It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with her. It was this house. When he died, it’d be like a chunk was torn out of it. Every time I walked in, I’d see his bedroom door just past the kitchen. Now it was open so we could hear him and come running if necessary. Then, when he died, we’d close it, and nobody would go in there.
That gaping hole would always be foremost in our minds. My father would live in the quiet moments, while my mom puffed her cigarette. We’d never talk about him. It would be too painful, but I’d see my mother staring off into space, her eyes would fall to the ground, and suddenly, he’d be there, haunting her. Haunting us both.
That’s why it was so hard to come home after spending the night with Jake. We were constantly hustling, trying to keep things together so that my father could survive. We took on the responsibility of taking him to his appointments and making sure that he took his meds. Every time we made a mistake, we left the house late, or we slept in, it was like we were failing him.
That hustle got to us. We were running around, stretching ourselves thin, thinking that if we just worked hard enough, if we made sure to do everything right, he’d be okay, because we simply couldn’t accept that he could die no matter what we did.
I felt like there was no point in going to work or getting up off the couch if he was just going to die. I stayed in my pajamas most days and walked back and forth between his room, the kitchen, and of course, the couch where I spent months flipping through channels and going over ads.
They never brought up the fact that I wasn’t working 16 hours a day anymore. I figured it was because we had far too many other things to worry about. I felt guilty but knew I’d figure something out soon.
Jake was the only person that managed to get me out of my rut, but it couldn’t last. I had to find something that would pull us through my father’s treatments. I took a cup of coffee and my laptop into the living room Monday morning.
Jake probably wasn’t an option, now that I wasn’t working with Tony. I couldn’t expect him to keep spending money on me. It was a free ride. I needed something stable and as stress-free as possible. I had a master’s degree. There was no reason for me to be hustling around a stockroom or answering calls from angry customers.
The problem was that cheap labor was everywhere. People with degrees didn’t have very many options. HR reps didn’t want to hire me because they were worried I’d take their jobs. Places that paid minimum didn’t want me because I was over qualified. They were worried I wouldn’t stay on. Even the jobs I qualified for were wary of me. They needed somebody with experience.
There were options. I knew there were. I did my internship as a receptionist for a small accounting firm. They weren’t able to take me on, but there were plenty of small businesses like that in desperate need of a good receptionist.
The problem was that most of those places were part-time. They didn’t need somebody to come in every day, and many were starting to outsource their work to virtual assistants who could take calls from their homes. My pay would be well over minimum wage, but I’d only end up coming in three or four days a week.
The job market was tight. People weren’t making money, so hiring was down. There might’ve been more jobs, but they paid less, and they screened their applicants carefully. Three months without work was a hard sell, even with a master’s degree.
Fortunately, I was well-versed in the language and etiquette required to get into an office setting. I had a full closet of interview outfits and resumes on marble-print paper. I was ready. I just had to find the right opportunity.
I pulled up a notepad and started writing down phone numbers.
One job was for a real estate office. There was no name or location, but the ad was simple, all text. That meant that they were probably a small business, so I gave them a call.
“Hello?” a man’s voice came on the line. He sounded like he’d been sleeping.
“Who is that?” A shrill voice rang out on the other end.
“I’m on the phone, Laura.” There was some shuffling around. He covered the receiver, and I waited for a moment. “Sorry about that,” he said when he got back.
“That’s all right. I’m calling about the receptionist ad.”
“Oh, yeah. We just need you to come down and watch the complex during the day, keep an eye on things. We have a really bad drug problem out here, so we need somebody that’s clean. Would you be willing to do a urine test?”
I hung up and went back to the classifieds. I scrolled down and clicked on an ad for a clerical position. There was a stock photo of a woman smiling and a toll-free number below it.
A woman’s voice came on the line. “Hi, this is Trisha.”
“Hi, I’m calling about the ad I saw online for a clerical position.”
“That’s fantastic,” she declared.
“Great, what is the position?”
“How would you like to make $5,000 a week, working from the comfort of your very own home? Please hold, and an agent will be on the line with you shortly.” It was an over-enthusiastic recording followed by a patchy saxophone sequence.
I hung up and went back to the ads. There were more stock photos, ads that offered ‘$60,000’ in bold print, and of course, tons of international numbers. I learned early on not to deal with anyone outside the country.
There was an ad for a nursing care receptionist. Medical was on my list of things I would never do, but answering phone calls wouldn’t be a problem, so long as I didn’t have to change diapers or shower paralysis victims.
The woman that answered was sobbing. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi, I’m calling about the receptionist position.”