Unemployed

The fan spins. Above me. The grammar there—is fractured. I am writing in fragments. Who taught me about fragments? Was it Mr. Downs in the 11th grade, the same man who taught me literature and that All Was Not Quiet on the Western Front…especially when it was quietest? Mr. Downs is dead now. Does he know that? He died of lung cancer…fuck, I can’t be smoking anymore…I’m gonna quit next week. For real this time. For real. 6th grade…do I still have that year book? Me and Daniel, smoking the cigarettes we stole from Kmart, behind our house in the alleyway. What’s he doing these days? Is he out of prison? Wait, yeah, he preaches now, doesn’t he? I bet he’s on Facebook.
Status Update reads: “Daniel is living for Him, always for Him.”
Yep…he’s still a born-again.
Honestly, fuck this writing thing. I just need a break, this is what we call a block. A writer’s block. Block, block, block, block, block…eggs. That’s what I want, eggs. Breakfast, that’s why I’m blocked—I haven’t eaten breakfast. And a shower, I need to take a shower. What time is it? 10:30. The Price is Right is on, but I can’t watch it…not again. Besides, Drew Carey is an awkward host. I have to write…and I have to find a job. No one’s hiring. NO ONE IS HIRING! But I should go out there and try…I guess. But not before breakfast and a shower…and well, I need to get out of bed too. That doesn’t really count as an activity, though...but it is harder on certain days, some days it’s harder than making breakfast or even typing three pages. Why is that?
I wonder what Sully’s doing (Does that require a question mark? You know, when you wonder something…let me know) (?) or (.) Where’s my phone? Dial.
“Sully! Ey boy!, What’s going on man?” I scream in my wannabe-Massachusetts accent.
“Hey Serge!!! What’s up?” He yells back in his real Massachusetts accent. He’s working, I can hear the construction site in the background.
“Oh you know man, just living the life out here in sunny California. You and Sabrina have to come out here soon. Florida’s too damn humid and you know it,” I say, full of sarcasm and false swagger.
“Hot as balls, but at least it’s not as cold as UMASS. Man, you remember those wintas?”
“How could I forget?!”
We talk some more, convincing each other that life is better now. I hang up.
What time is it? 11:00…I really have to get up.
Flip on the television. Bryman College commercial. Jump in the shower. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Jump out of the shower. I’m gaining weight. I need to join a gym, I wonder how much one costs (?) (.) Damn I need a job.
Walk through the living room…the t.v. says that Larry H. Parker can win me $4.2 million…I’d still be happy with the $2.1 million he got that guy back in the 90’s. You know, come to think of it, that guy was full of shit. He never got $2.1 million from Larry, ‘cause if he did he wouldn’t have done those commercials. Liars...they’re everywhere.
Do I still want breakfast? 11:30, that’s lunch right? I wonder if anyone wants to do lunch (?) (.)
Call Mahmoud. Voicemail.
Call Brian. Voicemail.
Call Sleepy. Voicemail.
Call Josh. Voicemail.
I guess not. They all have jobs. Where do I want to take resumes? The mall? Los Feliz? Hollywood? Is this what I went to college for?
Make eggs, my number one specialty. My only specialty. Eat eggs.
Get dressed. Slacks. Shirt. (tie?). Tie. Shoes.
Open the door…the sun burns. Above me. It’s too hot to be outside…go to the mall.
“Hey, can I speak with your manager?” I ask the 18 year old hostess with her tight shirt and pants.
“Umm,” she laughs “, let me check if they’re even here,” she says flashing me her clueless smile. She knows if they’re here, she just doesn’t know what I’m supposed to know. She walks towards the back, and comes back two minutes later accompanied by the manager, with the corporate hair, and the corporate belly.
He says, “Hey,” in his business school voice, “how can I help you?” I guess he can’t see the resume I’m holding in plain view.
But I smile anyways, “Hello, my name is Sergio,” I say, giving him my hand. “I am looking for a job. Are you hiring by any chance?” I shouldn’t have said ‘by any chance,’ but I did.
He lifts his eyebrows and grins the same stupid grin he gives every other person that comes in here day-by-day, “Well, you know we’re always accepting applications…”
I want to scream, “SAVE YOURSELF SIX WORDS AND JUST SAY ‘NO!’” but I smile anyways, fill out the application, and go to three more restaurants to repeat the process. I would apply at one more, but the fact is, I know that they know that I know that they aren’t hiring, and so even if I’m wrong…they are not hiring me on this fine day.
Back into my car, back to my house, back in my room, back on Facebook.
Homepage lists what all of my ‘friends’ are doing.
Richard is going to VEGAS!!!
Ashley is going to the beach…anyone want to come?!
Derek is recovering from a wild night…yet again.
Derek posted pics…let’s check them out. They look fun. They all look fun.
Exciting lives. Above me. The fan is still spinning. What time is it? 3:00…friends will be off work in two hours.
Check email.
Ooooo…monster.com has sent me 100 job postings…too bad they’re all sales or scams.
Fuck writing. I close the computer and lay on my bed, watching the fan.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. I need a girlfriend. I need a job. I need a drink. I need a bright side.
Bright side: I don’t live in Somalia. That must really suck. Oh, that’s funny, post Status Update. Sergio is glad that he doesn’t live in Somalia.
Everyone but Somalians and sensitive hippies read and laugh.
Close the computer again, and lay down.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts.