The Sad Demise of the American Middle Class: A Novel

By Steven H. Propp

Mark and Rosalyn Reese, and their 17-year-old son Jacob, are solid Middle-Class citizens living in northern California: with seemingly secure jobs, they have two cars, and are buying a house, as well as setting money aside for Jacob’s upcoming college education.

But when Rosalyn unexpectedly loses her job, she is unable to find another with a comparable salary. Suddenly, the financial world of the Reeses seemingly collapses, and they must struggle desperately simply to find affordable housing.

And then, in early 2020: the Coronavirus (COVID-19) hits the country, causing a mass ‘Shutdown’ of businesses, government offices, and schools. Without warning, U.S. citizens must now cope with unemployment, working from home, and ‘distance learning,’ as well as with safety protocols such as wearing protective masks, practicing ‘social distancing,’ and avoiding crowds. The whole country seems to be in turmoil, and mass protests against social injustice only add to the unrest.

A uniquely contentious 2020 national election creates even further divisions among the people, sharply dividing citizens into ‘Blue State’ or ‘Red State’ alliances, ‘pro-vaxx’ and ‘anti-vaxx’ factions, as well as controversies over the growing economic inequality in the country.

As real as the events of today’s headlines, the Reeses struggle to maintain their dignity and familial love in an increasingly uncertain world, which has a frequently harrowing future outlook. In this heartfelt and stimulating book, you can join them in their search for hope, security, and support, in a political and social environment that seems to work against them and their entire ‘social class’ at every turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663249029

Steven H. Propp

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Steve Propp lives and works in Sacramento, California, and graduated from CSU Sacramento. He has written many novels with spiritual or philosophical themes including Three Brothers (2007), Saved By Philosophy (2007), Josué: Prisoner At Shalem (2005), A Multicultural Christmas (2005), Utopia on the 6th Floor (2004), Beyond Heaven and Earth (2003), Tattered Pilgrims (2001), and Work, Death & Taxes (2000), as well as the nonfiction book Inquiries: Philosophical (2002). He welcomes E-mail from readers at: [e-mail]

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue: The Good Old Days

PART ONE: HARD TIMES

Chapter 1:     Cutting Back

Chapter 2:     The Death Of The ‘American Dream’

Chapter 3:     A Very Minimal Christmas

Chapter 4:     Change Of Plans

PART TWO: THE VIRUS

Chapter 5:     COVID

Chapter 6:     Seeking Sanctuary

Chapter 7:     On The Move

Chapter 8:     Life On The Streets

Chapter 9:     Home Sweet Home

Chapter 10:   Disappointment, And Outrage

Chapter 11:   Life Sucks

Chapter 12:   Getting Used To It

PART THREE: THE ELECTION

Chapter 13:   Get Rid Of This Guy

Chapter 14:   A Not-So-Merry Christmas

Chapter 15:   The Insurrection

Chapter 16:   An End, And A Beginning

PART FOUR: CHANGING TIMES

Chapter 17:   I Need Some Positivity

Chapter 18:   Progress, Amid Regress

Chapter 19:   Workers Of The World, Stay Home?

Chapter 20:   A New Job

Chapter 21:   Things Will Be (Great?)—When You’re Downtown

Chapter 22:   War, And Peace

Chapter 23:   Theme And Variants

PART FIVE: THE CHALLENGES

Chapter 24:   Trying To Reopen

Chapter 25:   Starting To Panic

Chapter 26:   Everything’s Going Up

Chapter 27:   Stimulus? What Stimulus?

Chapter 28:   A World Gone Crazy

Chapter 29:   Getting Extreme

Chapter 30:   Work, And Shelter

Chapter 31:   Pre-Election Jitters

Chapter 32:   Facing The Future

DEDICATION

To all of us who are struggling financially, professionally, politically, socially, and personally in these difficult times… yet who also refuse to give in to defeat, discouragement, and despair.

America is a very diverse country; but if we try to maintain our civility with each other, and our respect for each other’s choices and actions (even if we may sometimes disagree with them), we can keep ourselves, and our country, together.

