Nearly three years ago, I was fired from my job; a casualty of the post-9/11 economic downturn. After 18 months of looking for work without success, I sat down to write a book, entitled, "Blown Job: an unemployment odyssey." Here's an excerpt from Chapter Five. (See "Past Posts of Note" for earlier chapters.)
Chapter 5 - The Boys of Winter
My most surreal unemployment experience came about because I was too broke to buy a computer.
During my first Unemployment Winter, on sub-freezing days, I simply couldn’t endure schlepping to the Career Center in Manhattan (two trains, a bus and a five-block walk.) I had to find a way to access the Internet closer to home. This proved to be a neat trick because, in the outer boroughs, where the population is 95% Luddite, computer access is hard to find.
One day, when I was window shopping on a main thoroughfare, I happened to look up and there it was, above a 99¢ store: Internet Terminals! Computer Games! Yu-Gi-Oh! While I wasn’t sure if that last one was a religious service, a type of vegetable, or a Nipponese curse, I understood the first term well enough. I climbed the rickety staircase, pushed open the door, and came upon what can best be described as uncontrolled prepubescent male mayhem.
Seated in front of 10 computer terminals and 5 large-screen TVs was a gaggle of boys; yelling, cursing, scratching, picking, punching, - did I say cursing? – and otherwise making a cacophony unheard since the detonation of Fat Man and Little Boy. Luckily for me, one terminal was available.
After I learned the terms of the arrangement – the hourly rate, and the charges for printing and faxing – I was good to go. I sat down between a sullen 16-year old and an amped-up kid of 12 or so. The 12-year old apparently was suffering from an advanced case of Tourette’s syndrome, because every other word out of his mouth was a variation of the F-word, which he managed to use spot-on, in all of its grammatical splendor.
To say that it was difficult to concentrate on my job search in the midst of this mayhem would not be an exaggeration. As I tried to mentally block out the noise, my peripheral vision was bombarded with stimuli impossible to ignore. It appeared that mothers' little darlings on either side of me were locked in a life-and-death battle; controlling their gun-toting avatars with furious mouse clicks and strong verbal encouragement. I couldn’t help but notice that people and things were being blown away in profusion, as invisible superheroes raced down alleys and around corners. It was all so utterly realistic that I feared the blood spatter and mangled viscera would leap off the screens and onto my forehead.
When it finally occurred to me that this distraction was costing me money as my computer time ticked away, I tried really hard to focus on my own screen. I actually was able to get some work done, but I knew that I would have been better off if I had hopped a train to the city.
This place was Nirvana for three groups of people – the mothers of these foul-mouthed brats, who were happy that their kids weren't on some street corner shooting up (little did they know!); the games manufacturers, who were adding steadily to their customer base; and the owners of this emporium, who were vacuuming allowance money right out of the kids’ wallets, not only on computer time, but also with the sale of medallions, collectible miniatures, and trading cards (ohhhh, Yu-Gi-Oh!)
The only one who didn’t fit into the equation was me. I pretty much decided after that day that I would not return. But, the next time it snowed six inches, I found myself making my way up the stairs once again; only this time, it was in the dark, as the 25-watt bulb that had lit the way previously had blown. This didn’t seem to deter my boys, who raced past me as I hung on to the banister for dear life, gingerly feeling for each broken step as I made my way up.
This time, I came prepared. I brought my Walkman to drown out the sound and I came before school let out. So, the place was home only to me, the kids who were cutting class, and a scattering of Comic Book Guys – unshaven, unwashed, and eternally unemployed.
There is nothing so incongruous as a serious female trying to work in a room full of young, rude, crude, smelly, loud, icky boys. I felt like I was back in Public School 238, except then I was pre-menstrual and now I’m peri-menopausal. Here I was -- Aunt Bea, just chillin’ with The Bowery Boys.
I came back about a half-dozen times throughout the winter, but I knew that I had had enough when I made the mistake of showing up on a school holiday. It was a Monday of a three-day weekend, and the fellows were bursting with way too much energy. One of the guys, who appeared to be the designated kibitzer, bounced from one terminal to the next, giving a play-by-play of every game, like a junior Marv Albert, if Marv began every sentence with the word “fuck.” Every few minutes, the proprietor would scream, “Shut up, Gary,” but the kid was in the moment and was thus undeterred. After a half-hour of this, the owner threatened to throw Gary out, but that proved to be toothless. I was getting ready to toss out ol’ Gar myself, when his mom called him on his cell and told him to come home. That was the last I saw of Gary, or, as I like to think of him, America’s future.
That was my final foray into computer games central. I cannot look at a young boy today without wanting to slap the crap out of him, just on principle. Forget about what drugs and guns and booze can do to young males. Put a joystick or a mouse in their hands and sonic booms in their speakers and be afraid. Be very afraid.
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