#SampleSunday How do you survive a Jobless Recovery?

Of course, there's no such thing as a jobless recovery because if you're jobless, there is no recovery. Try telling that to the people who run our government. Or talk to former FBI agent Joe Tremaine, one of the main characters in my novel, Jobless Recovery. In this excerpt from Chapter Five, Joe tries to make ends meet by doing odd jobs. As he works on repairing a deck, he contemplates other ways to earn money. These other ways might not be legal, but they sure would bring in money a lot faster.

Chapter Five

The deck repair job wouldn’t take more than half a day. Joe figured he’d clear maybe a hundred bucks for his trouble, not nearly enough to pay for his new prescription. There was too much competition out there from men who’d lost their jobs and were willing to take on any kind of handyman work.

The glass door in front of him slid open. Joe’s customer, a smug-faced man wearing plaid slacks and a lime colored golf shirt pulled tight over his gut, walked out and stood over him with his hands on his hips like a guard watching a chain gang bust rocks.

“I’ve got to leave to pick up a few things at Office Max. You going to drag the job out to take me for a few more dollars?”

Joe straightened up and put down his hammer. “Being that you’re paying me so God-awful much money, I’m going to finish by noon so I can still have time to get down to the bar and hoist a few with my low-life friends.”

The customer had deducted fifty bucks from his bid, knowing Joe would be forced to take the offer. He picked up another nail and touched it to the wood. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. We already agreed on a price.”

The man’s wife sashayed out of the house wearing a microscopic tube top, flesh-eating slacks, and gold-colored high heels. She tugged at her husband’s arm. “Herb, don’t be so rude. Mr. Tremaine’s got only a few more boards to nail on. You go to the store, and I’ll pay him when he’s done.”

Joe slid his glance sideways, letting his gaze roam from her face down to her hips and back up. She was a lot younger than her husband. Probably a second wife, or even a third. Let Herb think he was interested, maybe even give him cause to wonder if it was safe to leave his young wife alone with Joe. Serve him right. It was a shame, though, that he couldn’t let the idiot know who he was really dealing with.

A few minutes later Joe banged in the last nail. His thoughts raced through his mind seeking a way out for him and coming up against a million dead ends. More than once since he landed in poverty he’d thought about making money, a lot of money, by robbing banks or committing any of dozens of other kinds of crimes. He certainly knew enough about crime to be able to put a good plan together and he already had the knack of ignoring his conscience when it was convenient. He’d always thought he’d make a good con man. The main problem, though, and one he hadn’t yet been able to get past, was that he stood out like a giraffe in a pen full of cattle.

Any mark would be able to describe him to the police. “Yes, officer, the thief was six feet tall and he walked with a limp. Dark hair, going gray at the temples. Small scar on his face near his left eye. Big scar on the back of his head. Looked kind of desperate.” Most of the people in his neighborhood would shove each other out of the way to collect the reward money.

Before he left, he pulled his cigarettes out of the glovebox and smoked one while he flipped through his appointment book. It was blank for all the days after today, except for the phone number of a woman who wanted her porch repaired because of termite damage. He tossed the book down on the seat next to his binoculars, still lying where he’d left them after the last time he’d driven down to the river on surveillance.

His mouth twisted into a grimace. Surveillance--as if he was still worth a damn and still had a job to do. A million times he’d driven past the house and down as close as he could get to the river without trespassing or being seen. He’d hidden among the trees, watching Senator Drake, so motionless even the insects didn’t know he was there. Pathetic, that he had to pretend he was still in the FBI. 

Jobless Recovery 

#SampleSunday Jobless Recovery

Jobless Recovery is a term we've all come to know. We've read about it in the news, heard about it on TV, and a lot of us are experiencing the jobless recovery. Now here's Jobless Recovery, the novel. Here's a short scene where main character, Dave Griffin, a computer programmer, has just lost his job to cheaper imported labor. Ken is his supervisor, who doesn't know quite how to smooth things over.

From Chapter Three

Ken stopped at Dave’s cubicle shortly before lunch and dropped the envelope on his desk as if it were a bomb. Dave shot a rubber band across the cubicle and watched it bounce off a spare monitor he’d scavenged from the supply room and left in a corner in case he needed it one day.

“Come to give me the tragic news? Don’t like being the bad guy, huh? Guess it hurts your image of yourself as the ever-popular leader of Team B. Hey, don’t worry, you’ll still be my favorite bald-headed boss in plaid.” He lounged in his seat, pretending he wasn’t suffering internal panic.

Ken’s face went blotchy, spots of red fighting for space with pale beige. “They told me yesterday afternoon in the supervisor’s meeting. Who was riding the rocket and who wasn’t, I mean. I get to stay on and supervise.”

Ken lifted a Dollywood pencil sharpener off of Dave’s desk and turned it over and over in his hands until it popped open and shavings fell out all over the front of his shirt.

