The call went out. Maybe you saw the big “U” projected onto the Empire State Building. Maybe you heard the siren song blaring from large speakers mounted on flatbeds circling the city. Maybe you received a little note slipped into your pocket as some nondescript pedestrian brushed by on the sidewalk. RT (Russian Television) needed an unemployed person, an expert, stat, to comment on this bit of ridiculousness…

Looking for work? Unemployed need not apply

Who better than me, unofficial spokesman for the unemployed? Okay, so the call was an email. And I’m not technically unemployed at the moment. Oh yeah, and I can’t form a coherent sentence without my monkeys and their typewriters. But let’s not fuss over exactly how it all went down. I got the gist right. My blog and I were in the right place at the right time. The rest is television history.

Some employers don’t consider the unemployed for open positions. That was the story making the rounds. I wasn’t surprised to find this out. I wasn’t angry. I was, at best, slightly intrigued or, perhaps, mildly bemused. An unemployed friend posted a link on Facebook about the growing phenomenon. Anyone who’s been unemployed during a recession probably suspected this was happening. I know I did. There had to be a better reason for all the unreturned calls and emails than a simple lack of jobs. I’m not that bad of a job candidate, or am I?

Companies receive tons of resumes for every opening, many from people who aren’t remotely qualified. Separating the maybe’s from the no’s takes time and resources, both of which are in short supply these days. And let’s be realistic. Most resumes are ruled out even in a normal hiring climate; the percentage only rises during a recession. Employers can afford to be extra picky in a buyer’s market. But the short-staffed and shortsighted HR department needs a shortcut, an easy way to reduce the pile. Ruling out the unemployed is that shortcut.

Common thinking suggests someone is unemployed for a reason – they’re an undesirable employee. They don’t show up on time. They do substandard work. They wear soup-stained shirts and smell like dried cat vomit. A desirable employee would’ve found a job already, or never lost it in the first place. So failure to be employed is seen as proof that someone is unfit to be employed. I failed to win the lottery today. Does that make me unfit to win the lottery? The thinking is flawed. And any company that thinks this way is missing out.

People lose jobs for all sorts of reasons. I lost four different jobs for four different reasons, none of which had anything to do with my performance. Each of my former employers experienced some sort of financial duress and could no longer afford to pay some of its employees. People don’t find new jobs for just as many reasons as they lose jobs. During an employment crisis, one reason trumps all others: there are very few jobs.

The need to reduce the applicant pool won’t go away any time soon. Unemployment sits at 9.7%, and the ratio of unemployed to available jobs is 5 to 1. Submitting a resume is easier than ever. Ruling out unemployed applicants will continue. Companies still discriminate on the basis of race, sex, age and sexual orientation, and those practices are illegal. The unemployed can only take solace in knowing that any company that picks its employees this way isn’t worth working for. Too bad solace doesn’t pay the bills.

Morning and evening rush hour on the subway is quiet time. The trains are crowded with commuters. But everyone sleeps or reads or daydreams or listens to music through headphones. Nobody talks, and nobody bothers anyone. It’s a very New York feeling to be surrounded and still alone. And during rush hour – when you’re still half asleep or tired from a long day – it’s a very welcome feeling.

This Rush Hour Quiet Time rule – more commonly known as the Shut the F**k Up Before I Jab You in the Larynx with a Bic Pen rule (STFUBIJYITLWABP) has been understood and respected by generations of NYC commuters, dating back to the early 20th century. Of course, in the those days, it was called the Scram With That Funny Business Fella Before I Let You Have It In The Larynx rule (SWTFBFBILYHIITL). Even a simple “good day” or “bully for you” brought about swift retribution. People work, and people value their larynges… then and now. In fact only three unwritten rules have ever been more important…

• Don’t pet the rats.
• Don’t sit in a wet spot.
• Avoid the empty subway car on an otherwise crowded train, unless you enjoy smelly homeless people fermenting in their own sweat.

Rush hours were quality time when I last had regular work. Opportunists now routinely violate the rule for their own petty and selfish reasons. People have loud conversations on cell phones. Homeless and “homeless” people beg for handouts. And subway musicians force their mediocre music upon weary travelers. The first two can be easily ignored by turning up the iPod. The last can’t.

I don’t mean to hate on music. I’ve been a big music fan since my days playing the “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” drum solo on mom’s kitchen bowls. And I don’t mean to hate on street and subway musicians. Some great performers ply their trade on sidewalks and platforms. The Yanni-looking electric violin player in black leather pants who covers Depeche Mode and Metallica is a national treasure. He almost balances out all the harm Nicolas Cage has done with his movies.

The point is I like my music on my terms. I listen to what I want, when I want and how I want. Take away my choice, and I get a little pissy. I may even reach for my Bic pen. This reaction may seem harsh to non-New Yorkers. Subway music is as big apple as Times Square, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. So let’s recast the scenario for those who have only experienced subway musicians as tourists and through TV shows and movies.

