Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (8 page)

Didn't Miles read beyond his technical manuals:
that we were swirling in the biggest financial whirlpool since The Great Depression?
That unemployment was
in double digits and the U.S. w
ould effectively be making Chevys in five months?
That the Feds had to throw a giant life vest at
Big Banks,
lest we all go down by the head?

How could someone be this oblivious
?
How was it even possible?
Or, cushioned by walls of money and the
tush
-warming seat
s
of
those Lexi
, was it easy to pretend that the world hadn't ripped open, revealing its fiery core?

I didn't know.
I didn't have the option of watching the play
–
I was in it.
Along with twelve-milli
on
other downsized
Americans.

After the requisite two months, I moved out of my sister’s hous
e and into the Radisson LAX.  This
was a pretty nice place:
you could
see
planes lining up in the sky, getting ready to land.  A UFO conspiracy freak would
have hyperventilated
with
joy.

Despite my shaky skills, I was able to score a
gig
doing FileMaker
in West L.A
.
The building itself was amazing:
the co
mpany was ow
ned by two billionaires
who
had amassed an art collection
so fine
that
they
loaned
pieces
to
L
ACMA (The L.A. County Art Museum
).
Upon approach, you were greeted by giant bro
nze angels trumpeting above a
pristine p
ond
;
four gorgeous
female
sculptures depicting the four seasons
.
Inside, original Warhols graced the walls,
as casually
hung
as Elvis-on-velvet.

Since I was in IT,
of course
I
was
put in
the basement.
You’d be surprised how many
of us
toil
just
one
floor
above
Hell.
Eventually, I was
granted a PC, a password, and
some
work.
I sat in various places:
the cube that wasn’t occupied;
the one
where
someone was on vacation; and always, in a broken chair.
I had spent
most
of my career as that dying breed, now
melting
along with the
ice caps
:
an FTE (Fulltime Employee).
I
was used to having my own cube,
my own chair (unbroken) and my own
clique
of
long-time
colleagues
.

Not so for The C
onsultant.
We could be upended on a whim; dismissed
on the spot
; neve
r given access to what we need
ed
– for example, the network. We weren’t treated as badly as temps
,
since we cost more, but l
ike
PT Lieutenant
John Wayne,
We Were E
xpendable
.
There was no chance of converting to an FTE
, not now:
we had
a more certain future
peddling
pencils
on
the
street
corner.

So
in this “fluid” eco
nomy,
I floated from place to place.
To a bizarre company
called Vectron
which canceled all software development after a scant
four
months.
My Dad had
been
with the same firm
for
over
twenty-six
years:
I
could barely make i
t past
a
q
uarter
!
Since I came from the movie business,
I was used to being treated like shit
, but now, with
10
qualified applicants for every job; with companies demanding a receptionist with an Engineering degree
– and getting
it!; with
tales plastered in the
papers
of ex-
CEOs
turned
pizza boys
,
you
didn’t have
any
leverage.
Hell, you were grateful for the work
you’d been given.

I drifted, going anywhere
there was
work:
The Vall
ey, the Westside,
downtown L.A
.
I lived in
a series of
m
otels
since
, like the Playtex Woman,
I never knew where I’d
show
up.
I was nomadic as a Bedouin, even though my people – save for those forty years wandering the desert and
getting kicked out of most of Europe
– generally liked to stay put.

Initially, I loved this life
!
My nights were peaceful
,
without the
caco
phony
of
Nigel and Aurora.
I had the freedom to walk around naked, listening to music that Nigel hated:
Green Day, Guns N’ Roses, Stain’d.
He would only
tolerate
Bob Dylan (there’s a strange subset of English
who worship
the Bard from Hibbing), whom I hated:
gre
at songwriter; voice
like
a sheep being slaughtered.

I didn’t have to cook!
After ten years of coming home from work (usually to an unemployed Nigel
)
and rushing to prepare some
gourmet delight, I was free!
It may sound odd to you
Mil
l
ennials
,
but
I
was
from
a
generation
where men went to work and women
went into the kitchen
.
My
casting director
must
be in Rehab
since I ended up playing both roles.

The best part:
I didn’t have to hear Nigel’s
kvetching
; Aurora’s lies and schemes.
The great thing about being at a distance is that
if you don’t like what you’re
hearing, you
can
simply
hang up
.
This w
as a
sanity saver
–
especially
with
Nigel
–
who would call at least
ten
times a day, even when I was at work.
I
tried to
limit the times I picked up, but each call was a
total
stress fest.

“Hello?”

“Amy?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have
the money to pay for movers to
North Bend.”

“I’ll send you the money.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m working.
Remember?”

“I don’t know why you like that terrible
city
.
It’s dreadful.
”

“This is my home.”

“Seattle is so much nicer.”

“It’s
pouring
.
In
August
.”

“You should be here with your husband and child” – an argument
echoed
by
Rachel
and
Miles
.

“Sometimes what you should do isn’t what you
can
do.”

If I went back up there, to that land of
cold
and
conflict
,
I would definitely
lose my mind.
There’s a reason why northern climes have the highest rate of suicide
.
Still,
a nice
stay in a Swiss
sanatorium
was looking pretty good right now
.
Like Hans
Castorp
in
Magic Mountain
,
I could recoup, though
it wasn’t worth getting T.B. for
.

“We miss you.”

“Bullshit.”
What they missed was their referee.

“When are you coming back?”
Nigel’s OCD was getting worse.

I received
another call
five times a day – from Aurora, of course.
She had built L.A.
up
in her mind the way Nigel had built
up Seattle:
a Christmas-card
Heorot
where warriors drank mead all day, telling tales of monsters and
putting off thoughts of
Ragnarök
.
At
the moment,
Nigel was as likely to let her come down as he was of slaying Grendel.

So
my days of solitude rolled on
.
My life was filled with purpose
(at work); the
front desk
at t
he Radisson knew me by
name
.
A
nd freedom – to go to Tito’s Tacos
and have that
killer
salsa
; to get lost in the wonder of
Dinah’s Chicken, mashed potatoes
, gravy,
and creamed spinach. Nigel was an anti-fat freak
, and would not permit these indulgences.
Now,
I did exactly what I wanted, a
nd, thumbing my nose at
him, most of it was bad for me.

Happiness doesn’t last forever
.
Didn’t
Tolstoy
say that
, in a way?
And if he didn’t,
why not?

What I
was ignorant of
then is
that a storm was brewing in the Northwest
, and
along with the usual
freight
of
rain,
wind
, and gray,
it
carried on its back
unusual
baggage
:
a child.

I was at
Vectron
when I got the call.
I was
in a meeting
about
accounting – the kind that made you want to
crash through the window
, if there was one
–
when I excused myself and walked into the
break
room
.
At the other end
of the line
was a female King County sheriff.

“Mrs. W
arwick?”

I started at my
old
identity.
“Yes.”

“Don’t be alarmed, but the Department of
Child and Family Services
has taken your daughter
away from your husband
.”

Oh God, now what?
Had she locked herself in
another bathroom?

“What happened?”
I tried to keep my voic
e low.
I was only a
c
onsultant,
and didn’t warrant a personal life.
At least not in the workplace.

“
She
allegedly
attacked Mr. Warwick
.
H
e has bruises
over
his
entire
body.”
One thing you could say about Aurora – she could really pack a punch.