Memoirs of the unemployed

A few years ago, as a condition of receiving Employment Insurance (dole, pogey, etc.,), I had to enroll in a government sponsored program called the Job Hunting Club. Calling it a club was probably a marketing move to give it a sense of cachet, like we were clinking gimlets and black people weren't allowed in, but it was far from that. We sat in a small classroom on the 9th floor of an office building, watched a lot of dated videos on how to make resumes and learned how to apply to jobs without sounding like mongoloids. Because I had a university degree and was 100% literate, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Or rather the opposite: the sole thumb devoid of hammer marks and bruises.

I exaggerate; most of the people in the course were just normal folks who got laid off. One of them in particular caught my eye. I took some notes on him in class:

Toronto Job Hunting Club

It's the island of misfit toys. There's the guy who pronounces his Rs like Ls; the obligatory Little Person, eastern Europeans, some other coloureds, and me.

We start with an ice breaker that proves surprisingly effective. Sample queries: find someone with your same sign, find someone who likes pasta, find someone who's seen The Sound Of Music. Quickly, we mill about to collect this useless data. But it works – the ice is broken.

We spend the morning discussing "skills," and post-job-loss-feelings. Relief, shock and frustration are mentioned. Myself, I offer "rage" and "homicide" but am quickly rebuffed.

*   *   *

Evan's presentation today is short and sweet and weird. He wrote a book on consumer advocacy? Didn't I just see this guy trolling for casual sex in the computer lab?

*   *   *

Let's get back to Evan. What a guy. He has a face that's swollen like a drunk's and a mop of greying unkempt hair. His small, dark eyes are hidden behind huge, square glasses better befitting an old lady. He talks like an old townie. And I believe most of what he says is completely untrue. 

He has apparently owned a "legal company," designed a website and written a book. Yet this guy never takes off his coat the entire time he's in class. He looks like Barney Martin on heroin.

He seems to hate working. One of my first conversations with him goes like this:

Evan: Pretty boring, huh? (In reference to everything being discussed.)

Harvey: (Trying to seem positive) It's not so bad. Kind of useful.

Evan: I'm only here because my mother wanted me out of the house.

Harvey: Oh.

*   *   * 

He sees me pull my BlackBerry out and he comments that "it would probably work better if it was made in a Canadian union shop." It's not like I am having problems with it, but I can tell he hates the idea of offshoring. Evan is not shy with his redneck-level politics. I mention, politely, that the phone would probably cost $2000 if built with union labour. He doesn't like this.

I'm not sure what this guy's deal is. He is bitter that more jobs don't offer full training. "They expect you to know everything when you walk through the door." In this room full of over-educated immigrants, his attitude is a sharp contrast.

His arms are folded, and his gaze is far from empty. It's full of ire and bitter disappointment from a sense of entitlement and unfulfillment.

I'm being hard on him, and to be honest I don't know why. It's not that he's lazy. Maybe he's not. But he seems defeated. And petulant.

I'm lucky enough to be put in a group with Evan. We have to come up with things to research before interviews. He insists we write "is this company a scam?" When we don't, he skulks off to look up free sex in the computer lab. It's clear he's showed up to a few scams in his life. Maybe he thinks his whole life is over?

*   *   *

Evan has this strange move where he rubs his ring finger with the opposite hand like he's trying to warm it up or jam it back into his hand.

*   *   *

We just watched his videotaped interview. It isn't just bad. It is textbook bad. I'm starting to get the impression he has been hired by the career centre. A stooge. A real life "Donny Don't." The first words out of his mouth during the video interview are, "I need a job." 

I wonder about Evan, and even worry about him a bit. The guy was clearly a nutter – he was a 50-year-old man that lived with his mother, surfed porn at a government job searching program and had delusions of grandeur – but I can't help but think: there, but for the grace of God, go I. Could the world become so topsy-turvy? Maybe one day I will sit in a room with a winter coat on, surrounded by younger and more enthusiastic voices, as I rage silently: "I could have been something. But the world failed me."

It's not right to mandate experience, but I do feel there are certain things one should do before they can consider themselves informed citizens. One is to travel to a non-English speaking country. Another is to fall in love with someone who doesn't love you back. Another is to confront the downtrodden and listen to their stories. I am certainly not the same after meeting Evan.