You’re driving to work on a Monday morning. Traffic is moving nicely. Something relaxing plays from the car stereo. The light ahead turns red, slowing cars to a stop. You close your eyes and rub them slowly with your thumb and forefinger, thinking about what needs to get done that day. Just then, two guys jump into the backseat. One has a rusty accordion, the other an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. They launch into a song you can’t understand because it’s in Spanish. And they do it three feet from your head. The light turns green, and traffic forces you into motion. The music pounds against your brain. You turn up the stereo, but the noise from the backseat still drowns it out. After three minutes, they stop playing. One of them puts his empty hat in your face; he wants you to pay for the giant headache he just gave you. You wonder what combination of evil thoughts will make him explode, and then make the pieces explode. Before you hit on it, the light ahead turns red and you stop the car again. The musicians jump out and into the car behind you. Two traffic lights later, two other musicians make a stage of your backseat.

What if the music were really good? Would it be okay? No. What if the music were absolutely, positively the best I’d ever heard, ever? Still no. What if angels descended from heaven and sang to me on the F train as it sped through the tunnel under the East River? Would it would be okay then? The answer is still a resounding NO. I want to hear what’s playing through my headphones. That’s why I picked it. That’s why I put in my headphones. And that’s why I pressed play. So unless the same musician materializes and plays the same song the same way, I’m not interested.

Subway musicians feel the recession just as everyone else does. Maybe the non-rush hour donations just weren’t cutting it. Maybe they lost a job and resorted to a secondary talent to pay the bills. I respect that. I’m in the same boat. But you’ll never catch me forcing random people to read my blog and pay me for the privilege. Pick a subway platform and play your music. I may stop and listen; I may even leave a couple bucks. And I may not. But the choice will be mine.

I love a good snow day, even when there’s nothing to stay home from. What kid, or kid at heart, doesn’t? To this day, the news radio chimes make me hope for the words, “Montgomery County schools will be closed today,” no matter the time or season. A snow day is special, a surprise holiday, a day off from my problems. It has a calmness to it. Life stopped late last night and will pick up early tomorrow morning. For now, I’m on snow time.

Queens is blanketed by over a foot of snow. It’s currently coming down sideways. I can see out my window for a couple blocks, beyond the subway tracks to the hospital. The Citigroup and Empire State Building have disappeared into the gray. The streets are empty, aside from the occasional car swishing by. The neon store signs are on, but nobody is out shopping. Everything is muffled, quiet. If only my neighborhood were always this way. If only every day were a snow day.

Around 3:00 this afternoon, I asked wifey via IM how the snow looked from work. Her company is on the second floor and has big windows overlooking the street. She couldn’t tell from her cubicle, and was too busy to go look. She asked me to take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard. This made me think, “I should take some pictures of our neighborhood in the blizzard.” And so I did, from the living room window, on the street and off of the subway platform.

The results probably won’t find their way onto an art gallery wall. But who needs an art gallery when we have the Internet, the world’s biggest and best and worst art gallery? So I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition…

[I'll pause here for you to make some hot chocolate and settle in. Those of you in warmer climates can hum the Jeopardy! theme song and imagine Alex Trebek without his toupee.]

Okay, now I present to you the Unemployed Snow Day Photo Exhibition, starring Jackson Heights, some random people of dubious citizenship who probably wouldn’t want their pictures posted online and Snowden S. Snowberry, the star of the show…

The view from my window looks like a snow globe, a really dirty snow globe.

This is Elmhurst Hospital, one of the buildings I’d drive by if I ever needed a hospital.

Imprisoned by unemployment, until someone throws me over the ledge for using really bad symbolism.

I picked the perfect day to play in the street.

The cleanest you’ll ever see Roosevelt Ave.

If you close your eyes, it looks just like Paris, during a blackout.

I have no idea where I took this. I really need to lay off the highballs at breakfast… and lunch.

Who knew there were trees in Queens?

If 7 is a lucky number, why does the train always leave a minute before I get there?

I love burritos so much that I named my fantasy football team after them. That, my friends, is dedication. (courtesy of allwomenstalk.com)

[Read the holiday season job post, part 1 and part 2 so this post makes sense.]

Around 1:30, a full three hours after my arrival, an interviewer led me out of the horribly misnamed Turnover Room and into the interview room across the hall. Set up were two rows of five narrow tables, each with two pairs of chairs facing each other. She sat me at a middle table and took the chair opposite. Eight other interviews continued on amidst the general hustle and bustle of people coming and going.

She explained that the sales floor position I’d applied for only paid $8/hour, and the HR coordinator position had been filled earlier that day. I didn’t ask why they invited me in to interview for a position and left me waiting all morning while they filled it. I knew the answer… my time didn’t matter to them. Making that point wouldn’t help things. As luck would have it, my computer skills – meaning my ability to use the Internet – qualified me to be a proctor. The person in this position helps jobseekers complete online applications at the computer terminals out front. The job paid $10/hour for 40 hours/week until early January, when it could become full-time. I indicated my interest in interviewing for it.

The interviewer asked a few brief questions about my resume, nothing terribly probing. Do you have a resume? Tell me what you did at Company X. Why did you leave Company Y? I answered simply, and she passed my file on to a colleague and left. I waited, listening to the interview happening a few feet away and mentally fielding questions that seemed to stump the interviewee. Those questions would be coming my way in a few minutes.

