The Unemployed Life

Out On the Street: The Equal Opportunity Recession

It had been a while since the He-Man had gotten together to sip lattes and catch up. As usual, the shop talk gave way to gossip and anecdotes. TJ was recounting a disagreement he had with his wife, Jenny.

“So I was on the computer late one evening. The kids were asleep and my wife was reading in bed. Or so I thought. Suddenly she walks in and says ‘What are you doing?’  I turn around and say ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m filling out my unemployment insurance application.’” Jenny was shocked.

“’You can’t do that. We don’t need the money that badly,’” TJ said.  “Christ, I don’t think she would have been half as mad if I was downloading porn.”

Hal was beside himself. “You are as entitled to that money as anyone else. It’s not a needs-based program, and your taxes have helped pay for it. It’s designed to help anyone smooth their transition.  Regardless, it’s free money for 26 weeks. You’d be a moron not to take it.“

The amazing thing to me is that TJ has been unemployed for more than a year and half, and hadn’t yet claimed any unemployment insurance.  Damn, I wish I had bought in Tribeca instead of Westchester in 2001.

I, for one, have no problem taking unemployment insurance. But when the neon yellow letter from the New York State Department of Labor arrived requiring the presence of me and my resume last Friday at 8 a.m., it hit home that the checks came at a price.

The stated intent of the counseling session is to help provide job searching skills—and for me to prove that I am actually looking for a job. I should just send them a link to “Out on the Street,” I thought—they could follow my play-by-play and decide for themselves. But that would save the bureaucracy too much money. It’s way more effective to have a zombie clerk critique my gold standard Wall Street resume. After all, I’d probably been slacking off so I can get my $405 a week. So now I was going to have some bureaucrat compare my resume to whatever template another bureaucrat in Albany has decided is the way a resume should look.  There was not going to be a whole lot of sympathy for a Wall Street guy, I was sure. The irony was that I had an interview scheduled for that afternoon and could have been preparing for it. Instead  I would be wasting my time getting career pointers from people who have jobs that I wouldn’t have in my worst nightmare.

On the fourth floor, I found a room of school desk-chairs, the ones used for standardized tests, where it’s impossible to get both cheeks comfortable at the same time.  As I filled out my form, the room began to fill up. I wondered what everyone used to do for work. While there weren’t many people who looked like they were financial professionals, I am sure no one else considered the counseling a great use of their time either. A kid in his early 20s with a Notorious B.I.G tee was followed by a Rasta. An Asian teenager was translating for her father. A few seats down a Brooklynista wearing cons and a letter jacket with a flying soybean as a mascot— the Mighty Soy—was reading. I wondered what they thought about the 39-year-old white guy reading the FT? I took a mental snapshot of the room, a reminder that this really is an equal opportunity recession.

After 45 minutes I met with my counselor. What did she think about the guy who is looking only for six figure jobs? As I walked to her desk another man was helping the Asian family with the father’s resume. To my surprise, the counselor recognized that my case was not the usual one they deal with and that I am better suited with contacts to find the job I want. She handed me the pro-forma packet and asked if I had any questions. And then, with a remarkable earnestness she wished me the very best of luck and said I know you will find a job I know you will. I wanted to kiss her.

On the way out, I shared the elevator down with a South Asian woman. New York never lets you forget what an amazing patchwork it is. She took a look down at my FT and asked where was I laid off from.

“JP Citi. You?”

“Bank of New York. Good luck.”

Joe the Trader spent 11 years as a proprietary trader at a major U.S. bank. He has three children and currently lives in Brooklyn. Read more of his weekly Out on the Street column.

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Tags: humor, job-hunting, Out on the Street, The Unemployed Life, The Working World, Wall Street