And we will be the stronger, and the better for it.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is written with deep love for the help, encouragement, and support of:

Our wonderful grandkids: Devonte and Adrianna, Joseph, Dominic, Mariah, Kayla, and Brea;

Our amazing great-granddaughter: Jasenya;

The parents and role models: Keri, Joe, Danielle, Rasheed, and Michael;

My brother-in-law Darrel Buzynski, and my wonderful big sister Susan;

My niece Jennifer and her husband Brade, and their delightful daughters, Madison and Leila;

My favorite nephew Jason;

My wonderful sister-in-law Phyllis, and all the rest of our diverse, changing, and always loving family;

My readers and other friends everywhere;

But most of all: to my beautiful, wonderful wife Nancy: whose unconditional love helps not only me, but ALL of us to make it through any and all of the many challenges that life presents.

PROLOGUE

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

(Evening, June 2019)

Mark Reese and his wife Rosalyn (who were both in their late 30s) stood nervously on the porch of the beautiful (and spacious) suburban house.

Well, here goes nothing, Mark said quietly, adjusting his glasses and checking his tie, before he pressed the doorbell. A lovely melodic chime rang softly, as they waited.

The door opened, and they were faced with a smiling man in his mid-40s, whose well-groomed and thick hair was completely free of any trace of gray. The man said enthusiastically, Mark, Rosalyn—so glad you could make it! Please, come in, and he stood aside, motioning for them to enter. He said apologetically, I just wish I’d realized sooner that you two lived so close! I should have had you over long before this.

Once they were inside the house, both Mark and Rosalyn looked around, and Rosalyn said appreciatively, "Your house is beautiful, Kenton!"

He shrugged off the compliment, then said (with exaggerated modesty), "Sharilyn wants us to re-do this area again; she always tells me, ‘Ken, the foyer is the first impression you make on anyone who is visiting! So it needs to be perfect…!’"

He motioned for the visiting couple to follow him down the entry hall, until they reached a large room, which was filled with perhaps two dozen couples (and a few seemingly unattached men), who were all wearing formal attire, and happily chatting and laughing, while sipping their glasses of wine.

Pointing to a long table, Kenton explained to the Reeses, The hors d’oeuvres were prepared by that new catering service on L Street; we’ve started hiring them for all of our entertainments, and they do a fabulous job. Pointing to a number of bottles of expensive-looking wine at the end of the table, he said, We’ve got an excellent Sauvignon Blanc, as well as a robust Pinot Noir; what’s your preference?

Umm… Mark hesitated. I’m … partial to white wine; so…?

Sauvignon it is, Kenton said. He efficiently poured a glass and handed it to Mark, and then looked questioningly at Rosalyn, who smiled and said, The same for me; thanks. Their host poured a glass for her, which she accepted graciously. After taking a small sip, she observed, That’s very good.

Kenton grimaced slightly, and replied with some dissatisfaction, "That’s very kind of you, Rosalyn, but I really need to develop a truly comprehensive wine cellar, so that I’ve always got the perfect wine on hand for every possible occasion. We’ve got a large wine rack in the basement downstairs for just that purpose, but I’m afraid it’s only about one-third full, because I simply haven’t had the time to stock it properly! I really need to just hire a professional to establish it for us. He looked at his two guests, and asked, Do you know anyone?"

Embarrassed, Mark replied, I’m afraid not. Rosalyn shook her head negatively, and Kenton nodded (looking somewhat disappointed).

Mark took a small sip of his wine, then asked Kenton, So I guess you’re keeping pretty busy?

Kenton smiled, and said expansively, "That’s one absolutely certain characteristic of being a Risk Management consultant today: you’re always needed! There’s so much uncertainty these days about the economy and the political environment, as well as their intersection in the global marketplace, that no responsible organization or business—private, public, or combined—can afford to do without the kind of advice and direction that I provide them."

Rosalyn asked him hesitantly, I think Mark told me that you used to be an executive for a hedge fund, or something like that?

Kenton nodded, and explained, Yes, I used to be in Finance, after picking up my MBA from Stanford Grad; but I could clearly see the trends developing, so in 2007, I started my own consulting business. With a slight smile, he added, I needn’t tell you that quite a few of my peers in the financial world thought I was being reckless, at best! Then he smiled proudly (and perhaps a bit cockily), and continued, But after the recessionary collapse in 2007-2008, I was suddenly viewed by most knowledgeable people in the field as virtually being a ‘prophet’—so I’ve had a huge client list, ever since.