The next interviewer dug a little deeper, meaning she actually asked questions that required some thought to answer.

Interviewer: Why is customer service important?

Me: So people will buy s**t and then come back later and buy more s**t.

Interviewer: What would you do if faced with an angry, frustrated applicant?

Me: I would slap them across the face with the keyboard then climb up on a desk and wreak havoc from above in the form of a flying elbow or, perhaps, a dropkick. It all depends on space and what I’m wearing. What do you think I would do? I’d help them. Because being unemployed is frustrating enough without having to contend with technology.

I may be confusing my words and thoughts at that moment. The border between Reality-ville and Imagination Land gets a little blurrier everyday. And neither side seems willing to cede victory in the battle of Norm’s Brain. Regardless, the interviewer accepted my answers and complimented my outfit and comport. Her implication was that not everyone she interviews is as well dressed and well spoken. She said she would recommend to the director that I be hired. The director – the last step in the interview assembly line – had to meet all potential hires personally and was unavailable at that moment. She would call me by the end of the week. I liked my chances and, in my head, started revising my calendar and my budget. Then I remembered what it’s like to punch out and take a lunch break.

I left the store around 2:00, after three hours of waiting and 30 minutes of interviewing, and bolted straight for Chipotle, Burrito Bucks in hand. My stomach was about to feed on a vital organ to keep the rest of my body alive, so time was short. The closest Chipotle sits on the ground floor of the Empire State Building, home of my last employer. The lunchtime rush had ended and the line moved quickly. I commandeered a window seat and ate my chicken burrito. Guys in red jackets tried to sell bus tours to tourists outside. Tourists resisted, as they often do when approached on the mean streets of midtown and asked for money. The rest of the world hurried by.

I feared running into someone from my old company and explaining why I was there, eating a burrito in a suit in the middle of the afternoon. Various, less-than-plausible answers came to mind involving high-profile espionage and intrigue. But in the end I opted for vagueness followed by a quick change of subject. Something like, “I had a job interview nearby. How’s work these days?” It’s this kind of deftness that got me here today. I wasn’t ashamed of my interview so much as my year of continued unemployment. Though, truth be known, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with my interview either. No one familiar happened by.

I strolled up Fifth Ave., inspired by the beautiful weather to try and think positive thoughts. Many successful business types get their start on the ground floor of a company. I could be next. Of course they usually walk through the door at the age of 22, not 37. The director’s call never came. But a friendly generic email rejecting my application did later that week. It invited me to apply again, presumably for another job I didn’t want. Spending more quality time in the Turnover Room was definitely tempting. I could bring along a pillow next time, maybe my PlayStation too. But I never followed up.

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 1

The holiday season job I didn’t want and didn’t get, part 2

The company I last worked for had its offices in the Empire State Building, one of the city’s (even the world’s) most iconic buildings. The company used the ESB in its promo material and seemed to get a lot of mileage out it. Given that I was marketing manager, I spent a good deal of time leveraging the Building’s image and reputation for our nefarious purposes. And I have to say that having an office there did impress (or intrigue) people, at least people who didn’t know any better. I was pretty impressed too, initially.

The Empire State Building is a symbol of capitalism and possibility in America. But the truth is anyone can have their offices there if they’re willing to pay a premium for it. The Building is filled with small companies and start-ups. I don’t think any tenants take up more than part of a floor. So while it’s an achievement to start and run a company, it’s really not an achievement to have an office in the ESB. It’s more of a strategy.

After about 2 weeks of working in the Empire State Building the novelty of it all became a big hassle. The area around it is packed with tourists and shops catering to tourists. Just walking the block to and from the Herald Square stop is a slalom course of Europeans, Japanese and Midwesterners taking pictures of themselves. Everything is more expensive, even than the already high Manhattan prices. 2 slices of pizza and a soda – for example – cost me $13 bucks at the neighboring Sbarro. And it wasn’t even that good.

So one good thing about the layoff is I don’t have to go to the Empire State Building anymore. The problem is that I can’t get away from it. Everywhere I go, there it is. EVERYWHERE! And with it the constant reminder of my unemployment.

I think the Empire State Building might actually be following me, but I haven’t gathered enough evidence to go to the police. The windows of my apartment in Queens all face west, and unless it’s foggy, I can see it. Whenever I open the blinds – day or night – there it is, looking in my window, watching. The 7 train – one of my local trains – runs above ground for much of its route. If I sit facing the right direction, there’s the Building is on the horizon. As the train moves, the ESB ducks behind smaller buildings in the foreground. But I know it’s there. Something that big just can’t hide. Even if I sit facing the other direction, it lurks still, staring at the back of my head. Communitea – one cafes I visit for a change of scenery – is in Long Island City, right across the river from Manhattan’s east side. Look down any block and there is the Empire State Building hovering above, not even trying to be discreet.

The Empire State Building will probably go away when I find another job. But in the meantime, I guess I just have to deal with it.