Despite a rather modest salary, my new full-time job offers not only health insurance benefits, but dental benefits as well.
I will miss my Medicaid Card and the $200 in food stamps that Michael Bloomberg granted me each month for the last half-year, but I just can’t sit around and read all the time. I must do something to pass the days, besides, on Medicaid, one is entitled to just three dental visits a year, and my mouth is so broken.
Not working is dangerous to one’s mind—we must keep busy—otherwise, we vanish into the pages of history.
It is a miracle that I found work in this recession. It seems my prayers were heard. I thought I would have to move back home to Pennsylvania and leave both New York and my lover of seven years behind. I spent the summer and fall reading religious texts from the library; for all hope had departed me.
My eyes are tired—I want to work again. I want to kiss my boss’s ass, even if she is mean to me like the others were. But this one seems different—she’s not a bitch at all—very professional, she seems after just one week. I thank God he led me to an interview with her and that she chose me.
Despite my homosexual tendencies and the sin that they are, The Lord led me to a government- subsidized, stimulus package-financed position, severing the homeless. My new employer is a charitable organization founded by Catholics in the late 1800’s in honor of the martyr, Saint Christopher.
It is highly unlikely that this charity will go under, like the Bernard Madoff vested not-for-profit organization that fired me, just when the recession struck.
I’m making enough to live off of now—and that’s what matters. Deep inside, I feel holy; for every day at eight am, I walk out the door, jump on the G train and head further into Brooklyn towards the Catholic charity that offers me my daily bread.
If one is ever in need of a job, I suggest they read and pray to Saint Teresa of Avila, for it was she who saved me from this depression.
“Surely there is a God and he led me here,” I whisper as I swipe my Metro Card, heading underground again to those subways that take New Yorkers anywhere they need to go. But we have a company car at the new job—I may also serve as a driver for my new boss—that saintly woman.
Seven years serving a Jewish run mental health clinic was enough to make me question Christ’s resurrection; but now my hope in humanity is restored and another opportunity to share my talents for the greater-good of mankind has broken from the tomb that was my shattered hope. For a moment, I lost all desire to write anymore, but now, with a paycheck coming in, I may just start writing again, even though I really don’t have the time for it.