The Woes of Millennial Unemployment

General Writing Sample

Date: 8/2022

Assignment: Write 5-15 pages of prose fiction.

THE WOES OF MILLENNIAL UNEMPLOYMENT

“Well, John, let me be clear. Crystal. I don’t want kids. I don’t see myself ever wanting kids, and, to be perfectly honest, I hold a small shred of contempt for women who deliberately, or accidentally, bring children into this world, unable to even care for a cactus. Do you know how easy it is to care for a cactus, John? Stupidly. You just need one of those spritzer-bottles and like every four days or whatever you mist it, then just leave it there to live. Some women can’t even do that, John, they can’t even spritz, but they think they can handle a child asking them where babies come from or if Suzy from homeroom was telling the truth about her mommy who likes to take things from the mall without paying.”

John looked taken aback. I could tell by the way he fiddled with his pink packet of fake sugar, taking great care not to prematurely rip the paper.

“Stacy, I said, ‘lid.’ Do you want a lid, like, for your coffee. Not kid. Lid. But, I guess, that’s good to know, too.”

I felt my face turn beet red and hot, like those “1000 DEGREE KNIFE CUTS THROUGH STICK OF BUTTER” videos on YouTube. Great, now my face was a 1000 degree metal knife. That’s perfect, thank you, God.

“Oh,” I calmly replied. “Yes, please, that would be awesome.” I thought back to the power poses I struck only minutes prior in the bathroom mirror. “Your arms are a tree,” I whispered to myself in the handicapped single-stall, “outstretched branches of life and light. You are Mother Nature.” I think I read the wrong article online, because I still don’t really understand how visualizing myself as a Great Oak was going to help me land this job when I use at least five paper towels to dry my hands. 

I needed this job, unfortunately to a degree of which I’m not proud. Due to some unforeseen circumstances, a “perfect storm of misfortunes,” as I told my bank, I had found myself in quite a bit of debt. And by “quite a bit of debt,” I mean borderline state-penitentiary level financial struggles. Well, okay, that’s probably overreacting, but I feel like I see Lifetime movies every other day about just an average mom who spent a little too much at Nordstrom’s Summer Blowout Sale and ended up in prison. 

I came back to Earth and realized that I had to start charming the pants off of John to make up for my… blunder. My mom’s family has a bunch of hearing problems, so I could have explained that it wasn’t my fault that I misinterpreted. My great-aunt’s actually deaf now. John would have been sympathetic, I feel. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

John, my 1000 degree face and I sat down at the nearest table for two. There were salt flakes on the table left by the previous couple, and when John turned around to fish something out of his caramel-leather briefcase, I made sure to throw some over my right shoulder. I needed all the luck I could get.

John cleared his throat, but there wasn’t really any phlegm or anything so it just sounded like a low growl. He looked up to meet my eyes. “So Stacy, tell me a little bit about yourself.”

“Well, John, I fear the issue here is that I already have, albeit more than a ‘bit.’”

We both chuckled. That was good – I was reeling him in. If I milked the mistake too much, though, the line would break and he would swim away. Okay, enough with the fishing metaphors. The only thing I’ve ever caught in my life was a persistent and borderline concerning case of athlete’s foot in college from the dorm showers and oh my God why am I telling you this.

While my joke was successful in briefly clearing the air, I could tell that John wanted more.

“I graduated from Tufts three years ago, and I’ve spent that time…”--  I searched my mind for a professional way to say largely unemployed and poor – “really trying to discover what excites me, career-wise.” 

That carefully-worded response wasn’t a lie. In the three years since I had graduated, I’d bounced from job-to-job more times than a pinball in a small-town bar. I waitressed in a restaurant that charged way too much for food that was way too old. When the tips got slimmer and the customer complaints got louder, I left the restaurant to briefly intern for an online media company as a ghost-writer. Once I found out that I was a ghost-writer, you know, instead of an actual, accredited writer, I quit. I was going to stay at that gig for a while longer, given both my and my father’s satisfaction that my journalism degree from a small liberal arts college was being put to good use, but I felt that if my work was going to be published without my name, I should at least make it juicy. 