Mark nodded, and admitted, You’ve definitely got an excellent reputation; the senior execs in my own department were ecstatic when they were able to persuade you to take us on as one of your local clients.

Kenton smiled, and said modestly, "Most of my clients are in the private sector, of course. But some of the most perceptive State departments here in California—such as yours—are now realizing that they need to anticipate future developments, rather than just reacting to these constantly changing conditions."

Looking directly into Mark’s eyes, he explained, "Take your department: external situations across the nation certainly have an impact on the triggering events that produce the kinds of claims you process; so the key is clearly being able to project and anticipate what’s inevitably coming in the near future, so that you aren’t blindsided by… but he stopped short, as his wife Sharilyn (a lovely woman in her early 30s, with carefully-styled hair, and tasteful—but expensive—jewelry, and an impressive manicure) came forward and touched his arm lightly, then whispered to him, Rod’s had a couple of glasses of wine, so I think he’s ready to talk some business, now."

Beautiful; thanks, Shar, he replied. He said apologetically to his two guests, "I’m so sorry, Mark and Rosalyn: but duty calls! I feel terrible about running out like this on our neighbors; but please, help yourself to anything and everything that’s here on the tables…"

Mark said reassuringly, Don’t even think about it; your services are needed elsewhere, so you have to take care of your business. Kenton nodded, then excused himself hastily, heading quickly toward an overweight man standing in the far corner of the room (who had four others in front of him, who were listening to him intently).

Sharilyn said to the Reeses, I’m so sorry, Mark and … umm, Rosalinda; but I really need to…

Rosalyn raised her hand and shook her head, saying, Don’t worry; we can take care of ourselves. Go and support your husband. Sharilyn nodded, then hurried off to join Kenton.

Whew! Mark said, relieved, taking a large swallow of his wine. He frowned slightly, then whispered to Rosalyn, "Personally, I’m more of a beer guy, myself."

Rosalyn sipped some of her wine, then observed, "I like wine—but I’m afraid that I’m not sophisticated enough to know much more than just that white and red wine taste different," and they both chuckled softly.

Rosalyn nodded at the nearby table that was overloaded with food, and asked him, Want something to eat?

Mark said hesitantly, I’m almost afraid to touch anything; everything here is so ‘perfect.’ Rosalyn picked up two small pieces of meat and cheese, which were held together by a red plastic toothpick; she handed one to Mark, who popped it into his mouth.

So how do you like it? she asked, as she took a nibble from her own.

He shrugged, and noted, It’s not bad; but it’s never going to replace a good old-fashioned handful of barbeque chips.

It’s a lot more expensive, I’m sure, Rosalyn observed, nodding at the table.

Mark smiled, and observed, Well, Kenton’s obviously entertaining some prospective clients tonight, so he gets to write this all off as a ‘business expense.’ He shrugged, and added, "That’s one of the disadvantages of being a State employee, rather than a private contractor; we never have anything that we can write off!" and they both laughed softly.

They sipped their wine as they studied the others in the large room, who had divided themselves into four or five small groups. (None of whom were looking at the Reeses with any interest, however.)

Mark asked Rosalyn quietly, You think anyone’d miss us if we cut out early?

Rosalyn frowned, and said, "Well… I wouldn’t want anyone to think that we’re rude, or not appreciative of having been invited here, and…"

Mark shook his head, and whispered, "I’m sure no one would even notice. Sharilyn can’t even remember your name, after all," and they both suppressed a laugh.

They hurriedly gulped down the last of their wine, and Mark placed the two empty glasses on a tray next to the food table, after which they headed quietly toward the front door (quickly glancing back to make sure that no one was noticing their departure).

Once they were outside, Mark exhaled and loosened his tie, then said with obvious relief, Frankly, I felt quite a bit ‘under-dressed’ for this occasion. Most of these guys were wearing tuxes and fancy suits, which I hadn’t expected. They began walking, turning left when they reached the sidewalk in front of the house.

Mark said, I’m glad we decided to just walk here; it would have been embarrassing to park our old Hyundai around all of these luxury sedans, sports cars, and Benzes! and they both laughed.

