they were a little late—I always paid on time. I had unpacked my suitcase, watered my plants and changed into my nightgown before I sat down at the desk with my attorney mail.

Bottom line: they were giving me a week to produce the aforementioned corporate history. That ended three days before I got home, which I would have known if I had come home when I should have, or if I had forked over my lawyer's retainer. Let me tell you, ignorance is not bliss. It just means that when life slaps you upside your head you can say, “Where'd that come from?” and halfway believe yourself. Anyway, without said document I would be in default of my separation agreement and thus ineligible to receive any monies under the terms of the agreement.
What the…
They could not be telling me they weren't paying for my twenty-five years of service, minus the five they were too cheap to include. I went and got those glasses I forget to wear, just to make sure I read what I thought I did. I got real quiet. And I think for a moment my
heart stopped. Then I could feel my pulse beating hard and slow in my neck, like war drums.

I must have read that letter a hundred times, and even though he didn't write it, I could smell Didier in every word. He had the office and the big title, but I did more for that company and Olivia than he could begin to understand, and all I was going to have to show for it was a measly check. Now he was taking that away. Yeah, I knew I shouldn't have shredded those index cards, but that was just an excuse to cheat me out of what I had coming.

Needless to say, I didn't do much sleeping. I laid in bed, steaming, thinking about how much I had done for Markson & Daughter and how unfair this was. By morning I was breathing fire and I was ready to burn somebody's office down. There was no point wasting money on legal representation. It didn't do jack the last time, so at 9:01 a.m. I called the Markson lawyer who was handling my case—a Ms. Benson, Bertrand, Bernard, something. I've got a mental block about the name because she was so cut-and-dried, mechanical, methodical that I might as well have been arguing with a computer.

Every word hurt when I said it, but I offered to re-create the history, which I had pretty much done all night in my head anyway. Ms. B, which could have stood for something else I wanted to call her, said that window of opportunity had closed. I wanted a window to shove her out of when she went on to inform me that the company had generously opted to forego further prosecution as long as I did not pursue the matter. Generously? So now they were doing me a big favor? We had nothing further to discuss, so I hung up before I said something very unprofessional, and I was not going to give her a lunatic story to tell over lunch.

So all ties had been officially cut, hacked, mutilated—we were done. Twenty-five years flushed, and right then it left a really bad smell. I could hardly think straight the rest of the day, but I made myself do normal stuff—run some laundry, change my bed, sit down and write checks. I don't know what made me madder: the fact I didn't have the money I was counting on or that after taxes it wasn't going to buy me much time anyway. But that was the past and I wasn't going to get anywhere looking backward. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. Right. They say sometimes you have to burn the forest to save it. It works in the end, but first you have to go through hell.

N
ext morning I was mad as hell—but it made me feel like I could lick the world. I got up early and put myself together like I was heading to work, because I think clearer when I'm dressed for success. And I'd be ready when I found out where to go file for…unemployment. Even at home by myself the word made me feel about two feet tall. I could hear Julie insisting, “They owe us,” except it still felt like charity and I didn't want to need it. Not exactly need, but without that separation payment…Let's just say it's amazing how fast your money goes out when there's no in-come. But this was only a temporary setback. I wasn't going to need anywhere near the twenty-six weeks you're allowed.

So I rifled through the section of my closet where I kept the clothes with the tags still on—my security stash, because I like to be prepared for all occasions. I settled on the tweed suit I bought while I was shopping with my mother, because I wanted to look like the competent, capable employee I had
always been. I must say, I'd have looked at me and been impressed. Then I tacked a new calendar to my bulletin board, sat at my desk, cleaned my glasses. Maybe after I was done I'd give Julie a call. She'd been wanting to get together for lunch. That would feel almost like the old days, and since she was in the same boat I was, I didn't have to pretend changing course wasn't pissing me off.

First surprise—there was no actual unemployment office to go to. I was all ready for battle, with my sword to cut through red tape and my BS deflector shield. I started grumbling when I found the Department of Labor in the phone book and they didn't list an address. Now they were going to make me climb some endless phone tree just to figure out where to go. Except the phone was it. Or I could go to their website—youlostyourjob.com or whatever the heck it was—like this was some damn game. But this was my life and I had played by the rules. Except the rules changed, and nobody told me 'til I struck out.

Anyway, I told you how I feel about computers—I no more had one in my house than I had a copier, a fax machine or a key to the ladies' room. And who in their right mind would type in all their confidential information and then press send? How was I supposed to know where that ended up or who could get it? So I stuck with the phone and pressed 1 to file a new claim.

Who actually makes up those application questions?
Are you presently ready, willing and able to work full-time?
No, I'm leaving for my bungalow in Tahiti, but can you forward the check?
Do you have more than 5 percent interest in any company for which you worked?
I should, but I don't and if I did, why the hell would I be bothering you? And do you know they have the
nerve to ask if you want taxes withheld? You don't have a job, but they got to make sure you're right with the IRS.