That idea led me to my next, and final, job – a celebrity paparazzo (the singular form of paparazzi, if you didn’t know, layman.). I know, I know. Us paparazzi get an abysmal reputation for, I don’t know, completely disregarding any remnant of privacy that even D-list celebrities possess, but at some point the rent’s still due at the first of the month. 

After my boss asked me for photos of… let’s just say, more than celebrities… I told him he could go to hell and to forward my paycheck to my apartment. 

That’s the story of how I found myself here, in a coffee shop, with a burning face and tongue from the scalding cappuccino I nervously gulped, across from John, whom I was attempting to convince that I was the perfect candidate for role of “Social Media Coordinator” for TimeSpeed News. 

“I’ve had a lot of experience in many different fields,” I continued, “specifically in those pertaining to consumer relations, communications, and media.” I crammed so many buzzwords into that sentence that I thought it was going to fly away.

I placed my resumé atop the small stack of papers that John had removed from his briefcase. I’ve always marvled at men who carry briefcases, because in this day and age, there is absolutely no need for a portable box to hold papers that could easily live on your computer. But, as I’ve already explained, I’m no Greta Thunberg so who am I to judge?

 He traced his finger down my contact information, soft-skills, references and relevant experiences, likely raising an eyebrow to the fact that I described waitressing and unwanted photography as “consumer relations.” But John didn’t object – instead, I watched as a smile crept across his face.

“Do you have Instagram?” he asked.

I laughed, because who in their right mind would apply for a job as a Social Media Coordinator without even owning their own account on one of the largest social media networks in the world.

“Why yes, I do.”

John began to soften. “Cool,” he said as he pulled out his phone, “what’s your username?”

I felt my face once again begin to heat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. But as I envisioned myself walking home jobless to a kitchen table full of unpaid bills, I decided to indulge him.

We exchanged phones, typing in our respective usernames and requesting to follow each other. It’s always weird to see your social media account from another person’s phone – and it’s even weirder to make preliminary judgements about yourself based on it. As I looked at my profile picture from John’s phone, I noticed how my cleavage was showing a little too much and I wondered if I cropped the photo that way intentionally. 

After returning his phone and he returned mine, I expected the interview to continue where it had briefly paused. However, as John slipped my papers back into his unnecessary briefcase and began adjusting his jacket, I sensed that the meeting was coming to a close. 

“This was great, Stacy. I’ll reach out to let you know what the team thinks.”

As he slid his stool away from the table, I quickly gathered my belongings and stood as well, so as to not reveal my confusion.

“Oh… okay. Is that it?”

“Yep,” John said as he outstretched his arms, “it was really nice meeting you.”

John reached out his arms expectedly, appearing to anticipate a hug. A hug? After a job interview? 

As most, if not all, girls are taught at some point during their childhood, I relented as a sign of both respect and politeness. I really needed this job, and if one hug and a fake smile would take me one step closer to financial security, I could muddle through.

***

At 2 A.M., the following morning, I was roused by my buzzing cell phone. I don’t usually sleep with my phone on Do Not Disturb, because, as depressing as it sounds, I’m not usually the recipient of late night texts or calls. 

As I flipped my phone to discover who had awoken me, I was shocked to see not a missed text or call, but an Instagram Direct Message. From John.

I’m not typically one to assume that men are automatically obsessed with me because they hold the door or tip above 20%, but this move was objectively odd. Even more odd than the timing of the message was the message itself:

“Hey. Just talked to the team. You got the job. When can we meet up again to talk?”

As I read the message, a pit deepened in my stomach. While I highly doubted John “just talked to the team” at 2 A.M. on a Tuesday to discuss my employment as Social Media Coordinator, the slightly unsettling aspect to the entire situation was that he chose to contact me about this job… via Instagram? 

Maybe I was being too critical of him. After all, John had just saved me from moving back in with my mother and having to explain that yes, I got a tattoo of a butterfly on my forearm and no, it’s not unprofessional. 

I decided to wait until the morning to answer, mostly because I sought to present myself as an individual with a healthy sleep schedule and work-life balance, rather than someone who fell asleep watching Seinfeld reruns with a bag of popcorn still sitting in the microwave.

