It was the mid-70′s, and I was working the night shift at a little typesetting shop in central Mass.  One afternoon the boss called me into his office shortly after I arrived–he never did that, so I knew whatever he had to say to me would be a big deal.

Holden, Mass.–”Quaintness so thick you can hit it with a stick.”

“How’s it going?” he asked, trying to put me at ease before lowering the boom on me, as had no doubt been recommended by some dweeby employment lawyer.

“Okay, I guess.”

“How’s the family?”  He’d never asked that question before.

“I don’t have any family around here–just roommates.”

“Great, super, terrific.  Say, I . . . uh . . . don’t know if you’ve noticed but business has been a little slow lately.”

“Yeah–I had noticed.  Must be because we’re at the dawn of the personal computer revolution that will utterly transform people’s lives in the coming years, so they don’t need us anymore.”

“Could be–hadn’t thought of that.  Anyway, we’re going to have to go to just one typesetter on the night shift, and Ray’s older and he does have a family . . .”

“I’ve kinda sorta got a girlfriend.”

“Too late.  I’m afraid we’re going to have to lay you off.”

I sat there and stared at him with a look that I imagined came across as pitiless contempt–or maybe contemptuous pity.

“You’re making a big mistake,” I said coldly.  “A huge mistake, dude.”  I used to talk that way when I was in my twenties.

I could tell that I’d given the guy the shock of his life.  I’m sure he expected me to go quietly, like everyone else–not me, no sirree bob.  I’d gone to school on the South Side of Chicago and had imbided the confrontational tactics of community organizer Saul Alinsky, and the give-no-quarter attitude of Richie Allen, the Chicago White Sox slugger who famously said “I’ll play first base, third base, outfield–anyplace but Philadelphia.”

“It’s too bad the internet hasn’t been invented so we could goof off more efficiently.”

“Now, be reasonable–I’ve got to think of my business and my family first.  Surely you understand that.”

“Apparently, I understand it better than you do,” I snapped.

“Wha . . what do you mean?”

I laughed a mirthless little laugh.  “You . . . fool, you!”

He started to get up and edge around his desk, hoping to get a better shot at his office door in case he had to make a run for it.

“Now, just calm down,” he said, and I could sense the fear in his eyes, the way a Doberman can.

“I’m calm–how could I not be.  You’re the one who should be nervous.”

“Please–I have the whole rest of my miserable little life ahead of me.”

“And it will be miserable as you look back on this day . . .”

He started to crouch down under his desk, as if that would help.

” . . . the day you laid me off,” I continued menacingly, “when if you’d only waited a few weeks, I would have quit anyway.”

The color came back into his cheeks, but it wasn’t just the ruddy glow produced by skiing weekends at his mountain lodge in no-statewide tax New Hampshire.  It was the bright hue of the neon crustacean on top of a Red Lobster restaurant.

“You were going to . . . quit?”

“Yeah–and go back to school next fall.  Now you’re on the hook for my unemployment for the rest of the summer, and whenever I’m not a full-time student for the next two years!”

 
“See ya kid–have a nice unemployment.”

With that, the boss shook my hand weakly and excused himself to go upchuck in his private bathroom.  I picked up my last check, said goodbye to my fellow wage slaves and embarked on a picaresque journey through the hellish underworld of unemployment, traveling like Dante through an Inferno fueled by the Arab oil embargo and President Ford’s hopelessly ineffectual “Whip Inflation Now!” program.  From that experience I emerged a scarred man, but all the same better-equipped to shatter various myths about unemployment that you may cling to, like an acolyte of some ancient religion that has fallen into desuetude.  Here are bitter truths I learned the hard way, which I offer to you gratis, compliments of the chef.

Myth #1: You Have to Look for Work While Collecting Unemployment.  Nothing could be further from the truth–you have to say you were looking for work, which is an entirely different thing.  The overworked bureaucrats who man and woman the counters at unemployment offices don’t have time to check up on every job application you put down on the form when you pick up your money.  Remember George Costanza and Vandelay Industries, the phony business he made up to keep his unemployment checks coming?

I used to collect the names of printing and typesetting companies from the Yellow Pages or just driving down the street.  Sometimes I’d actually go inside and talk to the receptionist.  I still suffer from the vestiges of a youthful speech impediment that is triggered by tense situations, which only makes my native diffidence worse--I was unemployable prima facie, as the lawyers say.  Don’t have a similar handicap of your own?  Just watch Looney Tunes for an hour or so every day.  Every character has a speech impediment–tongue thrust, lisp, stutter–find the one that’s right for you!

Myth #2: I Was Looking for Work While Collecting Unemployment.  Are you paying attention?  See Myth #1.

Stevie Wonder’s “Fulfillingness’ First Finale,” for my money the greatest pot-smoking album of all time.

Myth #3:  Unemployment Payments Are Sufficient to Provide Basic Necessities.  I’ve got two words for people who perpetuate this myth–no . . . freaking . . . way.  After you’re done paying for Stevie Wonder albums–he was on fire back in the day–Pickwick Ale and tickets to Star Wars films, there is rarely enough left to buy free surplus foods available from local charities.

Myth #4: Due to Budget Cuts, There is No Myth #4.

“Can’t believe there’s no freaking fourth myth.”

Myth #5: You Have to Tell the Truth When They Ask You Questions at the Unemployment Office.  Yes–but–there are ways around this seemingly hard-and-fast, cut-and-dried rule.  If you’re a Jesuit priest, you’re allowed to deflect this question by Jesuitical tactics in which you hold a different question in your mind, and answer that one.  Or you can cross your fingers behind your back while you answer.  If the faceless bureaucrat who thinks its his or her job to deny you benefits didn’t say “King’s X–no noogies?” at the end of the question, you’re home free.