Rosalyn admitted, Well, I felt pretty uncomfortable seeing all these women in their lovely dresses and gowns­­­­—while here I am, in my dress which I bought off the rack from Macy’s, and they both laughed again. She shook her head and added, "I’m surprised that we were even invited to this affair."

Mark shrugged, and explained, Don’t be too surprised; Kent’s actually a pretty nice guy. I met him about six months ago at the gas station; he was having some trouble inserting his credit card into the pump—I gather that he usually just hands his card to the person at the counter inside, but there was a long line at the counter that day, so he apparently decided to do it himself. Since then, I probably see him a couple of times a month, because we both fuel up before going to work, and then often stop at Starbucks.

Rosalyn admitted with a smile, We all need that morning caffeine ‘jolt’…

He continued, Then last week at work, one of our execs was proudly leading Kenton around the building, and introducing him to all of us managers; when Kent saw me, he seemed happy to realize that I was working there. So I think that encounter at work was probably the main reason we got the invite tonight.

That makes sense, she said, taking his hand as they continued walking down the street. She smiled, and observed, "But that wife of his! She seems really ‘bougie’!"

He masked his smile, and then said evenly, Actually, you and I are ‘bougie,’ as that term is properly defined. She looked over at him with a puzzled expression on her face, and he asked, Did you ever study Marxism, or at least Socialism, back in college?

Are you kidding? she replied, a distasteful expression coming over her face. "I was into the social sciences—politics just bored me!"

He nodded, and then explained, "The word ‘bougie’ is actually a shortened version of the French word, bourgeois—which basically means ‘Middle Class.’"

She shook her head, and said skeptically, "And you’re trying to say that Kenton and Sharilyn Westlake are in the same social class as we are? Give me a break!"

Patience, Rozzie, he said. Let me finish. He thought for a moment, then went on, "Marx basically divided society up into two groups: the bourgeoisie, and the proletariat. The Proletariat are the wage laborers: factory workers, for example; the people who don’t own any of the ‘means of production,’ and therefore have to sell their labor, in order to make a living…"

"Which is what we are," Rosalyn finished for him.

I’m not done, Mark noted, then quickly added, "Now, one subgroup of the bourgeoisie is the ‘Capitalists’: they’re the ones who own the factories that employ the workers. For Marx, the Capitalists are the ‘bad guys’—the ones who only pay their workers bare subsistence wages; the Capitalists are also the ones who had children working in their factories, instead of going to school—at least, until Child Labor was finally outlawed."

Before Rosalyn could interrupt again, he continued, "But not all the members of the bourgeoisie are evil ‘capitalists’; a lot of them were, say, small shopkeepers, or self-employed tradesmen, or artisans. As such, they do possess a small amount of ‘capital’—like the owners of a ‘Mom and Pop’ grocery store; or someone who owns a small shoe repair shop. And these folks do have a greater amount of independence than do the wage laborers, who have to drag themselves off to the factory every morning, in order to be able to have something to eat in the evening. So the bourgeoisie is often divided into the haute or ‘high’ bourgeoisie, and the ‘small’ or petite bourgeoisie."

Rosalyn frowned as she thought, then asked, "So you’re saying that we are the petite bourgeoisie, and Kenton and his wife are haute?"

He shook his head, and suggested, "No; actually, I think that Kent and Sharilyn are in reality down here in the petite trenches with us!"

She gave a snort of disbelief, and said caustically, Were you not just with me at that party? A party that had all of that expensive catered food, and the fancy wines?

He held up his hand to stop her objections, and observed, "Actually, it’s cheaper to provide hors d’oeuvres, than an entire evening meal! And remember, that party was all a business expense—probably put on to try and impress some prospective clients. I’m pretty sure that’s not how the Westlakes live on a daily basis."

She shook her head, and pointed out, Well, you have to admit that the Westlakes have got by far the nicest, most expensive house in the entire neighborhood, and…

He interrupted, Yes; and they custom-built their house on that old empty lot, which was at the end of the next block over from our house. He looked over at Rosalyn, and said firmly, "But they’re still living in our neighborhood, Rozzie! They’re not living in some ritzy gated community, where all the multi-million dollar homes are being guarded night and day by expensive private security companies. The Westlakes are therefore Middle-Class people, bourgeoisie, like we are. And, since they don’t seem to have any children, they also have fewer expenses than most of the rest of us have; and thus, they have more ‘disposable income’ available to spend on wine and fancy snacks."