***

Three days later, I found myself once again in the coffee shop with John. Upon greeting him, he stretched again to embrace me, however I yearned to preserve a sense of professionalism so I tried to shake his hand, instead. It wasn’t pretty – I had to maneuver myself from his front to his side to shake his hand at a ninety degree angle – but it was necessary.

He quietly scoffed, but chose to ignore the clumsy gesture.

Before we sat down at the same small table, John smiled and said, “Hold on, I forgot something important.” In four quick steps, he covered the length of the café and rushed back, holding a plastic coffee lid and grinning like a little boy. “Good thing I got one… we could have had another awkward situation!”

I swear to God, I’ve never heard someone laugh that hard at their own joke. I chuckled, attempting to ignore the growing discomfort of the scene.

As if a flip had switched, John became not only professional but diplomatic. He extracted contracts and pamphlets from his briefcase, explaining in detail the various clauses and subclauses of my employment. His knowledge of not only my position but the company as a whole comforted me in my decision to take the job, not that I had many other options. Perhaps I had overanalyzed both John’s message and his gestures – maybe he truly was just a nice guy.

After a lengthy discussion and two refills of my cappuccino, I began to put on my jacket and slide out my chair as John had only days prior. 

As John stood, he looked nervous, like he was working up the courage for something. 

“Hey… um… it being Friday and all… would you want to… like… grab a drink later?”

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

But I needed the job.

But did I want it… this way?

I acted how girls are supposed to act in situations like these. Play the idiot they think you are.

“You mean,” I asked, “with the team?”

Shockingly, John didn’t appear to take my obvious rebuff of his offer as an insult. He chuckled and answered, “No, just you and me. I know this really great pl-”

I cut him off. 

“I’m really sorry John, but I think we should just keep this professional.”

His face grew as red as mine had only days prior. I needed to fix this. I needed this job. I wasn’t in the place to make him feel awkward, let alone to call him out for his obviously inappropriate behavior.

“Um… sorry. That came out wrong.” It came out perfectly and exactly as I had intended it to. “I just don’t think that… you know with this new job and all… I’d hate to screw it up.”

John waited a moment, as if to collect himself before saying something that he didn’t intend. 

“Totally understand,” he said, despite his face not at all showing it, “Sorry if I made anything weird.”

I felt the need to apologize profusely. To fix any problems that I had caused, despite my behavior being of absolutely no concern in this situation.

“No harm done,” I assured him, “see you Monday.”

This time, John outstretched only his hand.

***

I received no more late night messages from John in the days that followed. To say I was grateful for his lack of communication was an understatement, as I had known the feeling of working with creepy men all too well from my stint as a photographer. You feel their eyes even when you cannot see them. You can read their minds, mentally undressing you and using their imaginations to make up for what you refuse to show. 

I will never understand the guilt that I had experienced over my previous interactions with John. If the situation presented itself once more, with every single gesture and comment mirrored exactly as it had occurred, I would have acted the same way. I know that my responses were not only appropriate, but curated and perfected by the women placed in this uncomfortable position for generations before me.

Had I led him on to believe that I wanted to be more than friends? Even I knew this idea was absurd, given that we had interacted a grand total of two times (three including our Instagram exchange), and it would be impossible for me to convey deep romantic longing over coffee.

Sunday night, I decided to put John out of my mind for good. Perseverating over the awkward circumstance would do nothing to ameliorate my discomfort, plus the fact that I had work the following morning. I’ve always loved that excuse. I turned off my phone, sliding on Do Not Disturb, and set my alarm for a shockingly early wakeup time. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually had something to wake up for, other than surprise visits from mom and dad with much too short of notice.

***

I was ready for battle. Having budgeted more than enough time to not only arrive at work twenty minutes early, but to also stop by the café on the way in, I felt absolutely calm on my new morning commute. Maybe it was the power-poses, maybe it was the Xanax (joking), but I felt unstoppable. Today was going to be the first day of my life. I was the pilot of my own journey. These text-affirmations are a waste of $5.99 per month but I am too lazy to cancel my subscription.

