no he wasn’t smoking pot yet, and yes He’s still got a job - the last one being now a lie.
He returned to watching television. Again the video of an EX-MAN rap rendition of Herbie Hancock’s “Chameleon” was playing on MTV. He liked it.
CHAPTER 3
When Frank woke up the next morning, he found three more missed calls on his phone. They were all from the same number and certainly didn’t belong to anyone in his phone directory. Frank had a policy of not returning missed calls from unknown callers – primarily because it costs money and again you never know whom they are from. From experience, unknown callers usually spelled trouble – debt collectors, tax office, and bank calling about your un-approved overdraft.
It was a nice Tuesday morning, and Frank was just getting into the routine of preparing for work until it suddenly occurred to him that hey you got no job, man. Nevertheless, he dressed up. The unemployed always have a place to go - the Jobcentre never turned anyone away. And in any case, the Jobcentre was the logical place to start looking for another job – theoretically.
He took Spencer Cowley’s check with him, tucking it into his shirt’s pocket; and thinking to visit the bank, later in the day. The check was not for a lot, and he didn’t imagine it would take him quite far. So he definitely needed to get a job really fast, primarily because the rent needed to get paid by the first day of each month, which was just about a week away. The last thing he needed at this time was to have himself thrown in the street. Frank thought the check was mischief really because he usually got paid by bank transfer. It occurred to him that Spencer intended to make a statement with the check - like he didn’t want to have anything more to do with Frank.
Hey, here is your pay you fucker; now get the hell out of here and don’t ever come back.
Frank hated visiting the Jobcentre, primarily because as everyone knew, it was the place where you went in hopeful and came out hopeless. There, as he expected, he found himself in the company of the drunk, the druggies, and the born layabouts-, all waiting to be fed into the omnivorous mill of the unemployment benefit processing machine.
He made a quick start at the job search computer, and it confirmed because that seemed its only purpose for which it seemed to have been made, that there was no job available for journalists within 50 miles of Hackney. Not about to completely lose hope though, Frank joined the queue to see an employment officer.
“What kind of job are you looking for?” the lady asked. Frank had a feeling that she didn’t care, and was just going through the rote.
“I am a journalist,” Frank told her. She tapped some keys on her computer, and ruefully shook her head.
“No journalist job here,” she said.
“I know that; I just checked from the computer by myself and couldn’t find any listing. I thought maybe you had some other jobs that haven’t been yet listed.” Frank replied, mildly annoyed.
“Would you be willing to consider any other job?”
Frank had a fleeting thought that having a full-time job as a disc jockey would have been so cool but he didn’t think they made jobs in that model yet; at least not in London.
“Yes, depending on what you have available. I really must pay my bills somehow”, Frank replied. Humming gaily, she tapped some more on her computer.
“I have got some vacancies for truck drivers. Do you have a license?”
“No I don’t have a license to drive anything on wheels,” Frank laughed; thinking he had no desire to drive a fucking truck.
“Door security?” She again suggested.
“I have a problem standing for long,” Frank told her.
“You wouldn’t consider a street cleaning job either I guess because of your disability?” Frank imagined she was mocking him, with the way she said “your disability.” Nevertheless, he just shook his head, thinking no way was he going to be scooping dog poop for anybody.
“Traffic warden?” She asked. Again Frank laughed and shook his head. As far as he knew, nearly everyone who owned a car was looking for a traffic warden to murder.
“Okay then, could you check back next week and we might hopefully have something along your street. In the interim would you like to sign on to receive unemployment benefits?”
At this time a mail boy passed – probably sixteen years old or so.
Get off that chair and go do some work like a man you lazy motherfucker; his disgusted eyes seemed to say to Frank.
“No I don’t want to sign on for anything,” Frank told her.
“Suit yourself then,” she said.
Frank’s bank was only a hundred yards down the street, and it took him less than five minutes to get there. A small bus with BBC stenciled on the sides was parked outside the bank, but he didn’t really pay attention to that.
The bank was a little crowded which didn’t make sense, not so early in the morning.
“What’s going on?” he’d asked the door security.
“A little bit of equipment malfunction, but I am sure all will be back to normal in a few minutes. We were alerted”, the tall happy Nigerian told him. Frank seated himself near an old West Indian granny while he waited for the queue to get moving once more.
“Hello my dearie, I am Mrs. Williams. “, the granny told him. Frank shook her hand and told her his own name.
“My name is Frank. I learn the computers have gone funny, that’s odd, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Nothing odd at all dearie; the bank is full of funny business these days, aren’t they? Last year me bring me check here. You know we old citizens get some allowance for our heating equipment and stuff. Now me hand me check over to this rass teller over there you see, and next time I look back he gone. Went away with my money; old woman money. And so about an hour later he back again, and me kick a fuss and lick him on the head with me bag. Give me back me money you thief me shout at him. And his supervisor come and beg me cool doun; cool doun he say because all the man do is go for break. Cool doun, bloodclat say to me. Can you believe that, young man? Idiot boy go for break with me money”.
Frank nodded miserably and agreed with Mrs. Williams that yes, all bank workers were thieves and must be put in prison. But she was not even halfway done yet. Mrs. Williams proceeded to recite her biography and especially the rather touching bit about her granddaughter Harriet, whose picture she carried around in her handbag and was pleased to show Frank.
“You know Harriet, poor girl who shouldn’t have married the goat goes by the name of Winston who can’t keep a job and all he do is play trumpet in a reggae band as if he in Jamaica. This is sad because living in London is hard man; not like back-a-yard in Jamaica.”
It made Frank guilty that this nice lonely lady Mrs. Williams actually thought she was talking to a nice young white man who had his life altogether. Nevertheless, he obediently nodded and agreed to all she said.
In an open cubicle, a dejected Antipodean was trying to convince his personal banker that he qualified for