She shrugged, then finally conceded, So they’re ‘Upper’ Middle Class, maybe; while we’re the ‘lower’ Middle Class, and…

He interjected, "No, you and I are more like the ‘middle’ Middle Class: we’re both college-educated, who have good and secure jobs—complete with health benefits, vacation and sick leave, and retirement benefits. Both of us were, in fact, the first persons in our families to even get a 4-year college degree. Whereas the ‘lower’ Middle Class would be like the young people working as checkout clerks at Walmart, or packing up boxes in a warehouse at Amazon. They’re probably all living in cheap apartments—rather than buying a house, as we are. They don’t have two cars like we do, nor do they get any health benefits. They don’t get vacation or sick leave, so any day they can’t go to work, they don’t get paid! And their only retirement is Social Security—assuming that it hasn’t gone broke, by the time they get into their late 60s."

She thought for a long moment, then finally nodded her head in agreement, and asked, So they’re the ‘proletariat’ that you were talking about, earlier…?

He shook his head, then replied, "No, I think the modern ‘proletariat’ is more like those ‘Day Labor’ guys you see standing around in the parking lot at Home Depot: guys who don’t have any regular job… and may not have anything to eat tonight, if no one hires them."

She frowned, and wondered, Sort of like Santiago, our gardener?

He thought for a moment, then mused, "I don’t know about him; after all, Santiago has a nice truck, with lots of expensive yard equipment that he keeps in the back. I don’t know anything about his living arrangements, but if he owns his own truck and equipment, he probably runs his own gardening business—and he’s obviously got quite a few other clients besides us. And remember that he’s brought along another guy or two with him a couple of times, like when we asked him to cut up and dispose of all those branches that fell down during that big windstorm last February; so, for all we know, Santiago may very well have employees of his own! So I would guess that he’s probably more like the small shopkeeper, than one of the ‘Day Labor’ guys."

I get it, she acknowledged. She pondered this for a moment, then pointed out, "Well, by your definition, that makes nearly everyone ‘Middle-Class’!"

He shook his head, and clarified, "No, because we’ve still got the rich people at the top of the heap: the ‘One Percent,’ some people call them. Those are the people who are definitely the ‘Capitalists’ in the Marxian sense: they are the ones who own the ‘means of production’—the people who actually own the corporations, the hedge funds, the agribusiness farms."

She grimaced, and said dryly, The ‘bad guys.’

He went on, But one of the most remarkable things about modern society, is that we’re no longer just divided up into the ‘landlords’ and the ‘serfs,’ as they were in the Middle Ages. And now, it’s quite possible for any of us to be able to ‘move up’ in the world, since American society has a very large Middle Class, that…

"But that Middle Class is shrinking every day! she interrupted. She added contemptuously, And with Trump as President, things are just getting worse and worse!"

With a slight smile, he noted, "Well, Trump seems to have a pretty large number of supporters among Middle-Class people; so he can’t be all that bad…"

They arrived at their home. Mark opened the fence gate, and they entered; he closed the gate behind them, and they began walking up to the house.

Mark sighed, and admitted, "Trump is definitely one of the ‘One Percent’; and, while I voted for him in 2016, I was never a big Trump fan in the first place—in 2016, I voted against Hillary, more than I voted for him—and I have to admit that I’ve been pretty disappointed by his performance in office."

Rosalyn said sarcastically, ‘Disappointed’ is the understatement of the year.

With a grin, he added, "But Trump did have a great campaign slogan: ‘Make America Great Again.’ And I can definitely understand how unemployed people in the Midwest and South—people who lost their manufacturing jobs because of NAFTA, for example—were, and are, energized by him. And I can also understand how people living in, say, Texas or Arizona, on the border between Mexico and us, can legitimately be worried about the rise in illegal immigration; and they really hoped that building Trump’s ‘Wall’ might make things better."

As she unlocked the front door, he added, But Trump has really done nothing to resurrect manufacturing in this country; and his supposed ‘dealmaking’ skills have been a complete failure with countries like North Korea, China, and Iran…

They went inside the house, and Rosalyn called out, Jacob! We’re home, honey. She dropped her keys in a small dish next to the door.

