I love summer. But it doesn’t fool me. I remember last summer when I’d been unemployed for not that long and I had the experience that made me what I currently think of as me. I’d like to call our attention to those of us in Debtor’s Prison who’ve been laid off several times and thus would never bring anything personal to an office or attend a non-mandatory office function even if they were to win the Presidency.

So there I was – well here really but instead of blogging I was looking for jobs when I got an email from a cousin for the perfect job, an adjunct professorship at George Mason. Even better this professor also routinely did legal research/work as a part-time associate at the head of the department’s law firm. Even better they were in a hurry to get someone – a big hurry.  They were willing to take EITHER a JD or a PhD in the final stages of their work or even someone with comparable accomplishments/experience. I had all three and a family connection.

It wasn’t that I was sure I would get the job, it was that I allowed myself to entertain the possibility such that I no longer surpressed my usual urges to rejoin society.  Pretty soon I could imagine myself with, if not this job, at least A job because if an opportunity like this existed surely there would be others and how many of me could there be? I didn’t think about the gap in my resume. I didn’t think about all the people who smiled through their teeth at me and then probably gave me a poor reference. I didn’t think about the people with 20 years experience and families with sick parents and dependent children who would gladly have taken that job or the younger smarter kids with all the degrees I have who would have worked for next to nothing just for the experience.

I nailed the interview. No, I mean I NAILED the interview. After I didn’t get the job I had no less than six individuals call me to say that so and so couldn’t stop talking about me and they couldn’t wait for me to join the staff. I have no idea who got the job.

Getting a job after being thrown out on your ass isn’t like being resurrected from the dead in a new and perfect body with death itself vanquished. All getting a job means is two to four weeks from date x you might be getting a paycheck the rightful share of which you won’t see until you get your tax refund the following year. Nothing replaces the time you’ve lost. You will always feel like a broken toy, who despite being fixed is scared that tomorrow little master won’t want to play with you even though that’s the fate of all toys in the end.

But there is still summer. Something about summer. Something  about a nice day. It’s not hope. It just is. A poor man has Summer just like a rich man has winter. The dying pauper laughs at the wealthy doctor who refuses his Medicare because the extra money he makes over a lifetime will not save him from essentially the same fate. Neither death nor working is a dignified process.