September 1, 2011-September 10, 2011

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 2011

I bid adieu to my lovely wife Cassie, my 14-year-old son Cole and my 11-year-old daughter Liv, and I drive off to my suburban-Chicago job. We’ll call the company Crushed Soul Publishing.

It’s a day like any other.

Then it isn’t.

My boss (we’ll call her Judy) rings me up and summons me to her office. Strange, I think as I trot down the hallway to Crushed Soul’s executive wing. She never calls me—she always just sends me an email if she wants something.

I enter her office, and she closes the door behind me. Another first: She’s never shut the door when I’ve been in her office. At this point, I know I’m screwed—it’s just a question of how. The specifics arrive a few seconds later: “You’ve been asked to leave the company,” Judy says matter-of-factly.

She tells me it’s for economic reasons, that a lot of other people across Crushed Soul’s various departments are also being laid off this very moment. She tells me I’ve been an excellent employee and not to take it personally. She tells me about the challenges ahead for her now-undermanned department (as if I could care less). She tells me a lot of things, but I’m not really listening. I’m in shock.

After however long, Judy leads me to a conference room, the place where dignity goes to die. About 20 of my fellow casualties are gathered around the table. Some are crying. Some are shaking their heads in disbelief. Some, like me, are stone-faced.

The HR person passes out packets containing the particulars of our ousters: severance info, insurance info, etc. She tells us not to take it personally, of course, but as I look around the table at the broken and contorted faces, I can’t help but feel like one of Sid’s mutant toys in Toy Story.

I return to my cubicle to pack up five-plus years of stuff. The news has spread quickly: Several well-wishers poke their heads into my cube. Their eyes are filled with (1) relief that they weren’t among those who got the ax and (2) pity for me because I was among those who got the ax. I can deal with my coworkers’ relief but not their pity. It makes me feel painfully awkward to be viewed as something less than an ass-kicker.

After packing only the essentials into my computer bag as quickly as I can, I hightail out of there. Then I delay the inevitable—calling my wife with the news—by driving around and listening to Bob Mould’s “Life and Times” over and over. As I pull into the Caribou Coffee in the northwest suburb where I live, the moment of truth can no longer be avoided. I unsheathe my iPhone and make the call.

Cassie takes it like a champ, especially after I tell her about my more-than-fair severance package. And really, I knew she would. She was raised in a blue-collar family where layoffs were commonplace. Adversity wasn’t something to be feared—it was simply part of the deal.

I pick up Liv from school because I can. Yes, for once, I’m available at 2:50 p.m. on a school day. Then I take her to Dairy Queen because I can. When I tell her why I suddenly have so much time on my hands, she shrugs. This is good. Later, I break the news to Cole, and he shrugs. This is good, too.

You know what? Life goes on.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2011

My plan is to go to 7 a.m. Mass, but after a restless night’s sleep, I reconsider. A visit to church right now seems too showy and more than a little hypocritical. After all, I rarely go under normal circumstances.

Instead, I drive Liv to school because I can, then noodle around on a freelance story. I had reluctantly accepted the assignment a few weeks earlier—and thank goodness I did. Back then I was busy and flush with cash; now I’m neither.

Speaking of cash, my insurance from Crushed Soul Publishing will run dry tomorrow. And since I can’t switch over to the insurance from Cassie’s job until the first week of October, I’ll be at the mercy of COBRA for the next month. In other words, if I have to visit a doctor, it’ll cost me big bucks.

Time is of the essence—I make a doctor’s appointment for noon today. There’s a small rash on my finger that I’m sure will turn to gangrene or worse the day after my Crushed Soul insurance expires. Much to my relief, the doc tells me it’s just eczema. He writes me a prescription for an ointment, which I fill immediately in order to beat the ticking clock.

That afternoon, because I can, I go to the first Ultimate Frisbee match of Cole’s high school career. It starts inauspiciously. Made up of a bunch of kids who’ve never played the sport before, Cole’s team loses 4,000,000,067–0, or so it seems.

Ultimate Frisbee is a club sport, so the kids coach themselves. Since I’m the only adult in sight and Cole and his teammates are desperate, they turn to me for advice. I’m happy to oblige. I tell the young charges that they need to spread the damn field…they need to be more physical…they need make sure no one is left open on the other team. I don’t know about them, but I feel great after my impromptu coaching clinic. I feel useful.

And maybe—just maybe—I am. In their next game, they hang tough and lose by only a few points. It’s a start.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 2011

After another restless night’s sleep, I’m disoriented. It’s the weekend, but it doesn’t really feel that way. When you’re unemployed, the days just sort of run together.

I go to my computer to noodle around on my freelance assignment. As I’m typing, I think of my old boss at Crushed Soul. What’s she doing right now? Is she typing away at her computer, too? If so, is it out of line for me to wish that the thing short-circuits and shocks her? Nothing catastrophic, just enough of a shock to cause a bit of discomfort?

A satisfied smile crosses my face, but I let it go. If I allow bitterness to creep in, it will eat me up. I think of something Richard Nixon said. True, Nixon was a madman, but the quote seems strangely appropriate: “Always remember that others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself.” Not that the folks at Crushed Soul hate me—at least I’m pretty sure they don’t. Like most people in the working world these days, they’re just trying to hang on.

Onward to bigger and better things, like the drive-in movie theater. There are only two left in the Chicago area, and we head out to one of them with eight carloads of friends. The evening provides a much-needed escape from reality. I love the mythology of the drive-in. It represents a more innocent time, when America was growing by leaps and bounds and the future seemed like it was rolled out like a red carpet.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2011

After a restless night’s sleep, I flip on a Sunday morning news show. The topic of discussion? The release of the August employment report, which shows zero percent job growth.

Ugh.

