The 99%

by Hope Sullivan McMickle

  Table of Contents

  FEBRUARY 11, 2015

  FEBRUARY 22, 2015

  MAY 24, 2015

  JULY 24, 2015

  About the Author:

  The 99%

  By Hope Sullivan McMickle

  FEBRUARY 11, 2015

  “So, Mr. Stephens, how long have you been out of work?”

  His job coach was stunning. She leaned back in an ancient desk chair that contrasted markedly with her youth and beauty. As it creaked backward, her already high-cut skirt slid up another inch and a half, revealing perfect legs showcased in sheer black stockings. Owen looked away.

  “Eight months, uh,” he cleared his throat, nervous, and began again. “Eight months next week,” he answered, more assertive this time and able to meet her eyes. He was a smart, well-educated man. There was no shame in being out of work in the current economy, especially given the massive financial crisis that had so recently destroyed the country’s economic infrastructure. He would find work; after all, he was a career-oriented man – his wife called him a workaholic – and he had loved his job at Cline-Hoover as a shipping and logistics manager and team leader. He had been there fourteen years when they went under in June.

  “You are aware that under the new federal requirements, your unemployment benefits will be exhausted at the end of next month?”

  He was. In fact, Owen was painfully aware. His current situation, escalating debt, and lack of employment prospects weighed on him heavily. At first he thought it was garden-variety depression or transient insomnia, but Owen had not slept more than four hours a night since early August, and it was now February. On his last day of work, Owen had worn a button-down dress shirt with short sleeves and a lightweight, gabardine Brooks Brothers suit. Now, eight inches of snow was on the ground and his family wore layers of clothing like Dickensian street urchins since they could no longer afford to heat the house.

  At least they still had their home. Owen’s friend Roger had also worked for Cline and now he, along with his wife and six-month old son, were living in an old cargo van outfitted with a mattress, cooler, and a hot plate rigged to run off a car battery with a power inverter. Owen had visited them three times, bringing a casserole, diapers, and canned baby formula until money got too tight for his own family to spare the food and gasoline to get across town. The temperatures had hovered in the low teens for nearly a week and his wife and two daughters were hungry, warding off frostbite, and despondent, and he felt as if he was running out of options. The unemployment rate had soared to 44%, and there had been record numbers of home mortgage foreclosures. Pundits were referring to it as Depression 2.0, but the media more commonly called it the Great Collapse. The suicide rate had doubled, and Owen knew several colleagues who had taken their own lives during the preceding two years.

  At first economists had thought the situation was a mild bump, and then as things worsened, a slight recession. Owen had been certain the market would correct itself but the numbers soon proved the optimists wildly incorrect, and the recession had morphed rapidly into a massive depression. Iceland’s government had collapsed first, in early 2009, and although Germany had proven to have the most resilient economy, banking systems worldwide were struggling under the combined weight of massive bad debt and frozen credit. Owen had come home from work petrified the day his company’s biggest rival failed; four weeks later Cline-Hoover went under and he had spent six weeks looking for work before filing for unemployment. Those six weeks had exhausted their savings. It still seemed impossible to him that he couldn’t find a job.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Owen answered. He had almost forgotten the woman’s question. “I know my unemployment is almost up.” He glanced around the small cubicle, although there wasn’t much to see. A fake philodendron with dusty plastic leaves was the only ornament. A laptop sat on a desk built into the cubicle partition, with a narrow shelf hanging above it. The shelf was full of state policy manuals and job skill workbooks. Most of the workbooks looked as if they hadn’t been used in a decade; everything was electronic now. Owen wondered if she’d let him take a workbook home. He’d had no electricity or phone service since early December and he’d pawned his Mac, anyway. His unemployment benefits had been only a third of his salary, although he felt lucky to be receiving any form of economic assistance. Other families had not been so lucky, but Owen was still pinned down by an $1800 monthly mortgage payment. He had let GMC repossess his SUV. His wife was still paying on her car even though Hyundai had started a program where you could return your car if you lost your job. Owen wished GMC had had a program like that. His credit was tanked.

