A Sleep That Won’t Ever Come

It’s hard to believe I was ever that nervous; that I was ever excited. But I suppose times were different then. I was younger—not in age, but in mentality. Naïve is probably the word you could use to describe me. The me that got lost the first time I drove out to meet my boss for what I thought would be a job interview. The me that threw myself at the chance to work for him a month after he initially said “no.” The me that was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to catch on quickly and that I would get fired.
There’s no trace of that person anymore. He’s been replaced with the me that cries a little on the way to work. The me that has a hard time masking my contempt. The me that wants to get fired.
You see, it’s funny how much a person changes in less than a year.
It’s almost been a calendar year since I graduated college—thrust out into the world with no idea about what to do next. It’s almost been a year since I spent two months combing any website I could trying to find a job. It’s almost been a year since I left home for the first ticket out. It’s almost been a year since I’ve made a terrible error in judgment.
I look back and laugh at how excited I was to go to work in those first few days. I cringe at how stupid I was not to have noticed all of the signs of things to come: the way my “interview” went. I could barely get who is now my boss to sit still and talk to me. When I finally did get him to sit down—he told me he couldn’t hire me at the time. And then he called me a month later, asking me if I still needed a job. I was desperate, so I said yes.
There were more signs along the way—the message I had received from him when I was out of state once before I started working—asking me if I wanted to come in, asking me if I wanted to work the day I was moving into my apartment.
It took me a while, but I realized just how many lies he told me over the phone to get me to say yes. The raises that he said I’d get after a certain amount of time being there have yet to find their way to my paychecks.
And it took me a while, but I realized what kind of person I was working for. The kind of person who has a lot of big ideas, but will never carry them out. He dumps them on someone else, and then takes all of the credit in the end. The kind of man who seems to start arguments with co-workers for fun—who gets into hour long pissing contests and shouting matches over the smallest, most insignificant things. The kind of man who is too inarticulate to tell you what he wants, so he just dances around it when he’s trying to tell you what he’d like you to do. If you can’t figure out what he wants from what vague things he has told you—he grows frustrated, and you soon find yourself in an argument that you have no idea how you got in, or how to get out of. The kind of man, who at 52, drinks too much, and has come into work too hung over to function, or has just decided to take the whole day off. The kind of man who leaves for God knows where when things get a little hectic. The kind of man who spits peanut particles on you when he speaks.
I’ve tried to make the best of it too. But it’s not just him. I’m not the kind of person that’s cut out to work in this environment. On my second day of work, a co-workering jokingly said I could be a member of al-Qaeda just because I have a beard. I’m not the kind of person who enjoys hearing jokes that are racist, sexist, or a winning combination of both. I’m not the kind of person who uses the word “faggot” to describe people that I don’t like–let alone uses that word at all.
These are the kind of people I work with.
It’s the kind of place where my boss’ dog will just wander in. The kind of place where someone else’s dog stands in front of my car while I’m trying to get to the parking lot and will bark at me, and won’t get out of my way.
The kind of place where I’m afraid to wash my hands because there’s e.coli in the water. I’m not kidding. There are signs up in the bathroom.
Once I realized all of this, my job searching hiatus was over, and I was back at it every night, just like nothing had changed. And it hasn’t gotten any easier. Sure, I’ve had some close calls—but close doesn’t cut it. I’m still here, and I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like. I don’t remember a time that I’ve put my head down to try and go to sleep at night, and that my mind hasn’t been racing: the job I hate, the jobs I can’t find, the girlfriend four hours away who is graduating soon and the life we’re trying to plan together, the money I don’t have, the mother who may still be resentful of my leaving home, the friends I’ve written out of my life, the friends I still have that I never see, on and on and on.
I could have quit anytime, I suppose. But I didn’t want to jump from one job in Iowa to another, all the while still trying to move to Minnesota. And hopefully that move will be coming soon.
Anyway, this is nothing new, and pretty much the same thing I‚Äôve posted any other time I‚Äôve written any entry. I‚Äôm just extraordinarily tired, and I hope that what I need is coming soon. I’m tired of pretending to like what I do, and care about the things I’m forced to do. I’m tired of answering the phones all day.
But there’s this hope. And I have to hang onto that.