Then, after I told them everything but my shoe size, I found out how much the check would be—didn't know whether to hit the floor or raise the roof. Yeah, it was the maximum, but
before taxes
it wasn't even a third of my salary. I made more than that twenty years ago. What was I supposed to do with it? Sure as hell not pay my bills. Clearly, they do not mean for you to be comfortable in any way, shape or form. That's probably why it's so easy to arrange direct deposit. So your mail carrier can't keep track of the pitiful little checks you're getting. As it was, he'd see my “Notice of Benefit Determination.” I know he knows what's in those envelopes. If you think about it, who knows more about you than your mailman?

Anyway, I was never one to balance my checkbook to the penny or keep to a budget. Long as I stayed a step ahead of the minimum payment I was good to go. But now I had COBRA to worry about on top of my regular monthly nut, and the dread of adding all those numbers from all those “invoice enclosed” envelopes arranged neatly on my desk, and seeing how much I was in the minus column, propelled me toward my next challenge—the Help Wanted section. No postings on a bulletin board this time. I sorted through the newspapers my neighbor took in while I was away and found the Sunday classifieds. That's when it hit me: I didn't have the slightest idea what to look for. I suspected “assistant to company founder” was not a category.

I crossed out the New York listings right off the bat. I wasn't about to move back, and commuting is like a part-time job with no benefits. Then I checked out the big ads with logos and artwork—if they spent more on their ad, they could afford my
salary. No itty bitty startups for me—been there—and I wasn't signing on for anybody's growing pains.

Some positions sounded glamorous, like interior designer. Or director of major gifts—that had a good ring until I realized it was convincing rich people to put your charity in their will. How do you ask somebody that? There were lots of health-care jobs. Mom always said there'd be a steady supply of patients. And I'm still not sure what a milieu supervisor does, but I decided to skip it. They only accepted faxed or emailed résumés, like two-thirds of the other ads, which became problems two and three. No fax. No email. Whatever happened to a stamp? Or an interview, in person? Guess that changed when Personnel became Human Resources. But at this point my number-one problem was no résumé. Never did go back and write one after Olivia said not to bother. Never needed it until now.

So I got a pen and a fresh pad—then stared at the blank page, trying to figure out how to describe my work history. After a while I wrote my name and address, the company name, number of years employed, my degree—all two years of it. That left a whole lot of space. I put down my job title: executive assistant. What did that mean? How was I supposed to describe what I did to help build Markson & Daughter from kitchen concoctions to fragrance empire? Typing, filing, phones, et cetera. Yep—did that from day one. Performed duties of a guinea pig, cheerleader, stock clerk, graphic artist, therapist, defender, advisor, peacekeeper, negotiator, project coordinator, mother hen, personal shopper, stenographer, event planner, marketing consultant, strategist, comedian, purchasing agent. By then there was smoke coming out of my ears because I shouldn't have to explain this to anybody. Except now I had
to find somebody to pay me to do it again. And I didn't know what to say or how to organize it, and the longer I sat there the more it felt like my nose was being rubbed in something I didn't do. So I took off on a field trip to the bookstore for some how-to résumé help. Left a message on Julie's cell too. Suddenly, I understood why she was sucking down Chardonnay at our first lunch.

Clearly, this résumé writing was no simple task, and lots of other folks didn't know how to do it, because there was an overflowing section on the subject. Reference books, workbooks, ring binders and pocket guides, some complete with CD-ROM templates to give your résumé that custom touch. I never realized how much of a science there was to “packaging” yourself, because that's what they called it. Not cheap either. They mean for you to invest in your future. I found an armchair and thumbed through the stack I had collected, which didn't exactly make me feel better—sort of like the store brand in a premium world. But each guide promised to show me how to go from cut rate to first class.

I had narrowed it down to three when my phone rang. Julie said she'd meet me in the cosmetics department at Nordstrom's—as good a place as any. And after weighing the options, I bought all three books. They had different strong points and I was doing this once and for all.

First off, all that résumé research made me realize I needed a computer to compose it on—part of my marketing efforts, because Tee, Inc., had to be outstanding. Guess I could have used Amber and J.J.'s, but then I'd have had to deal with my daughter standing over my shoulder worrying me to death. Besides, the world was changing—correction: had changed—and it was time for me to get with the program. My Brother
portable typewriter did not have changeable fonts or graphics. So I stopped in one of those computer megastores, just to look.

