The so-called party is over
I got my last Unemployment notification this morning. It was a monetary determination and a notice that said “Benefits Exhausted.”
So am I. Exhausted, that is. For over a year I’ve wanted nothing more than to work again at something where I don’t to be on my feet all day or travel an extreme distance up to New York. Jobs in Philly, as you know or perhaps don’t, are as rare as the proverbial hen’s teeth. Whatever it is I’m selling, nobody’s buying or even getting free samples of the wares.
Since 2008 I haven’t been able to convince anyone to take much interest in me. I was under the magical spell of some illnesses, including Type II diabetes and neuropathic feet, that caused agony when I tried to walk.
So I went more and more broke. And now I’ve arrived. It’s called everything but holding out a tin cup at the 30th Street train station. It’s not a destination I looked forward to, anymore than I look forward to my own death. I’m still only 67, and I’m a bit too young to anticipate check-out time yet. My hotel room key still opens the door, at least for now. So I keep banging away at the door, hoping that Unemployment will extend the payments (need I say I do not trust Obama or Congress, regardless of the fine noises), or that I can hook up with some source of income to offset the Social Security that I get after my ex-wife takes half as her court-ordered due and proper.
As much as I hate having to walk, I hate idleness even more. I hate endless days of watching television movies, regardless of how good they are. I wish I could find something to do that does not involve volunteering, which I’m even sure I could so because New Jersey wants proof that I was documented looking for remunerative work.
As tired as I am I have an autonomic nervous system that will not let me quit on myself. My life is worth more than that.