Mark continued his monologue, "Now, I understand that, even as Obama said, we’re never going to get back most of the manufacturing jobs we’ve lost; the fact is, that our industrial workers making at least $15-$35 per hour can’t remain competitive, in terms of costs. against Asian workers who are only making $12 per day, and…"

Jake! Are you here? Where are you? Rosalyn repeated loudly, a note of anxiety coming into her voice. Mark noticed her concern, and they both quickly headed to the kitchen… where they found their 17-year old son sitting at the kitchen table, with his laptop computer in front of him, and eating a slice of pizza. (He was wearing his wireless earbuds, so he couldn’t hear them.) He glanced up and was startled to see his relieved parents standing in front of him.

Mom! Dad! he exclaimed, removing his earbuds. I thought you guys were going to a party…

We left early, Mark said, heading to the refrigerator, and taking out a bottle of beer. He winked at Rosalyn, and added, It was too ‘bougie’ for us…

Whatever, Jacob said, putting one of his earbuds back in his ear. Want some pizza?

I might take a slice, Mark said, picking up a slice from the carton on the kitchen counter. He explained, We didn’t really eat anything at the party… He sat down at the table, and took his cell phone from his pocket. Rosalyn was already looking at her own phone intently, so Jacob turned his attention back to his computer. There was a moment of silence in the room, as they all focused on their electronic devices.

Oh, my God, Rosalyn gasped, her voice expressing shock. Both Mark and Jacob were instantly attentive, and she whispered, I just lost my job!

What?!? Mark exclaimed, genuinely stunned, and coming over to stand behind her.

She explained, I just got a text from Marilyn, my boss at Inclusive Training Seminars. The county, the city, and three State departments didn’t renew their contracts with us for the upcoming fiscal year, so she has to lay off nearly two-thirds of our staff!

Jacob asked, How can they lay you off, Mom? I thought that government workers were unionized, and…

Rosalyn shook her head, and said in a hoarse voice, "I’m not a governmental employee; even though I teach and lead seminars at all kinds of governmental agencies, I don’t actually work for any of them! So I have no civil service or union job protections, or anything like that. And, since I’ve only got six years of working at ITS, I’m … well, practically the first one to go, when there are layoffs…"

Mark squeezed her shoulder and said reassuringly, "Rozzie, you know how government agencies are: they always wait until the last minute to do anything. It’s still June; but after the new fiscal year starts on July 1st, they’ll probably refigure their budgets, and realize that they do have enough money in the budget to continue providing the kinds of Diversity, Sensitivity, and Sexual Harassment Training that your group conducts for new employees, and for recently-promoted…"

She said sharply, "No, this isn’t the typical ‘late renewal’ enrollments we always get; these agencies all specifically told Marilyn that they are not bringing us back to do any more training this year… and those five contracts represented about 65% of our work! Her head lowered, she added quietly, And we’d already cut back on our staff last year to save money, when we let our second receptionist and the student aide go…"

Mark frowned, then said skeptically, "So what: Those agencies are just going to ignore Diversity, Sexual Harassment, and Ethnic Sensitivity Training for all their new employees, or for any people who are promoting into a supervisory or management position, and need to learn…"

"That’s exactly what they’re going to do! The people in charge there apparently just don’t care about ‘diversity’ and ‘sensitivity’ anymore, she asserted bluntly. She added bitterly, This whole trend began when Trump became President: Now, instead of having Hillary as our President—who was a person characterized by her inclusive campaign slogan of ‘Stronger Together’—we’ve got a sexist bigot as President; someone who blames Mexicans, Middle-Easterners, and Asians for all of our problems!"

Before anyone could comment, she added, "In this current environment, every other day you see a video clip posted on social media, about some privileged white person openly insulting an African American, or another person of color—and they justify their offensive behavior by arguing, ‘Even the President of the United States says stuff like this all the time!’ She shook her head, and added sarcastically, After all, why should anyone need to be ‘sensitive,’ when Trump can insult anyone and everyone he wants, and get away with it?"

