Yesterday was my first day at my new job. This being the first job I’ve actually been able to get, other than one day of temp work, since I moved to Charleston. (Shortish journal entry covering a longish span of time.) In fact, it was the only callback out of all the resumés and applications I shoved into people’s hands. I’m working in a call center for a corporation*, taking reservations. It pays fairly well, though I’ve made more, in smaller cities, in equally skilled yet lower-stress positions. *I’m not quite sure how litigious they are yet.
So now I’ll explain why the above news, with all the provisos, is still the best news I’ve had in a while. You may recall me mentioning an epic streak of bad luck in passing in the stitches post. As this would take some time to explain however I went about it, I’ll keep it short and give you a timeline.
End of March, 2002: I move to Charleston. Dan had chosen to move here some months prior, though it took me longer to make up my mind. That and the long distance thing and some other stuff all, individually and collectively, almost destroyed us, but there were periods in between where everything was dandy, and we’ve been fine now for longer than my mayfly memory can reckon. We made plans at that time to find our own place as soon as we had the means, or around two months in our optimistic view.
Beginning of April: one roommate’s mom, 23-month-old sister, and potential stepfather move here from DC, staying with us temporarily until they can get on their feet. This brings the total number of roommates in our two-bedroom apartment to seven. As you no doubt can guess, due to quite a series of unfortunate events of their own, ‘temporarily’ becomes
Beginning of June: They move out. Dan, having changed jobs once already since I arrived in Charleston, once again seeks greener pastures. As he’s never been unemployed for more than a week since he was 16, and recognizing the difference between being — however temporarily — one of three unemployed people in the house and being one of five (and I did mention that at this point I had gone 2½ months without a single callback, right?), he elects to make seeking employment his full-time occupation. He very shortly finds a government job opening that pays more than either of my parents make and begins the long gauntlet — including medical, psychological, and polygraph exams — that they send potential hires through. Shortly afterward, I receive my first and only callback, where I’m now working, the company that Dan had just departed.
Saturday, July 6th, 6 am: the week of hell leaves a calling card. Our (2) roommates leave for a weekend trip, leaving a load of clothes in the dryer. Three minutes down the road, they return to retrieve a forgotten item and find flames shooting from the aforementioned appliance. They flip the breaker, douse the laundry room, and wake us up to inform us of our near mortality.
Sunday, July 7th, 11 am: we leave to do some shopping, only to discover that our car had been stolen. We report it, only to discover our car had been towed. Apparently, the rental office was under the mistaken impression it had belonged to the recently-evicted drug dealers across the hall. (This was also the first we heard about drug dealers across the hall.) Then we were under the mistaken impression that the rental office should return our car, as it was their mistake. However, our lease apparently gives them the right to tow anything they want to, whenever they want to. We would have to ransom our own car for $90, before the end of the day, with roommates out of town, no transportation, and exactly $13.14 to our names. The car is still there, and the ransom is now more than what was originally paid for the car.
Monday, July 8th, 10 am: Roommates return with mail. Dan receives a letter from his potential employer. Having finished the five week hiring process the previous week, he expects good news. “We are currently seeking the best qualified candidate for this position. Regretfully, you are not the best candidate.” That is an exact quote, or as exact a quote as possible, as he set it on fire a short time later.
5 pm: I fall over and hit my head on the cement steps in front of our door.
Tuesday, July 9th, 12:03 am: five stitches, 1 reflex test, two blood pressure checks, one tetanus shot, a lot of money from Mom’s insurance company (thank you $_Deity), and six and a half hours later, I am discharged from the emergency room without so much as a band-aid, much less a diagnosis. Incidentally, since I’ve moved down here, my mother has taken to leaving her phone off the hook — no hyperbole here — 23½ hours a day, seven days a week. Thusly, she did not find out until Friday the 12th, by which time my stitches were already out.
Apparently sated with us at this point, the curse then shifted its brunt to our roommates and ex-roommates, individually and collectively, for the next six days. Their sob tales are just as bad or worse than mine and Dan’s, but I’m beginning to depress myself already. And why do I publish the Poor Jason Almanac just now, you ask? Because my one piece of good news, combined with the sheer absurdity of all this happening to such a small group, seemed just enough to make it possible to do so. And of course, I knew I would feel better afterwards, as I always do when I journal, and I can see that good mental health will be imperative to keeping this job, which for a time at least will be imperative to eating. So I write, basically, out of pure animal survival instinct. How about yourself?