Freedom

I should feel bad.

 

I don’t.

 

I should feel panicked.

 

I don’t.

 

I should have a job.

 

I don’t.

 

Well, not exactly--not as in I have an employer wiring me money to turn their widgets into strands of gold, while I spin my wheels. I did have that. Now I don’t.

 

When I went to bed last Monday night, it was right there on my desk. Tuesday, I woke up; there it was; right where I left it Monday night.  Then sometime in the middle of the afternoon, I got up, answered the phone, and when I came back it was gone. Where did it go?  This isn’t like the old lap riddle. Trust me, I tried.  When I sat down, I was still unemployed.

 

Who stole my job? The voice over the phone made it clear that nobody stole it. They were magicians.  They’d made it disappear! 

 

Abracadabra!

 

I told them I’d much rather see them saw a secretary in half. They told me my widgetry would no wonger be wequired. “ACME is downsizing. Your wascally wabbit ways are out dated. It’s duck season.”   I gotta tell you, that Bugs me.

 

The phone call was short, but hardly sweet. There were lots of other people they needed to show their trick. I know, that sounds bitter.  It’s not.  I’m free. Nobody pays me, and I can do whatever I want, when I want. I am the Bugs Bunny of the employment world.  Somebody give me a carrot to chew, cuz I can’t buy my own.

 

“What’s up Doc?”

“You’re time.  You don’t have health insurance.”

 

See?  Now that’s bitter.

 

Yup, that’s just the price of freedom: if it’s not free, you can’t have it. For things that cost, you need employment magic. To get that magic, you need to be a slave to the machine.  The Pirate Queen said she’d make me her slave.

 

“I don’t think that will get me magic.”

“It’ll get you something.”

“Oh…”

 

The Pirate Queen is all about freedom, she’s sets her own hours, and pillages the villages of her choice. I’m jealous. I wanted to be a pirate until I saw her peg leg severance package. That’s the price she paid for job freedom.

 

So what do I do to become a corporate slave again? I could join a cult.  The money isn’t great, but they do have a fantastic benefits package: free food, free lodging, and all the free Kool-Aid I can drink. All I need to do is turn off my brain.  I’ve tried; I can’t do that.

 

MyEx has a job.  When she heard I lost my job, she told me a few places I could go look for it, some of them I can print.  Actually she was quite helpful.  She even made some very profitable suggestions. She said I was a writer, why didn’t I write?  I could write cardboard pitches, and sell them to panhandlers. She’s a forward thinker; with all the unemployment, that’s one market that’s surging.

 

There are a lot of lost jobs out there.  When I lost my dog, everybody sympathized. “I am so sorry.”  When I lost my job, everybody said, “Yeah, me too.” Where’s the sympathy there? Where’s the search party?  I mean it was like I put a teaspoon of wasabi in their Kool-Aid.  Oh sure, they teared up, at first, but by the second sip, they were already used to the taste.

 

Still, more than their Kool-Aid and sympathy, I want a job, but nobody has one they can recommend. The Pirate Queen agreed with MyEx.  She thought I should write. Writing--that seemed to be a constant.

 

I mean I say I’m a writer, other than the money, why don’t I write? Maybe it’s time to take the leap of faith. I jumped out with the idea towards the Pirate Queen.

 

“I wanna write.”

 

“That’s a great idea. I wish I’d thought of it.”

 

“I’m thinking of working on that project we talked about.”

 

“That’s a great idea.”

 

“I’m thinking of doing it before I search for another job.”

 

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Really?”

 

Once I told her my plan, and that I’d laid out deadlines and other criteria for myself , she liked the idea again.  She’s a OCD pirate, she salivates over project planning and time goals like other pirates salivate over big booty.

 

The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked the idea myself. Still, I needed naysayers. I needed people to speak out against my idea. I decided to present it to two other’s who would give me their honest opinion.

 

MyEx believes in brutal honesty. She’d tell a blind man to give up his dream of being a taxi driver, rather than coddle him into the drivers seat. I told her my plan to write. She told me she liked it.  She said she believed in my writing much more than my chauffer skills.

 

Next I told Dad.  I figured him for the hard sale.  Dad’s the practical thinker.  As a kid, I’d float out fantastic dream balloons to him and he’d shoot them down with logic darts. It wasn’t meant to hurt me, but more to ground me in reality.  This was what I needed.  I told him.

 

“So I’m thinking of writing.”

 

“I think it’s a great idea.”

 

“Uhm, really? You know I’m unemployed, right?”

 

“Yes, but you’re also at a good point in your life to do it.”

 

In searching for reasons not to jump, I’d found people willing to give me a push. In that, the people in my life have made me more secure than all the employment shackles in the world; they believe in me.

 

So I’m in a freedom freefall, but it feels good. I’m going to write full time, and see if I can turn word widgets into written gold. In my writing, I have found freedom and a job, and it was right there all the time.