I go to my computer and noodle around on my freelance assignment. That evening, we go to our friends the Bennetts for dinner. Bill Bennett has been one of my best friends since the seventh grade. That’s nearly a lifetime of ups and downs together.

The downs were easier to bounce back from way back when, such as the time his older brother didn’t leave us a 12-pack of Stroh’s in the designated bush at Centennial Park like he said he would. Nevertheless, Bill tries his best to shrink the magnitude of this one for me. “All that paid time off,” he says of my severance. “I’d kill to switch places with you.” I’m relatively certain he wouldn’t want to, but it’s a nice sentiment.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 2011

I stir after a restless night’s sleep. Today’s a holiday. It’s Labor Day. Is this a joke?

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 2011

I sleep restlessly yet again, but I awaken with a sense of purpose. As designated by me, today is the first official day of my job search. I’m actually kind of jacked up about it.

The feeling doesn’t last long. Before I can even get out of bed, I hear Cassie yell from one of the bathrooms, “What happened to the toilet?”

I dash to the bathroom—the toilet bowl is clogged and is overflowing with crap. Undoubtedly, it’s the handiwork of one of the kids. Cassie quickly leaves to take Liv to school; Cole departs just as swiftly for the bus stop. As I scare up a plunger and a pair of rubber gloves, I’m struck by the metaphorical perfection of this moment: The first official day of my job search begins by sticking my hand into a crap-filled toilet bowl.

When Cassie returns from dropping Liv at school, the toilet is unclogged. Cassie is an employee communication consultant who, as fate would have it, works from home. That means it’s just her and me in an empty house for the foreseeable future. Upon hearing the news that I’d been laid off and would now be home all day, Cassie’s mom said, “I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to have more grandchildren.” Not to worry. As tempting as a little midday hanky-panky might be, this I-have-no-job, the-future-is-grim thing is serious business. Besides, Cassie is now the family’s sole breadwinner, so it’s important that she keeps her nose to the grindstone.

I spend the day compiling lists of people to contact, scouring the Internet for job openings, and putting the finishing touches on my freelance assignment. I don’t earn any money—not a red cent—but I can’t help but feel like I kicked a little ass.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2011

The ass-kicking feeling is fleeting. Reality sinks in as Cassie, Liv, and I trudge to Liv’s school at 7:25 a.m. for a newspaper meeting. For the past several years, Cassie and I have volunteered at the school to help train the journalists of tomorrow. On this day, however, I want to stand up and scream to the wide-eyed kids: “Find a different profession! The publishing industry is dying!” But I show great restraint. Instead, I help a student with her blockbuster story on water damage at the school from a big rainstorm over the summer.

Reality sinks in a bit deeper that night when we go to curriculum night at Cole’s high school. This is an opportunity for parents to spend 10 minutes in each class that their kids are taking. Walking through the halls with the other parents, I wonder: Do all of these dads have jobs? I’m sure most of them do. Why are they gainfully employed and I’m not? Is there something wrong with me? And can they sense that I’m unemployed, that I’ve drawn the short straw? I’m not supposed to take any of this personally, but I can’t help but feel diminished, like I’m a Lilliputian in a school filled with Gullivers.

All in all, it’s a downer of a day. I suppose this is the way it’ll be for a while: up and down…down and up…up and down…down and up.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2011

I bounce back in a big way, though I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the way the day starts: Liv attends a Catholic school, and I drop her off at the adjoining church to be an altar server for 7 a.m. Mass, something she does once a month. I stick around for the service. The fellowship of it gives me a lift, especially the part when everyone shakes hands with each other and says, “Peace be with you.”

Afterward, I bang the phones, send off a bunch of emails, and unearth some promising freelance leads and interesting full-time job possibilities. Once again, I don’t earn any money—not a red cent—and the future is as uncertain as ever, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve kicked some more ass.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2011

I’m beginning to develop a routine.

• To set an ass-kicking tone, I shower every morning. I can’t allow myself to become the stereotypical unemployed slob on the couch who watches soap operas with a bowl of Cheetos resting on his ever-expanding stomach.

• I go to the dining room table, where my trusty Mac laptop awaits. Cassie is in her basement office. Our paths cross only occasionally, usually in the kitchen.

• At noon, I go to my local Y to lift weights and run amid retirees and drifters. Exercise dissolves my stress, keeps me sane. Around the same time, Cassie goes to her own gym.

• I return to the dining room table to continue the daunting task of cobbling my life back together.

• I pick up a kid at some activity, be it debate or Ultimate Frisbee for Cole or volleyball, band or dance for Liv.

Holy crap, now that I’m looking at it in print, this new routine couldn’t be more boring. But maybe that’s the idea. My schedule might be stupefying, but it brings a sense of normalcy to life. And in these uncertain times, that’s important. Regardless, my apologies to anyone who suffered through reading about it.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2011

It’s the weekend, but there’s no rest for the weary.

For reasons I can’t explain, I feel like I’ve been beaten repeatedly with a two-by-four—I’m achy and utterly sapped of energy. Yet I drag myself to the dining room table and go about the business of trying to drum up work. I feel obligated to do so.

I guess there are two ways to look my situation: (1) Every day is the weekend or (2) every day is a weekday. Me being me—uptight, sometimes freakishly so—I view it the latter way. I wish I didn’t. I wish I had the guts to hop in the car and go on a cross-country sabbatical for a while, courtesy of my Crushed Soul severance. Or at the very least, maybe take the time to examine myself and figure out what I want to do with the second half of my life.

But I can’t do it. There are mouths to feed, bills to pay. Self-examination is a luxury I can’t afford. Yes, these things always seem to work out—regardless of whether you take the life-is-a-weekend or life-is-a-weekday approach—but I won’t be able to relax until they do.