  His job coach selected a file folder from the stack on her desk, flipped through it, and frowned before speaking again. Her brilliant green eyes pierced him, and Owen looked away once more. The beige carpet in the Cook County Workforce Center was threadbare beneath her swivel chair. Muzak played softly in the background - Owen just noticed it – Gimme Shelter, by the Rolling Stones, an instrumental version. Owen shook his head imperceptibly.

  “It says here you tested out of our basic job skills program, have no manual labor experience, and previously held a mid-level managerial position in a trucking firm. Graduate cum laude from Franklin College in 1993. Two daughters still in school, and a wife, Ellen. Is she employed?” The question was blunt, but carried no element of accusation. Owen felt his cheeks flush involuntarily.

  “Yes, Ellen works at McDonald’s. She gets discounted food and regular shift work, approximately 20 hours a week. She makes voluntary minimum,” he added. “We don’t qualify for food stamps.”

  Voluntary minimum had been adopted by many businesses during the previous year as a stopgap measure to remain in operation. While not sanctioned by the feds, the government, in a minor act of benevolence, looked the other way. Minimum wage was still set at $6.55 an hour but most businesses could no longer afford to keep their workers at that rate. Voluntary minimum was the solution – employees could sign a waiver accepting a $3.25 rate of pay per hour, and most did. It was either that or unemployment and most people had proven willing to work for less even though everyone knew it was not a living wage. His wife, Ellen, had taught inorganic chemistry at Northwestern before being let go the same month as Owen. She went to work every morning at McDonald’s with a cup of weak coffee and a kiss on the cheek for Owen and the girls, and it made his heart ache. Her income paid for their food, their family car, and a small portion of their mortgage payment. Owen’s unemployment covered the remainder of the mortgage but nothing else.

  The job coach nodded. Her eyes flicked to the laptop and immediately back again, but Owen could tell she was impatient. She had no work to offer him and her growing discomfort was palpable.

  “Although I’d love to find something in my field there isn’t anything out there,” Owen said. “I’m hoping to get an entry-level position in a warehouse or something. I have management experience, I’m great with technology, and I excel at multi-tasking. I think I’d do well in that environment. I’m great with people, too, and I learn fast on the job.”

  “I picked that up in your work assessment, Mr. Stephens, and I quite agree.” His job coach smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Unfortunately, you are either over-qualified or under-qualified for the work we have available.” The woman sighed and shifted position, showing more leg but seemingly indifferent.

  “There simply are no managerial-level positions anymore. I’m sure you are well aware of what the economic crisis has done to businesses, both small and large, across the nation. All we have to offer are manual labor positions – for which you are not qualified – or work in the hospitality and food service industries, for which you are over-qualified and therefore not an eligible candidate through o
ur program. I’m sorry, Mr. Stephens. We’ll keep looking for another month but in the meantime you may wish to begin looking into other options.”

  Her words hurt, but did not surprise him. Owen closed his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  *****

  FEBRUARY 22, 2015

  The line stretched out before him down an entire city block. At least 75 people were in front of him and nearly twice that many stood behind him. Owen dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, shoved his chin into his collar to block the frigid winter wind, and sighed. He could barely see the Tyson Industries sign from where he stood. The meatpacking plant had 20 positions available. Owen had gotten in line 14 hours before the company’s human resources department had begun accepting applications.

  The line had not moved in nearly 30 minutes and Owen shivered. His stomach growled. Ellen and the girls had been able to get a meal at the soup kitchen on Alabama Street the day before, but he had, as usual, been in line and unable to go with them. The line he’d been in that time had been at the Chicago Area Plasma Services, where he had waited four hours to donate, garnering $20.00 in the process. While waiting he had struck up a conversation with a young Hispanic man standing in front of him. There were rumors that donating a kidney on eBay would fetch as much as $3,000. Owen had pondered it all afternoon; after all, he only really needed one.

