and leave today.”
I took the severance pay, thinking I could use the two weeks to job-hunt.
I was right: I needed that two weeks and then some before I was employed again. There were simply no job openings in my field. I put in applications at every business in town that could possibly use someone with my skills, and in the three nearest towns. I even answered several help wanted ads in the city, though the prospect of commuting such a long distance every day was daunting. After three weeks I was still unemployed. I alerted everyone I knew that I was on the job market again, to no avail.
When I had to withdraw money from my meager savings account to pay my rent, I left the bank and sat in my car under the weak January sun, looking at the few entries in my account passbook. The transfer I had just made left less in the account than would pay next month’s rent, and I hadn’t factored in utilities and groceries. It was time for desperate measures.
Since there were no job openings in my field, I would have to find a job in a different field. I would have to make the rounds of the restaurants. I waited tables during summers in high school, so I knew what to expect. I didn’t care for the work, but the income would stave off homelessness until something in printing or publishing opened up. It wasn’t long before my applications were on file in every restaurant in four towns. Less than a week after I set my sights on food service, my phone rang. One of the doughnut shops needed help: counter girl and doughnut finisher, nine p.m. to five a.m. Minimum wage to start.
I accepted the offer. The shop was walking distance from the cottage, so I would save on gas. If I avoided eating out and buying clothes for awhile, I would manage.
Times like this is why there are public libraries, I told myself as I locked the cottage and headed off for my first night at my new job.
It was a Wednesday night and the young woman I was replacing was there to train me. As I expected, the job was easy to learn and I knew the stress would be minimal. No sixty-hour weeks and, if I continued to meet the limited requirements, no fear of being laid off or fired. This job would end when I wanted it to end.
The next two days were a struggle to readjust my sleep cycle so I would be fresh and alert for third shift. I was trudging to the shop on Friday evening when Larry and Debra pulled alongside in their wheezing old car.
“Need a ride, Cassie?” called Larry.
I pointed to the bright windows of the doughnut shop, a block away. “I’m only going there, but thanks.”
“Want some company?” asked Debra.
“If you don’t mind watching me work,” I said, opening my coat to reveal the pink smock of my new profession.
“You’re employed!” they cried happily. “ Congratulations,” Debra went on. She turned to her husband. “Want to stop in? We can help increase business on Cassie’s shift and make her look good.”
“I don’t know, Deb.” He was pensive. “I usually don’t like to drink coffee this late at night.”
“We sell milk,” I suggested.
“Okay,” Larry decided. “Maybe we’ll see David.”
“Who?” I asked as I climbed into the car.
“David Armstrong. He comes to church sometimes—or he did,” Larry explained as we traveled the short distance to the shop’s parking lot. “He’s just back from serving in the Air Force, and he’s working as a baker here until he figures out what he wants to do.”
I thought about the only baker I had met so far at the shop—a Middle-Eastern engineering student with a dense accent.
“I haven’t met him yet.”
“He told me he only works the heavy shifts and a couple of other nights. I guess he earns more and gets more free time that way.”
“Larry! Debra!” called an unfamiliar voice as we entered the doughnut shop. The Stones walked up to the counter and took a couple of stools. I veered around the display case where the cash register sat to get back to the
I took the severance pay, thinking I could use the two weeks to job-hunt.
I was right: I needed that two weeks and then some before I was employed again. There were simply no job openings in my field. I put in applications at every business in town that could possibly use someone with my skills, and in the three nearest towns. I even answered several help wanted ads in the city, though the prospect of commuting such a long distance every day was daunting. After three weeks I was still unemployed. I alerted everyone I knew that I was on the job market again, to no avail.
When I had to withdraw money from my meager savings account to pay my rent, I left the bank and sat in my car under the weak January sun, looking at the few entries in my account passbook. The transfer I had just made left less in the account than would pay next month’s rent, and I hadn’t factored in utilities and groceries. It was time for desperate measures.
Since there were no job openings in my field, I would have to find a job in a different field. I would have to make the rounds of the restaurants. I waited tables during summers in high school, so I knew what to expect. I didn’t care for the work, but the income would stave off homelessness until something in printing or publishing opened up. It wasn’t long before my applications were on file in every restaurant in four towns. Less than a week after I set my sights on food service, my phone rang. One of the doughnut shops needed help: counter girl and doughnut finisher, nine p.m. to five a.m. Minimum wage to start.
I accepted the offer. The shop was walking distance from the cottage, so I would save on gas. If I avoided eating out and buying clothes for awhile, I would manage.
Times like this is why there are public libraries, I told myself as I locked the cottage and headed off for my first night at my new job.
It was a Wednesday night and the young woman I was replacing was there to train me. As I expected, the job was easy to learn and I knew the stress would be minimal. No sixty-hour weeks and, if I continued to meet the limited requirements, no fear of being laid off or fired. This job would end when I wanted it to end.
The next two days were a struggle to readjust my sleep cycle so I would be fresh and alert for third shift. I was trudging to the shop on Friday evening when Larry and Debra pulled alongside in their wheezing old car.
“Need a ride, Cassie?” called Larry.
I pointed to the bright windows of the doughnut shop, a block away. “I’m only going there, but thanks.”
“Want some company?” asked Debra.
“If you don’t mind watching me work,” I said, opening my coat to reveal the pink smock of my new profession.
“You’re employed!” they cried happily. “ Congratulations,” Debra went on. She turned to her husband. “Want to stop in? We can help increase business on Cassie’s shift and make her look good.”
“I don’t know, Deb.” He was pensive. “I usually don’t like to drink coffee this late at night.”
“We sell milk,” I suggested.
“Okay,” Larry decided. “Maybe we’ll see David.”
“Who?” I asked as I climbed into the car.
“David Armstrong. He comes to church sometimes—or he did,” Larry explained as we traveled the short distance to the shop’s parking lot. “He’s just back from serving in the Air Force, and he’s working as a baker here until he figures out what he wants to do.”
I thought about the only baker I had met so far at the shop—a Middle-Eastern engineering student with a dense accent.
“I haven’t met him yet.”
“He told me he only works the heavy shifts and a couple of other nights. I guess he earns more and gets more free time that way.”
“Larry! Debra!” called an unfamiliar voice as we entered the doughnut shop. The Stones walked up to the counter and took a couple of stools. I veered around the display case where the cash register sat to get back to the
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