As I walked to the counter, the barista looked confused.

“Weren’t you already here?” she asked while grinding espresso beans.

“Um… I don’t think so?”

“Huh, weird.” She replied, “Someone ordered your exact cappuccino this morning. Must have started a trend or something.”

Now, not only was I employed, I was an influencer. I loved today.

Grabbing my coffee and scurrying back into the driver’s seat, I continued on my way.

***

“Your name is… what?”

“Stacy. S.T.A-”

“Yeah, I know how to spell it. But unless your name’s Christina, Mark or Sharon, you’re not allowed up.”

The security guard shifted in his seat, as if he was picking a wedgie.

I looked down at his clipboard, which he tilted away from me as soon as he noticed.

“Look,” I explained, “It’s supposed to be my first day. I was hired last Friday and was told to come to this address on Monday at 8 A.M. Here,” I rummaged around my tote for the company pamphlets that John had given me, “how could I have these if I didn’t work here?”

The guard snatched the pamphlets and flipped through the glossy pages. However, with each minute that he continued to read the company information, my heart sank deeper and deeper.

“Ma’am,” the guard answered, minutes later, “I don’t really know what’s going on here, but I’ve never seen these pamphlets before, and I’ve been here for two years. These might be from our old location across town, but that closed down five years ago. This phone number here isn’t even our company line – I don’t know where you got this, but I don’t believe you’re in the right place.”

I was dumbfounded. According to the sign above the guard’s head, reading in bright neon letters “TimeSpeed News,” I was very much where I was supposed to be. 

“You can’t even let me up, just to check with a manager?” I pleaded. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s a security thing, I hope you understand.”

I didn’t, but I pretended that I did.

I walked back to my car, defeated and perplexed. How did this happen? Was I still unemployed, or just at the wrong address?

I decided to call the phone number listed on TimeSpeed’s website under their “Contact Us!” section. Their cheeriness annoyed me – this was no time for enthusiasm. 

After three rings, I was greeted by a familiar voice – the security guard in front of whom I had just become the village dunce.

“Helloooooo?” he called into the void.

I quickly hung up.

To test the security guard’s hypothesis – that my pamphlet had contained false or outdated information – I then called the number listed on the last page of the company’s informational brochure. 

I prayed that I would, once again, be greeted by the wedgie-picking security guard who was likely paid too little to deal with this situation.

Yet, I was met by a three-tone chime, followed by the dreaded sentence, “I’m sorry, the number you dialed is no longer in service.”

Had John accidentally given me the wrong information?

Because John and I never actually exchanged phone numbers, and I felt foolish Direct Messaging my coworker via Instagram to address this mistake, I re-entered TimeSpeed News with my tail between my legs.

Making eye contact with Mr. Wedgie as soon as I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, I noticed his obvious displeasure with my presence.

“Sooo,” I slowly began, “you were in fact correct – I tried calling the number on the brochure and I think that it’s from the old location.”

The guard appeared completely unfazed, as if I had just informed him that the sky had a bluish hue today.

I continued. “I have one last request, and then I promise I’ll be out of your hair.”

I winced at my choice of words, as this man was sporting quite literally the worst toupée that I had ever seen.

“Look, ma’am, I can’t let you upstairs,” he repeated for the fifteenth time this morning.

“Not what I was going to ask,” I replied, slightly annoyed. “I seem to have left my contact book at home, however I have the name of the man that hired me. He has all of my signed contracts, my resumé, and I’m positive that he can help to clear up this whole situation. Would you mind calling him, or, if it’s easier, telling me his phone number so that I don’t have to put you out any further this morning?”

He exhaled slowly, pensively looking up to the ceiling to convey the absolute burden that I was imposing upon him, you know, to actually do his job. 

“Fine,” he muttered, “what’s the name.”

“John Stein,” I quickly answered.

The guard slowly tapped at his keyboard, pausing after typing J-O-H-N to allow me to spell his last name. I yearned to tell him just to take a wild guess, but once again, I found myself in no position to rock the boat.

Upon pressing the Enter key, the guard’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“Huh,” he huffed, “Ma’am, I hate to tell you this, but I think there’s been a mistake.”