  The line advanced six feet and Owen stepped forward, stretching the cramped and weary muscles in his lower back. Around him, the crowd was quiet, sullen. A semi lumbered past and the cold air stank of diesel. It briefly reminded him of visits to Cincinnati as a child. Owen felt warm wetness in his eyes and blinked it away, lowering his head to stare at the dirty sidewalk.

  Only two weeks remained until his unemployment ran out. Then there would be nothing other than his wife’s part-time income from McDonald’s. Owen had applied for work in fast food and at myriad retail stores, but the majority of businesses were no longer hiring due to reduced revenue, projections of continued losses, and the need for reductions in staffing and hours of operation.

  He had talked to Ellen about moving, about abandoning the house (which could not be sold or refinanced in the current market), loading the car, and driving south. God knew they would be better off or no worse. At least the temperature in the Gulf States averaged in the low 60’s, and Owen would give nearly anything to be warm again. There was also hunting and fishing – they could figure out the details as they went along. Almost giddy with the possibility, Owen and Ellen talked long into the night, but when morning arrived it brought with it no promise that circumstances would be any better or safer in the South, and so they had stayed, the idea of escape seeming silly in the cold light of day.

  “Dad, hey Dad!”

  Owen looked up and spotted his daughters trotting across the street toward him, smiling and waving. Ellen was right behind them, carrying the backpack she had been using to collect recyclables. The pack was empty; everyone, it seemed, collected plastic and aluminum. Everyone, it seemed stripped copper wire from abandoned buildings. Everyone, it seemed, were scrounging for pennies.

  “Dad, guess what I got,” announced Lexy, his oldest by five years. Her blue eyes sparkled.

  “We did, Lexy, we got it for Dad,” his younger daughter, Lacey, corrected. His girls were an utter contrast to one another, and the joy of Owen’s life. Lexy was the introvert, an avid reader, and the artist. Lacey was 12 and although small for her size, she was extremely strong and fast, a natural athlete and a standout point guard at Marlowe Middle School in Crystal Lake. Lacey craved attention and loved to clown around. Lexy often sought solitude but had a gentleness and quiet intelligence about her and an intensely caring nature. Both girls were also outstanding students. Owen would do anything for them and desperately wished he could do something to make their lives better.

  Despite the marked decline in their standard of living, the girls had been troopers. When the electricity was shut off, it was the girls who suggested selling their third-gen Wii and iPods at a garage sale. Owen had refused, but the girls had sold their cherished game system and other electronic devices anyway, giving the money to their mother and not mentioning it since.

  The line still had not moved, and did not look like it would anytime soon. Owen hunkered down, knees popping in protest, taking his daughters’ hands in his own.

  “So what’s this big surprise?” he asked, kissing each on the cheek in turn. “Lacey didn’t get drafted to play for the Bulls, did she?” he joked.

  “No, Dad!” said Lacey, laughing. She reached into her coat and brought out a plastic thermos and handed it to him. It was warm to the touch, and Owen unscrewed the lid, inhaling the rich aroma of beef stew.

  “Mmmmm,” he said, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. His stomach rumbled greedily. Owen realized that he had instantly begun salivating.

  “Also these.” Lexy handed him two chocolate chip cookies wrapped in a paper napkin. Owen immediately took a bite out of one of the cookies. They were soft and had the look of store bought, but they were also big and tasted heavenly. Owen took a second bite, then another. Finishing the cookie, he put the other in his pocket for later. A short man with a crew cut looked back and glared. Owen ignored him, but pitched his voice low.

  “Thanks, guys. What’s the occasion?”

  “I sold one of my paintings on eBay,” Lexy replied proudly. “It sold for $33 plus shipping,” she continued. Owen glanced up at Ellen, who nodded, a small smile at the corners of her mouth. Lexy was only seventeen; he couldn’t imagine that there was a market for nonessentials like art, but she was very talented.

  “Which one did you sell?” Owen asked.

  “Well, Mr. Retzlaff, my art teacher, helped me sell it. He has an account on eBay. We posted it last month - it was my Skyline at Sunset. I just got a money order from someone who bought it in New York City and we cashed it this morning – mom took me to the bank.”