I liked the laptops right away—nice and neat. Yeah, they cost a little more, but if they did the same thing as those big machines, who needs the excess sprawl? Now I know Baby Son-in-Law would want me to shop around for six months, compare prices, wait for the sale, but I didn't have time for all that. And of course I got the color printer—with the copier, fax and scanner, a surge protector, cables…

Spending money I didn't exactly have sure took my appetite, so I wasn't real hungry when I got to Nordstrom's. Julie was in the cosmetics department all right. Behind the Markson counter, wearing the white smock with navy piping I helped Olivia pick because it looked so crisp and fresh. Julie broke into a big smile when she saw me. I was horrified. Working with the enemy? With
them
? First words out of my mouth were, “How could you?”

At lunch I barely touched my burger. Julie said she started as holiday help because she had been steady job hunting, nothing turned up, and she was going crazy. I was sure she hadn't invested in the proper tools. Anyway, I asked why she couldn't have worked in leather goods. Except she knew the Markson product line upside down and backward, so they hired her right away. Turns out she sold everything but the display counter, so they asked her to stay. And she actually looked happy. Said she never realized how much she liked working with the public. Right. I told her I was working on my self-marketing plan. Not sure yet if I was making over my professional profile or counting down thirty days to the career I craved, but this time I wasn't falling into the first job that crossed my path.
Julie was glad to see me looking good, sounding so positive. Just hearing her say it made me feel better. Then she told me how impressed she'd been when she came to work at Markson and heard how I started part-time as a college student and worked my way up. That was one of the nicest things said to me by somebody I wasn't related to, but at the moment all I could think was,
Up to what?
Then she was off and running, about how she was investigating courses in merchandising so she could advance in retailing or maybe open a store one day and…Her enthusiasm was exhausting, and frankly she was not about to sell me on the idea that getting fired was the best thing that happened to her. I think being around all those fragrances had made her dizzy.

I told her it wasn't necessary, but Julie insisted on treating me, since she was working. I told her next time would be on me. To celebrate my new job.

The rest of the afternoon I spent with manuals, USB cords and cartridges. And with Cablecast. As long as I was moving into the digital age I might as well get myself online too, so after a return visit to my new best friend, the salesman at the computer store, I allegedly had everything I needed. Problem was, I didn't know a USB port from a DVI connector, and if that wasn't bad enough, there was a stack of software I was supposed to load. And a wireless router so I could surf the web from any room in my house or from up on the roof, for that matter. Except this was all very different from that first computer I got for Olivia's loft and installed myself. And now you're supposed to put it all together by following these diagrams with arrows and six words of explanation in ten different languages, like that's going to tell you what to put where. I had some suggestions for where they could put things.

Fortunately, good old Gerald arrived just when I was ready to light a match to the whole setup. I meant to slip into something a little less corporate, but time stands still when you're running out of patience. Before I knew it, he was ringing my doorbell. And no, he didn't have a key. Did I have a key to his house? Although I must say, since shortly after Amber moved he had made himself quite at home—brought slippers, extra underwear, clothes to change into. I blinked and ended up with a drawer full of his stuff—and socks under my bed. It wasn't so bad, though. I kind of liked not going out all the time.

For years we had nowhere to be
but
out, at least two turnpike exits from either of our towns—the Ironbound in Newark, down the shore, only off-season, the city occasionally, but that made me nervous. Anybody might be in the city. Usually we'd end up in some out-of-the-way spot that had seen better days, which cut down on the potential for chance sightings. Now it was nice having him build a fire, snuggling on the couch or in my bed with the pretty sheets and the bedspread I wasn't afraid to touch because who knows what's on there. I mean, at this point it's not like we were swinging from the chandeliers. Through the years, Gerald went from salesman to sales manager at the dealership, and his profile went from lean and mean to where's-the-belt. But he could still hit the spot. I was past looking for gymnastics, or Prince Charming, because at this point the frogs had turned to toads and most of those were horny. It's just that back doors and sneaking around gets old. Sometimes you just want to settle in, read the paper, talk about what color to paint the den, not worry about what time it is—regular stuff, like folks do.

Anyway, Gerald showed up, and I'm not sure if he was happier to see me or my computer boxes. In any case, he took
over the installation, which suited me fine. The bad news was I had to listen to his version of the history of the microprocessor, binary logic, tech stocks he wished he'd bought and every other thing he knew about computers. The good news is I learned to selectively ignore him years ago. As long as I nodded in the right spots and kept Scotch on his rocks, he was perfectly content. Except right after I ordered Chinese food and was slipping into velour lounging pajamas, the phone started ringing.

First it was Diane, one of the birthday-cruise crew, talking about “Wouldn't it be nice to have a presail soiree?” That meant wouldn't I like to plan one—that's how those things got done. Well, I wasn't about to tell her I had more pressing matters than party planning. We were friends and all, but I wasn't confiding anything I didn't want to hear repeated. Within minutes she'd have been calling people I didn't even know telling them I was out of work. So, I said I'd think about it. Which I would. After my first paycheck. There was lots of time before bon voyage.