My extremities went numb.

“What kind of mistake?” I asked, attempting to steady my shaking voice.

“It appears as though John Stein was laid off in the merger. He hasn’t worked for us for five years, since the other location – where your pamphlet appears to be from – closed down.”

Ice filled my veins. At the moment, I failed to comprehend the gravity of what this man was telling me, yet I soon would.

“So… so…” I stammered, “You’re telling me… John hasn’t worked here… for half a decade?”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, albeit a tad too casually given the circumstances, “I’m sorry to report.” 

The guard did not appear sorry at all to “report” that I had in fact been falsely led by an unemployed freak into taking a job at a company where he no longer worked.

Oh, God.

John still had my resumé.

***

I raced home, scared to death of what – or whom – I would be greeted by. 

After parking my car in the garage of my apartment complex, I weaved my keys through the fingers of my dominant hand, like they teach you in those self-defense classes. My house key laid in between my index and middle fingers, and my diary key in between my middle and ring. If I wasn’t scared that I was about to be stabbed to death by a crazy stalker, I would have laughed at how depressing my key-chain is for a woman my age.

I flung open the door to my car, hoping that I would knock John out if he was hiding behind it. He wasn’t, and instead of defeating my killer, I scratched up the Silver Honda Civic parked next to me. I decided that the world owed me a pass today, so I kept moving.

Dashing up the stairs, too scared to open the elevator to a crazy John with a gun aimed at my forehead, I was embarrassingly out of breath upon reaching the third story. The door to my apartment glared back at me, seemingly untouched in the two hours since my departure. 

My hands were shaking, causing my keychain to loudly jingle as I fumbled with the house key. 

The key turned. I softly pushed open the door to prevent any creaks, believing that my best shot at defending myself would be to take John by surprise.

However, after abruptly flipping the light switch, illuminating the apartment in seconds, I was faced with the same exact apartment – down to the dirty dishes and unswept popcorn kernels – that I had left that morning. 

Keys once again strategically placed between my fingers, with a steak knife in my non-dominant hand (probably not my best idea), I weaved my way in and out of rooms until the entire floor plan had been scoured. I rummaged through the depths of my closet – far too small for anybody above five feet to cram themselves into – and glanced behind every door, and yet I was met with only the echoing of my own breath. 

For the first time in my entire life, I thanked God that I was completely alone.

Perhaps John was not dangerous, but merely lonely. While it disconcerted me that he was still in possession of my resumé, with my address and phone number, I determined that John was probably just trying to meet new girls and he believed nothing was wrong with advertising a fake job online in order to reel in a few women. The more I thought about the entire situation, the less sympathetic I became for this clearly troubled man, however perseverating over John’s bizarre pickup strategies was not going to solve anything.

I took a breath, flopped back down into the sofa dent that I had formed throughout the duration of my unemployment, and opened my laptop to begin the job search process once again. I chuckled, thinking of my father’s advice prior to my entering sophomore year at Tufts: “Stacey, you would be stupid not to go into finance. Or computer science. Pretty much anything but majoring in long, funny words. Long, funny words don’t make money.” I hated that he was turning out to be right.

However, my self-deprecation over my past decisions was halted by a knock at my door. My pulse quickened and my eyes watered. Suddenly, I was a scared little girl who just wanted her mommy.

I quietly crossed my living room, avoiding the loose floorboards and attempting to silence my heavy breathing. I peered through the peephole, expecting a fish-eyed view of John at the other end. Yet, I saw no one outside.

Deeming the coast to be clear, I cracked open the door to scan the hall, only to be met with emptiness. 

I exhaled a sigh of relief.

That is, until I looked down.

A coffee cup with a note.

I gulped.

A coffee cup, from my café, sitting on an extra lid, with a note.

The exact order that I always get. That I ordered with John. That I ordered this morning when the barista falsely believed that I had started a trend.

Under my cappuccino with pumpkin and two splenda, with an extra lid of course, was a napkin with the café’s logo on it and black writing under it.

“Have a great first day, sweetie! See you soon. 

– John”

THE END