Moore / What Are We?

Chapter 1

I sit here in my bed, leaned against the wall.  I am not lonely though, don’t worry.  It’s actually quite comfy in these sheets.  Yes, one day I’d like a man to be sitting next to me, our backs against the bedpost as I write and he holds the remote in his hands channel surfing, but I already had a similar experience earlier in the day.

     It was lunchtime at Michelson Research Services.  Instead of a bed, we were seated at a fold-up table, our backs against plastic chairs, watching a sitcom.  He held the remote and I took forever to organize my food.  We didn’t have to share the day’s stories because we had gone through the drama together, working side by side in our five by six foot cubicles.  In place of bitching, we shared our food--his mom’s cheesy potatoes and my grandma’s sweet chili.  We hadn’t met each other’s families yet but by the taste of things, we knew we’d like them.  When there was a laugh from the studio audience he turned to me, making sure I saw just how funny the last scene was or maybe he liked to see me smile. Bed or kitchen table, I always enjoyed turning to look at his.  Though I wasn’t always this content. 

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     “It’s a great, magnificent, fabulous and glamorous, grand, wonderful, sensational, stunning, and dazzling day here at Precious Portraits, this is Jaydee, how may I help you?”  I said in my highest pitch voice.  I attempted to listen to what was being said on the other end, but I was competing with a screaming baby, a four year-old repeating every word I said, and an angry mother who was complaining to another employee about our lack of favorable services when really her kid just wasn’t cut out to be America’s next top baby model.  So, I took the easy way out.  “My pleasure, let me transfer you to our customer service hotline.” Click.

     It definitely was not a great day here at Precious Portraits, but was it ever?  I took the job because I graduated from college with a degree in sociology.  According to my fellow professors, I was a good student but not good enough for graduate studies in this field.  Apparently, there was this thing called a standardized test that is supposed to accurately measure how successful one will be in graduate school.  I think it measured how many big words one could use in their everyday vocabulary to appear smart, even if after the test they mistake jejune for mature.  A middling person like me would not know the difference, right?  

Unfortunately, my seven year-old rescue bulldog, Woody, ate the only two flashcards that I had gotten to completing.  Can you guess which two?  Well, I assume when that happens it’s likely one scores below the national average.  Thus, all other attributes are thrown out the window, like the numerous A+ research papers that were enjoyed by the same professors and yes, even that publication in the Ohio Journal of Student Sociological Studies.  So there I was, thirty thousand dollars in debt, taking pictures of babies and children for picky mothers whose husbands made thirty thousand dollars every three to four months, prior to taxes.

            Before tending to the McDuffy family of five, I needed a break.  I put up a “be back in five minutes” sign at the entrance of the studio and proceeded to the break room.  Cell phone in hand, I noticed I had a voicemail.

     “Jaydee, this is Steven.  I’m so sorry I puked in your car the other day.  I’m leaving Thursday to go back to LA but I was hoping I could see you before then, maybe take you out to din--.”

     I didn’t know which was worse, my current job or this voicemail from Steven, a guy I had met on an internet dating website and who was unable to hold his liquor.  I couldn’t bear to finish his message, let alone ever use an online dating service again.  I placed the phone back in my purse.  And at this point, I didn’t even have the energy to pick up the latest gossip magazine.  So I put my head down on the table and promised myself I would be open for business again in 15 minutes.

     An hour later, Stacey, the studio manager, was tapping my shoulder.  “Jaydee, come on, it’s time to close up shop.”  She said.

     “What? Where am I?”  I asked.

     “Well, you’re supposed to be at work.”  She replied.  “I’ll forgive you this time since we were slow today, but next time it’s a written warning.  And written warnings get sent to Corporate.”

     I got up and left, without even giving her a thanks.  I knew there would never be a next time.  Not only was the money I took out from my retirement fund running low, but my mind was going crazy.  I needed a new job.  I needed a career.  And some new eye candy wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

     My usual just-got-home-from-work ritual consisted of throwing the keys on the nearest counter, turning on one light (it didn’t matter which one), and heading straight for the computer.  I reveled in checking my social networking website first thing.  I enjoyed seeing who Suzie was now dating and if Scotty could finally admit that things were over between him and Sally and, oh, that sucks, Jamie got a C- on her Theories in Dance final, ah, and look here, Stephanie’s one week anniversary with Bill dinner pics are posted!  What’s this?  Mike Johnson is gay?  One of his frat brothers had to have broken into his account and changed that.  Had to.  Gosh, was I normal?  I was wasting my time, but it was quite therapeutic stalking the lives of others.  Though when I started going through sixty pictures of one girl strutting her stuff on Grand Cayman Island and I had no idea who she was I figured it was time to stop perusing and start job hunting.

     Looking for a job was actually quite fun.  The part that sucked was when you found an enticing job that listed, “please include a cover letter AND resume in your response.”  We all know they don’t read those damn cover letters.  I could probably get away with putting, “Dear John, I feel I would make a great account representative for your company. I have a Bachelors degree and relevant work experience. I also like to sleep with married men and then when the wife finds out, if she does, offer a threesome.  I look forward to hearing from you!  And your wife.”  Even if I sent out such a letter, I’m certain someone in upper management would probably still hire me and not because I have a Bachelors degree.  Nonetheless, when I saw “send cover letter”, I immediately dismissed the job.  What I was left with were usually either scams or required something else in place of the cover letter, like a PhD or a medical license.  And even if I was having a “go get ‘em tiger!” kind of day to muster up a cover letter, the list of opportunities was still minimal.  I lived in Cleveland, Ohio.

     I spent two hours that night looking for a job on the internet and came up with nothing.  I couldn’t decide then if I needed sleep or a walk around the block.  I slipped on my flip flops and headed outside.  On the way down and past the community mailboxes, I noticed our building had gotten a free newspaper that day.  Instead of leaving, I sat down on the last step before the door, fishing for the classifieds section.  When found, everything looked the same.  And while there were seven pages worth of careers in nursing, there was only one and half pages dedicated to general employment, which was a category for people like me who owned a very expensive piece of paper with the words “liberal arts” on it and anyone else with at least a high school diploma.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Make a thousand dollars in a week?  Yeah, I’m sure.  No experience necessary, really?  Follow your dreams, at $5.25/hour?  As usual, I was left empty-handed.  And at this point, I was too tired to go for that walk.  Could I get away with sleeping in the stairwell?  I placed my head on my lap, above the newspaper.  My eyes aimlessly wandered--at the wall, the piss-colored carpet circa 1973, the new hole in my jeans, and back to the newspaper on my lap.  Then, out of nowhere, a classified for an internet researcher stared back at me.  I jumped up, though not too excited.  I didn’t even get to see if the place required a cover letter.

     It wasn’t until the next morning I decided that maybe Michelson Research Services might have something to offer.  Or maybe I just decided it was the only place in Cleveland, Ohio that required a degree (of any kind), paid at least $12/hour, and offered benefits.  And for all that, a cover letter was optional!  I was so excited I even made a cover letter, though it was only four sentences.  I spent the entire day repeatedly reading every word on my resume until I felt I had enough proof-reads.  Five hundred or so readings later, I clicked “send”.  And two days later, I got a call from Judy in human resources.