  Owen was happy for her, but also dismayed. He tried not to let it show.

  “Wasn’t that the one you won the award for at school?” He knew it was, and knew his daughter had treasured that painting.

  “No big deal, Dad, I’ve still got the trophy,” his daughter responded. The cold wind blew through Lexy’s hair, pulling her words away.

  “Thank you, Lexy,” Owen’s own words caught in his throat. “And thank you, Lacey, for the stew. It smells great, but not as good as mom’s.” He slowly stood up, muscles cramped and aching in the cold. The line shuffled forward another four feet. Owen shuffled with it. The thermos was warm against his chest, where he had tucked it into an inside pocket of his overcoat. He did not intend to eat it in line and risk getting mugged for the food, but he also did not want the girls to know that.

  “Hey gang, we need to get back home – don’t think you’re going to skip out of afternoon studies,” Ellen said, a smile on her face but serious just the same. To save on energy and staff expenses, the school district in Crystal Lake had cut the class schedule back to three full days, Monday through Wednesday. Ellen had promptly designed a home school curriculum for her daughters to bolster the material that was covered while they were in school. Lacey hated it, but Lexy seemed to enjoy it and always took advantage of the days the public library was open as well.

  Lacey groaned but hugged her dad quickly and rejoined her mom.

  “Good luck, dad,” his oldest daughter whispered before stepping away.

  “Do you need money for the bus?” Owen asked. He had none to offer, but he was suddenly reluctant for the stolen moments with his family to end.

  “No,” replied Ellen. “We drove. I went to visit a friend from the chemistry department this morning.” Ellen’s tone was somber, suddenly subdued and heavy. “Her son died two days ago, from bronchitis, they think. Since they lost their insurance, the ER wouldn’t even see him. That boy died and all he needed was a fucking prescription for penicillin.”

  Ellen’s voice had grown har
sh, edged with anger. They had no insurance either. Owen looked into her eyes, reading the fear in their hazel depths. The line advanced two feet, and then abruptly stopped. Ahead, he could hear a few groans and several muttered curses. The crowd was becoming more volatile, restless, and frustrated. Ellen and the girls needed to get home; suddenly, he did not feel so good about having them here.

  “See you soon, guys,” he said, stepping forward. Sensing his unease, Ellen gave him a half wave and ushered the girls across the street. Owen watched them until they rounded the corner and moved out of sight, the cold wind off Lake Michigan burning against the dampness on his cheeks.

  *****

  MAY 24, 2015

  It had been nine weeks since his unemployment ran out, and he would miss his second house payment in six days, putting them $3600 in arrears. Ellen had been forced to reduce her hours at McDonald’s and had given up their car. He donated plasma twice a week – as frequently as was allowed – but now there was an over-supply and the plasma center was no longer accepting donations. Owen had shoplifted for the first time in his life a week ago, and had been terrified he’d get caught. The possibility of going to jail over four cans of tuna and a box of dried milk would have seemed impossible to him two years ago, but it was a transformed world. His new beard itched and he absently rubbed a hand across the rough stubble along his jaw. Razor blades were a luxury. His palms were slick with sweat.

  Owen leaned back in the hard plastic chair in the human resources department of Richter-Rean Industries and gazed up at the fluorescent light and dropped tile ceiling. There were only three people in the waiting room, and Owen was next in line. He knew from the job announcement that there were only three openings on their production line, and he had no idea how many applicants he was competing against.

  Owen worried about his odds; even though he felt as if he had done well on the mechanical proficiency test he had taken with fifteen other guys on the assembly floor that morning, he’d lost nearly forty pounds and although he was still reasonably fit and strong, his clothes hung on him and he tired quickly. He had grown accustomed to the ache of hunger, but it broke his heart to watch his daughters go hungry. Ellen and Lacey had developed a wet, wracking cough and Owen knew they needed nourishment and antibiotics. He intended to find a way to steal both if he did not get this job.