Mark couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so he just sat down and drank his beer in silence for a few moments. Finally, he said tentatively, "Well… I think it’s too early for you to get upset. Things could still change in another few weeks, or … well, if worse comes to worse, you can always just get another job—and probably a much better job!"

You’re an incurable optimist, she said, as she grabbed his bottle of beer, and said, "I think I need this more than you do…" and she quickly drank the remainder of the bottle…

PART ONE

HARD TIMES

CHAPTER 1

CUTTING BACK

(Saturday afternoon, September 2019)

Mark was sitting at his desk in the den, when he heard the sound of keys rattling in the side door, from the garage. He called out, I’m in the den, Rozzie!

Rosalyn entered the house, and walked slowly over and entered the den—carrying her work case, and looking exhausted. She sat down on the other wheeled caster chair next to Mark’s desk, and removed her low-heeled shoes, with a weary sigh.

Mark asked sympathetically, Want a glass of wine?

I’d love one, she admitted. He got up and went into the kitchen, and soon returned with a glass of white wine, which he handed to her. She took an ample swallow from it, then exhaled with relief.

He asked quietly, So: How was the job-hunting today?

Horrible, she admitted, with frustration and discouragement in her voice. "I dropped off another seven résumés, and forwarded a few more to several websites—but I’m sure they’ll all just be ignored… like all of the other ones I’ve turned in, so far."

He said in an encouraging tone, But what about that interview you had scheduled, this morning? I’m sure that went much better; you’ve always been a good ‘interviewee,’ and…

That was a complete waste of time, she said bitterly. "The girl interviewing me must have been in her mid-20s; but even though I’m only thirty-eight, people her age look at me as if I was a senior citizen!"

He pointed out, "But you’ve got experience! And you’re a college grad! That should give you a ‘leg up’ over all of the young kids who are applying for the same jobs, and…"

That’s what I used to think, she replied, taking another swallow of her wine, then adding sadly, "But since I didn’t start working again until after Jacob turned ten, I’ve only got six years of ‘recent’ job experience; and all of these twenty-somethings I’m competing against have got that much job experience, and probably more!"

"But you’re still a college graduate, Rozzie! he insisted. And you have excellent writing skills, and oral presentation skills, not to mention your expertise in personnel matters…"

She laughed cynically, and replied, "Oh, right: my fabulous ‘expertise’ in racial, gender, and sexual orientation ‘sensitivity.’ Well, it turns out that most of the people doing the hiring these days don’t give a shit about such things! In fact, I’ve even stopped listing those ‘specialties’ on my resume—now, I just say that I worked in the Personnel Office of a small private company, where I did a lot of training, and made oral presentations…"

He continued, But that’s still the kind of experience that these younger kids don’t have; so you should be…

"In these days of short attention spans, no one’s looking for someone to make a fifty-minute presentation on a serious topic, Mark, she acknowledged resignedly. They want someone who, in fifty seconds or less, can convince a customer to spend their money, or to sign up for some new billable monthly service. And, quite frankly, these hot-looking 22-year-olds who are my competition are a lot better at that kind of thing, than is a 40-year-old mother!"

He protested, "But you’re not 40, Roz, and you’re…"

She held up her hands to stop him, and continued, "And my college degree in Ethnic and Gender Studies is more of a liability, than anything else. ‘You’re too specialized,’ or ‘Over-qualified,’ they usually tell me, after they just take one glance at my résumé. They assume that I expect to be making at least $30-40 bucks an hour to start off with, so…"

He said stiffly, "Well… you really shouldn’t lower your expectations, because a person with your unique skill-set deserves to be making…"

She suddenly grasped his hand, and said firmly, "Mark, it’s pretty obvious that I’m not going to find another job making anything close to what I used to make; I’m not sure I’m even going to be able to find a full-time job—even one only paying minimum wage! So many of the jobs out there now are only part-time, and temporary… because that way, they can let you go without warning, any time they want. I might have to get two, or even three part-time jobs, in order to partially make up for our loss of household income, and…"

He said indignantly, "Rozzie, I’m never going to let my wife work three minimum-wage jobs! We’ll find another way to get by…"

She said softly, I’m going to apply for unemployment; I was looking into it last night, after you went to sleep.

You were? he said, surprised. He looked like he was about to object, but then, he