We gather in the lobby, sitting on the vinyl clad furniture. A group of mostly middle-aged men and women. We nod to each other, acknowledging each other's presence. A nod, silent, yet says so much. Silent recognition. We've seen each other before in classes, in workshops, in the elevators, in the restrooms. Sometimes we know each other's names. We always recognize each other's pain. In the lobby, rumors buzz like summer flies. "Didja hear that AT&T is hiring?" "If I can improve my skills, I can get on with that temp agency that was here yesterday." No one ever seems to know someone who's actually been hired. They talk about the future - the one where they have a job, they talk about the weekend, they talk about the classes they've signed up for next week. No one talks politics - there's no need. It doesn't matter. The fix is in.
After the nod, comes the look. The look is the same for everyone - hopeful and vacant at the same time. Maybe one more class, one more review of my resume will land me the job that I want. Or, more accurately, the job that I need. Savings and prospects are dwindling at an equal rate. Welcome to the new reality.
Our Employment Specialists are always upbeat. Why not? They've got jobs. They're mostly young. I imagine them going out together for drinks after work talking about the terrible resumes or cover letters they saw that day. They tell us (the clients) to dress everyday like we're going to an interview. No one does.
A woman moves to the elevator lobby to take a phone call. She's glad to hear from "Tony". She assures him that she still wants the apartment and will have no problem paying the rent. She sounds positive, almost cheery. Silence follows only to be broken by "I understand" and "no, I don't blame you. Thank you, anyway." She wonders aloud to no one in particular how she'll be able to move to an apartment she can afford without a job. Then she joins the rest of us as we march to the computer lab hopeful that if she can only learn how to use Excel, someone will hire her.
At the end of the class, I leave the building and head towards BART for the return trip home. The streets are bustling with people. There's also the legless man who sits in a wheelchair at the corner asking for spare change. A little further down the street is the thirty-something woman sitting on the sidewalk reading to her two small children. A basket with a couple of dollars in it is on the ground next to her. Music emanates from the BART station, proof that the usual group of buskers are there. They take turns playing, so no has a monopoly on the passengers passing through. People in need know how to share. Now, there's a lesson we can all learn from.
Tomorrow, I'll get up, shower and shave, dress, and head for the train. I've got another class to take, another lesson to learn, and maybe, just maybe, this will be the one that lands me a job.
No comments:
Post a Comment