| Biographical Non-Fiction posted August 9, 2013 | Chapters: |
...10 11 -12- 13... 
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New challenges arise in my search for employment
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
Back to the Drawing Board
by BethShelby
There seemed to be no end to my frustrating experiences in the world of the wage earner. I enjoyed the work I did as an artist for the glass company, and it was disappointing to have to give it up after only eight months, due to the unwanted advances by my coworker.
One of the local TV stations had placed an ad for an artist, without actually having an opening available. When the personnel director interviewed me, he was impressed that I had a degree in art, but he told me the position was still in the planning stage. He asked if I'd be willing to work evenings as a switchboard operator, until he could make room for me in the art department. In the meantime, he could give me artwork, which I could do at home during the day.
I thought that might work for a while because it meant I'd be with my baby during the day and would work from six to eleven in the evenings. Evan could be with Carol in the evenings, and we wouldn't need to find a sitter. I could get acquainted with the type of art a television station required and would be paid for it on a free lance basis.
The switchboard, in 1961, was something you only see in museums these days. Once I got accustomed to plugging the cords into the various holes, the job was easy. Not many calls came into the station at night, but those, which did, were often strange and annoying. They went something like this:
"Ma'am, I got the TV Guide in the newspaper here, and it says "Barney Miller" is supposed to be playing. It ain't on. There's that idiot governor talking, and he ain't saying a thing that makes a lick o' sense. I want to know why "Barney Miller's not on."
"I'm sorry. I don't have anything to do with the scheduling. The program was probably preempted for the governor."
"Well, it ain't right. Ya'll shouldn't print stuff in the paper if ya'll are gonna' change it. I work hard all week, and I need be able to relax and watch what I wan'ta watch. Ya'll need to let somebody there know that people ain't gonna to stand for ya'll changing stuff. I'll start watching Channel 9 if this keeps up."
"Well, we appreciate your call. I'll leave a message for the scheduling department."
___
"Hello Operator, Put me on with the line with Governor Barnett."
"I'm sorry. The governor has already left the station."
"I know damn well he hasn't left the station. I'm listening to him talk on TV right now. "
"Well sir, that was pre-recorded earlier in the day."
"I don't believe you. If you lie to me, I'll report you. You connect me right now or I'm coming down to the station and talk to him personally. He needs to hear what I got to say."
Some evenings, I went home very frustrated from having to deal with nut cases like these. Evan was becoming dissatisfied with me not being home when he was there. After a few months without hearing anything further about the upcoming job in the art department, I began checking want ads again. There was an ad for a layout artist with State Times, a newspaper, which, for the last seven years, had competed for readership with the more established paper.
I applied and was offered the job. When I let the station know I'd be leaving, I was told I could start in the art department right away, if I agreed to stay. Since it appeared I would be able to do what I'd originally hoped to do, I agreed. I called the State Times to tell them I wouldn't be able to take the layout job after all.
The following day, the personnel director took me to an art store downtown and we purchased the supplies I would need. Afterward he took me back to the station and introduced me to the artist with whom I would be working. It was then I realized I hadn't been given all the facts.
The lady artist had a severely mentally handicapped five-year-old son that she brought to work with her each day. He had no use of his body and could only slobber and make high-pitched screeming sounds. I couldn't help but admire her courage for being able to deal with a child in this condition. Still, the situation wasn't one which I was convinced I could handle.
The mother, apprently starved for an adult audience, chatted non-stop without noticing she left me no openings to respond to anything she said. For someone who needed to concentrate on learning the skills required for television art, it was an almost impossible task. After an hour or so, my head was pounding, and I felt as though I was losing my mind. I left for lunch and sat in my car and cried. The situation was more than I could handle. I hated myself for giving up withour giving it more time, but I simply couldn't force myself to return to work.
I called the newspaper back and learned the job was still open. It was embarrassing to have to make the calls, both to the station and to the paper. I felt like a immature child who didn't know what she wanted. My career as a television artist ended almost before it began.
The next job would have its own set of challenges of an entirely different kind.
There seemed to be no end to my frustrating experiences in the world of the wage earner. I enjoyed the work I did as an artist for the glass company, and it was disappointing to have to give it up after only eight months, due to the unwanted advances by my coworker.
One of the local TV stations had placed an ad for an artist, without actually having an opening available. When the personnel director interviewed me, he was impressed that I had a degree in art, but he told me the position was still in the planning stage. He asked if I'd be willing to work evenings as a switchboard operator, until he could make room for me in the art department. In the meantime, he could give me artwork, which I could do at home during the day.
I thought that might work for a while because it meant I'd be with my baby during the day and would work from six to eleven in the evenings. Evan could be with Carol in the evenings, and we wouldn't need to find a sitter. I could get acquainted with the type of art a television station required and would be paid for it on a free lance basis.
The switchboard, in 1961, was something you only see in museums these days. Once I got accustomed to plugging the cords into the various holes, the job was easy. Not many calls came into the station at night, but those, which did, were often strange and annoying. They went something like this:
"Ma'am, I got the TV Guide in the newspaper here, and it says "Barney Miller" is supposed to be playing. It ain't on. There's that idiot governor talking, and he ain't saying a thing that makes a lick o' sense. I want to know why "Barney Miller's not on."
"I'm sorry. I don't have anything to do with the scheduling. The program was probably preempted for the governor."
"Well, it ain't right. Ya'll shouldn't print stuff in the paper if ya'll are gonna' change it. I work hard all week, and I need be able to relax and watch what I wan'ta watch. Ya'll need to let somebody there know that people ain't gonna to stand for ya'll changing stuff. I'll start watching Channel 9 if this keeps up."
