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Chapter One

A Hunting

We Will Go

               Okay, this is it.

             The moment of truth has arrived

           For You. It's time

         To go out, and look for a job,

       Out there in the job-market ,

     Which all your friends speak of

    In hushed tones, as a battlefield littered with the bodies

   Of the unemployed,

  Who tried and failed to find a job

Before you.

It's a very strange market, out there,

One area in sunny prosperity,

  Another in deep Depression,

   As Asian markets crash and burn.

    Five million people unemployed now

     In the U.S. alone.

       So that even in good times

         The battlefield is littered with new bodies.

          Those just laid off,

            Who had worked at one

             Place, for years

              And thought their jobs

               Would always be secure there,

                But then got downsized

                 Without any warning,

                 In a merger, takeover, makeover,

                  Or whatever,

                  Completely beyond their control.

                 And now You

                Laid off, or merely discontent

               With your lot in life

             Are about to go out there

            On that battlefield

          And look for work.

        You've heard of course

      All the horror stories:

   You've heard

Of former college profs with two degrees

Working now at the local deli;

   Of union workers who went out on strike

     Only to find, this time,

       Their jobs were not waiting for them,

         For no one told them that if they strike

           They might strike out

             In this new world .

               You've heard the stories

                 Of people pounding the pavements

                   For weeks and months,

                     Even in good times,

                      Without finding anything.

                       Of college graduates

                       With shiny degrees

                       Who cannot find any work

                      They're trained in.

                     Of friends who went back to school

                    To learn the hot trade of the moment, but

                   Can find no work in that hot trade,

                  And now are

                 Unemployed, angry, and depressed.

              With `welfare-to-work'

             Programs

           Everywhere

         There are inevitably some sad stories

       That newspapers love

      To run

    Of people thrown off welfare

  Who can't find any job.

Misery always sells papers,

We read them,

And we are depressed.

  For them.

   And for ourselves.

    Anyway, now it is our turn

     To hunt.

   And what is it we do,

    When our job-hunting time has come?

      We procrastinate,

       That's what we do.

         We're busy winding things up , we say.

          Or, just waiting until we feel a little less

           `Burnt-out,' and more `up' for the task

             Ahead, we say; though actually,

              If the truth were known,

               We're hoping for a miracle ,

                You know the one I mean:

                 A rescuer, suddenly appearing

                 On a white horse,

                 Coming, coming to save us.

                We don't know

                His name: is it

               Our former employer,

              Or the government,

             Our union,

            Our relatives or friends?

           We are unclear; we only know

          The world owes us

         A job.

       It shouldn't be up to us

      To have to go hunting for it

     So hard, ourselves,

    Although of course we know

  It is precisely up to

Us.

   So, we make up a glorious resume

  -- By ourselves or with some help.

How it sparkles, how it shines,

How quickly it will get us

  A job.

   And then we post it

     On the Internet

       Or mail it out

        By the hundreds,

         By the bushels,

          Waiting for that inevitable

           E-mail, or call,

           From some bright-eyed employer-type

           Who, seeing our glorious history,

           Has cried out "This is exactly the person

          That we have been looking for!"

        But there is one small problem: the e-mail

       Or the phone call

      Never comes.

    And we are left to wait

  And wait

And wait

While the world goes out of its way,

It seems,

  To tell us how little

   It cares

    Whether we find work,

     Or not.

We seek out family and friends' advice,

  And the first thing

   That they say to us, is,

    "Have you gone on the Internet?"

     "Have you tried the job-posting sites?"

      "Oh, you have? How many hours?"

       "Weeks, you say? And ... nothing?"

        "Oh!"

         They search for some of the older ways

          To recommend

           To you:

            "Have you tried employment agencies?"

            "Why, no," we say,

              So down we go.

               Down, down, down

               To the ante-room, and all those hopeful

               Haunted faces.

               Our first bout, here,

              With The Dreaded Application Form .

             "Previous jobs held.

            List in reverse chronological order."

           We answer the questions, then we sit

              And wait.

            The interviewer, at last, calls us in;

           She (or he) of the over-cheerful countenance,

         Who we know will give us good advice.

      "Let's see, Mr. or Ms.,

     What kind of a job are you looking for?"

   "Well," say we,

  "You can see, there, what I've done.

What do you think?"

She studies, again, our application form;

"It seems to me," she says, "that with your background

  -- It is a bit unusual --

  You might do very well in sales."

   "Oh sales," say we. "Yes, sales," says she, "in fact

    I think I could place you almost immediately.

     We'll be in touch. Is this your phone?

      I'll call you tomorrow night, at home."

       We nod, and shake her hand, and that

        Is the last time we ever hear

         From her.

We're reduced to the want ads,

  By our miserable plight,

    But we are dumbfounded

     Right there, at the sight

      Of those little boxes

       Describing jobs that are built

        As little boxes

         For the soul.

          We call on the employers,

           We tell them, of course, that we're job-hunting now,

           "And your ad looked just right for me ..." O wow!

           Look at that face change, are we in the soup!

           As we wait for the heave-ho, the ol' Alley-oop!

          "`Over-qualified'? you say?

         Two hundred before me

        Have been here already,

      And you have only five

    Vacancies?No,

   Of course I understand."

We pound the pavements,

Knocking on doors,

  Visiting companies,

   Getting rejected

    At place after place,

     Getting discouraged,

      Day after day,

       Getting depressed --

        How pathetic, this is,

        This Neanderthal thing

         So cheerfully named,

         The Job Hunt.

          Weeks drag by,

         Months drag by,

        And we are reeling

       From rejection shock,

      And ever we are thinking:

    The job-hunt seems the loneliest task in the world.

  Is it this difficult for other job-hunters

Or career-changers?

Well, friend, the answer is YES.

    Are other people this discouraged,

   And desperate and depressed,

  And frustrated, and so low in self-esteem after

A spell of job-hunting?

The answer, again -- unhappily -- is

YES.

YES.

YES.

Well, yes, you do have

    great big teeth; but, never mind

    that. You were great to at least

    grant me this interview.

Little Red Riding Hood

Copyright © 2000 Richard Nelson Bolles. All rights reserved.