Friday, March 07, 2003
Lost Post Fold-Out Section
Now that the shine has worn off the new job apple, I come here to mourn the death of unemployment. My only regret is that it had to die before I could truly appreciate it.
Unemployment is the condition of infinte possibility. When you're unemployed, you are paradoxically "on call" for any opportunity that the universe might throw your way. On any given day, as you sit in your apartment in your underwear, having risen late enough in the day to be officially reclassified as a nocturnal organism, head pounding from last night's debauchery, you are a lightning rod for what Could Be. There could be a knock at the door. On the other side of that door could be three tweaked Swedes looking for directions to the Disease-Free Unreconstructed Sex Addicts Convention. Yes, they are female. No, they are not stewardesses. They are massage therapists. Also, they scrub bathrooms because they are touched with low-grade obsessive-compulsive disorder, where sex makes them feel gloriously dirty and they need to make something clean again.
When the Swedes leave, and you are collapsed in a heap like a oily rags in the corner of a garage and the commode is sparkling like the eyes of a young Shirley Temple, there could be a ring from the telephone. The voice on the line is authorized to pay you one million dollars per week if you are sitting in your underwear. After collecting your bank account information for an immediate wire transfer of your first million dollar disbursement (it is tax-free), the voice on the line could ask, "Is someone knocking on your door?"
There very well could be a knock at the door. The Swedes again. They claim to not be able to read the directions you scrawled on a Post-It Note. It's clear they never read the directions, because you sent them on a route that would return them to your door after you had sufficient time to recover from your first encounter. They've brought two more of their girlfriends. There's a distinct chance you may experience diminishing utility of Swede, but you can't be concerned with this.
There is another encounter.
Afterwards, it's the bathtub that's white like a newborn's teeth. Newborns do not generally have teeth, but you are too spent to think up a better simile.
There could be another knock on the door, the phone could be ringing. But you don't answer. Your chest rises and falls to the rhythm of possibility, the sound of scrub brushes on ceramic tile having lulled you to sleep on this, your last night before your new job kills the opportunities of unemployment.
[Originally, and quite briefly, posted a week ago by techincal error.]
[Another and more egregious error brings it back. With a not-so-nifty graphic!]