"Well, we appreciate your call. I'll leave a message for the scheduling department."
___
"Hello Operator, Put me on with the line with Governor Barnett."
"I'm sorry. The governor has already left the station."
"I know damn well he hasn't left the station. I'm listening to him talk on TV right now. "
"Well sir, that was pre-recorded earlier in the day."
"I don't believe you. If you lie to me, I'll report you. You connect me right now or I'm coming down to the station and talk to him personally. He needs to hear what I got to say."
Some evenings, I went home very frustrated from having to deal with nut cases like these. Evan was becoming dissatisfied with me not being home when he was there. After a few months without hearing anything further about the upcoming job in the art department, I began checking want ads again. There was an ad for a layout artist with State Times, a newspaper, which, for the last seven years, had competed for readership with the more established paper.
I applied and was offered the job. When I let the station know I'd be leaving, I was told I could start in the art department right away, if I agreed to stay. Since it appeared I would be able to do what I'd originally hoped to do, I agreed. I called the State Times to tell them I wouldn't be able to take the layout job after all.
One of the local TV stations had placed an ad for an artist, without actually having an opening available. When the personnel director interviewed me, he was impressed that I had a degree in art, but he told me the position was still in the planning stage. He asked if I'd be willing to work evenings as a switchboard operator, until he could make room for me in the art department. In the meantime, he could give me artwork, which I could do at home during the day.
I thought that might work for a while because it meant I'd be with my baby during the day and would work from six to eleven in the evenings. Evan could be with Carol in the evenings, and we wouldn't need to find a sitter. I could get acquainted with the type of art a television station required and would be paid for it on a free lance basis.
The switchboard, in 1961, was something you only see in museums these days. Once I got accustomed to plugging the cords into the various holes, the job was easy. Not many calls came into the station at night, but those, which did, were often strange and annoying. They went something like this:
"Ma'am, I got the TV Guide in the newspaper here, and it says "Barney Miller" is supposed to be playing. It ain't on. There's that idiot governor talking, and he ain't saying a thing that makes a lick o' sense. I want to know why "Barney Miller's not on."
"I'm sorry. I don't have anything to do with the scheduling. The program was probably preempted for the governor."
"Well, it ain't right. Ya'll shouldn't print stuff in the paper if ya'll are gonna' change it. I work hard all week, and I need be able to relax and watch what I wan'ta watch. Ya'll need to let somebody there know that people ain't gonna to stand for ya'll changing stuff. I'll start watching Channel 9 if this keeps up."
"Well, we appreciate your call. I'll leave a message for the scheduling department."
___
"Hello Operator, Put me on with the line with Governor Barnett."
"I'm sorry. The governor has already left the station."
"I know damn well he hasn't left the station. I'm listening to him talk on TV right now. "
"Well sir, that was pre-recorded earlier in the day."
"I don't believe you. If you lie to me, I'll report you. You connect me right now or I'm coming down to the station and talk to him personally. He needs to hear what I got to say."
Some evenings, I went home very frustrated from having to deal with nut cases like these. Evan was becoming dissatisfied with me not being home when he was there. After a few months without hearing anything further about the upcoming job in the art department, I began checking want ads again. There was an ad for a layout artist with State Times, a newspaper, which, for the last seven years, had competed for readership with the more established paper.
I applied and was offered the job. When I let the station know I'd be leaving, I was told I could start in the art department right away, if I agreed to stay. Since it appeared I would be able to do what I'd originally hoped to do, I agreed. I called the State Times to tell them I wouldn't be able to take the layout job after all.
The following day, the personnel director took me to an art store downtown and we purchased the supplies I would need. Afterward he took me back to the station and introduced me to the artist with whom I would be working. It was then I realized I hadn't been given all the facts.
The lady artist had a severely mentally handicapped five-year-old son that she brought to work with her each day. He had no use of his body and could only slobber and make high-pitched screeming sounds. I couldn't help but admire her courage for being able to deal with a child in this condition. Still, the situation wasn't one which I was convinced I could handle.
The mother, apprently starved for an adult audience, chatted non-stop without noticing she left me no openings to respond to anything she said. For someone who needed to concentrate on learning the skills required for television art, it was an almost impossible task. After an hour or so, my head was pounding, and I felt as though I was losing my mind. I left for lunch and sat in my car and cried. The situation was more than I could handle. I hated myself for giving up withour giving it more time, but I simply couldn't force myself to return to work.
I called the newspaper back and learned the job was still open. It was embarrassing to have to make the calls, both to the station and to the paper. I felt like a immature child who didn't know what she wanted. My career as a television artist ended almost before it began.
The next job would have its own set of challenges of an entirely different kind.
The lady artist had a severely mentally handicapped five-year-old son that she brought to work with her each day. He had no use of his body and could only slobber and make high-pitched screeming sounds. I couldn't help but admire her courage for being able to deal with a child in this condition. Still, the situation wasn't one which I was convinced I could handle.
The mother, apprently starved for an adult audience, chatted non-stop without noticing she left me no openings to respond to anything she said. For someone who needed to concentrate on learning the skills required for television art, it was an almost impossible task. After an hour or so, my head was pounding, and I felt as though I was losing my mind. I left for lunch and sat in my car and cried. The situation was more than I could handle. I hated myself for giving up withour giving it more time, but I simply couldn't force myself to return to work.
I called the newspaper back and learned the job was still open. It was embarrassing to have to make the calls, both to the station and to the paper. I felt like a immature child who didn't know what she wanted. My career as a television artist ended almost before it began.
The next job would have its own set of challenges of an entirely different kind.
 Recognized |
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This is a personal essay rather than creative fiction.
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