“You don’t have to feel guilty because you didn’t get fired, Ken.”

Ken’s expression remained glum, so Dave added, “I’m glad you still have a job.” Ken might be a pain to work for, but Dave didn’t wish bad luck on him and his family.

“Thanks. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I’m not losing...look, don’t worry, Dave. You’re a great programmer and I’ll be glad to give you a recommendation. You’ll find something else.”

“In this economy, I’ll be lucky to get a ticket to ride a match, let alone a rocket.”

“Don’t take it like that. You do see, don’t you, that the company couldn’t afford to pass up this golden opportunity? These new people are sharp.” Ken snapped his fingers.

Dave jerked upright in his seat and banged his fist on his desk. “Shut up, Ken. I mean it, man, don’t insult me. It’s lies and you know it. They’re going to save a bundle of money on labor costs by shipping part of the work overseas and by bringing people here on work visas to undercut our wages. Ability has nothing to do with this whole rotten deal. It’s all about cheaper labor.”

“Try to see things from Markham-Hook’s point of view.” Ken couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah, right. Markham-Hook just announced record profits and a pay raise for Harris that makes God look poor. Naturally they don’t have any spare change to spread among the workers who built this company to begin with. What about the eighty-hour weeks we put in to make deadlines and what about the error free conversions?”

“Dave, keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice down? I just lost my job because some greedy CEO dumped me on the street like trash, so he can make a few million dollars more than the rest of the CEO’s in corporate America. I’m supposed to give him a high five?”

“Bitter, bitter.” Michael pressed into the cubicle. 

 Ken took the opportunity to slink past him into the hallway and scurry toward his office. Dave shot him a one-finger salute.

Jobless Recovery

#SampleSunday I predicted this economic mess in Jobless Recovery

In the year 2000 I first noticed the trend in the United States to outsource jobs overseas. It was all about cheaper labor and lax labor laws. In 2001 I realized that greedy corporations had started to misuse work visas to import cheaper labor to replace working Americans. These are the same corporations that expect Americans to fight and die in the U.S. military to protect their interests here and abroad.

I wrote a novel, Jobless Recovery, and published in 2005. By 201009 many of the things I wrote about in the book had come true. I updated the book and republished in 2010. It doesn't take a psychic to predict an economic collapse in a country run by politicians who have sold their people out to corporate sponsors. I just didn't expect it to happen this fast.

Excerpt from the book. Dave Griffin has just lost his computer programming job to cheaper imported labor and has decided to call Washington and complain:

All the staffers responded as if reading from the same script and they spouted the same meaningless phrases, "education is the answer" and "trade creates jobs."

The pigeons had gone away disappointed, and Dave’s jaw had clamped into an unhealthy tightness by the time he got around to calling the U.S. Department of Commerce.

“What education? How exactly does trade create jobs when all the trade is only flowing one way?” He realized his voice did not sound like the calm, cool, Dave-in-command he’d wanted to project and instead had grown whiny and maybe a little desperate.

“The cash for clunkers program and the economic stimulus will create jobs,” said another phone voice in soothing tones.

“But I don’t have a clunker and the corporations getting all the stimulus money aren’t hiring. They aren’t even loaning money to people. I don’t want a handout, I want a job.”

“You simply don’t understand how the system works.” A disdainful snort sounded over the line. “Since workers have their retirement money in the stock market, anything companies do to increase profits is good for workers even if they lose their jobs.”

“What did you just say?” His voice cracked like that of a teenager. “That’s insane.”

“Sir-er,” the nasal voice said, making sir into a two-syllable word, “contact your local Employment Security Commission.”

Click.

Dave sighed. He’d exhausted all his options. If there was a book called The New Economy for the Completely Clueless, he hadn’t read it. But all evidence indicated no one in Washington had either.

He felt as if he’d been smacked in the teeth by robots spouting government double-talk. He tried to imagine a scenario where the fast-talking salesman who’d sold him the Behemoth had tried to woo him with statements such as, "Celebrate diversity and wage compression in your vehicle. Let no car be left behind in the race to global sourcing. The new free trade in vehicles—and clunkers--will spur economic growth through increased auto production and new low interest rates to stimulate consumer confidence. So don’t worry about downsizing, rightsizing, and offshoring of your current model. Education is the key to safe driving. Just call this toll-free number for training and the free health care plan for your car."

He’d have peeled out of the Spectrum Motors lot like a scalded cat. Why, then, had he not reacted when his own government dealt the equivalent of that speech to the American people, not once, but many times over? As long as the trucks kept bringing goods to stock the shelves of the discount marts and the Foodarama, like everyone else, he’d allowed himself to become practically comatose.

As an afterthought, he dialed the toll-free training number given him by U.S. Department of Labor Comment Line. The number connected him to a recruiting office for the United States Army.

Jobless Recovery