speak
Fired and Loafing
“I lost the only real job I had in Las Vegas.”
My email password at the newspaper was still working. So I decided to check in — what the hey — and see how many of my old readers missed me.
There was only one message, but it warmed my heart.
"We want you back, Corey!" read the subject heading.
When I opened it, I found out how sorry Consumer Reports was to see my subscription lapse.
Last month, I was named best newspaper columnist in Nevada by the state press association. This prestigious honor came with a side of bittersweet irony: I no longer have a newspaper column. I was laid off in June.
And the irony runs deeper. No one has held more jobs in the history of Las Vegas, and now I can't find another one. I sampled 170 occupations for "Fear and Loafing," the humor column I launched in 2006. They included washing the windows at the top of the Stratosphere, scrubbing outdoor Porta-Potties in August and go-go dancing in a thong at a gay bar.
But when I brought a souped-up version of my column to the biggest alt-weeklies in town, they all passed.
Hmm, I wonder if the gay bar will take me back for real. (I did make $11 in tips that night.)
Coming to a large Vegas paper from a small Los Angeles one was beyond-wildest-dreams great. I was tackling the most insane assignments in the world's most insane city — along with my deepest personal fears, which saved on frequently prescribed therapy.
I starred in television and radio commercials. I threw out the first pitch at a major-league exhibition game. I couldn't walk through either Sun City without cheek-pinching from admiring newspaper subscribers. (If my wife ever betrays me, as I frequently remind her, she can be replaced in a flash by any number of willing babes with removable teeth.)
I have this theory that Las Vegas, for whatever reason, allows people to achieve three levels more of success than they deserve in any normal city. (If you don't believe me, ask Criss Angel, Terry Fator or the ghost of fat Elvis.)
By my fifth year at the paper, however, most of my fun was drowned out by a slightly different experience: terror. Not only was my column demoted from weekly to monthly, but my job was threatened on a daily basis by a new editorial regime that didn't seem to get what it was I did that was so great or even so remunerable.
I don't claim to know what the trenches of Iraq are like. But I can definitely report how it feels to show up for duty every morning curious if it will be the last time you get to see your buddies. For weeks at a stretch, just getting five hours sleep required a nightly Xanax.
Of the nine-and-a-half reporters working in our department, efficiency experts declared, all our work could be accomplished by four. (Explanation for the half: We had one reporter who was also an editor. Either that or it referred to my stature.)
I tried every trick in my book. I bought a new, dress code-friendly Kohl's wardrobe. I stopped passing gas at my cubicle. I hauled my newborn daughter into the office. (On Facebook, I called it Skylar Levitan's meet-everyone-who-can-possibly-lay-Daddy-off tour.)
"Don't worry," said one of my co-workers. "They would never lay off one of their most popular writers." (That guy was laid off, too, by the way.)
Any way you look at my particular skill set, "essential to the production of a newspaper" is never what you come up with.
Look, I'm simply reporting what happened to me. I'm not trying to frame it as anything particularly tragic or even unusual. All over the world, corporations are trying to preserve their lives by gutting their own vital organs. This is especially true here in Las Vegas, where more than 14 percent of us perpetually can't find work. And it's truer for newspaper reporters, who find themselves only slightly more in demand than telegraph operators. (Since the editor and publisher who hired me were shown the door last November, nearly a third of my former colleagues have followed them through it.)
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to … ," said my new editor.
I knew this couldn't be good. You're not summoned to the big guy's office to receive a raise or a better parking space. But no amount of worrying in the world prepared me for the completion of that sentence, which unfolded in such slow motion it feels as though it continues to this day …
" … let you go."
Other than the death of a childhood friend, nothing has ever hurt my gut as much — although that time I got my rib broken by a bloodthirsty female boxing champ came close.
Newspapers never announce when they dump popular writers. And since my column began appearing only on the first Sunday of every month, readers were forgetting when it was published anyway. So my face simply disappeared.
Except that it didn't. I still show it at Vons, the Summerlin post office and my favorite Thai happy-ending massage parlor. (Just kidding, of course. Vons is too expensive for unemployed people to patronize.)
Without a gig, though, the public recognition I receive now is reminiscent of Gary Coleman: the security guard years.
Last month in an overcrowded Costco, some overweight dude with a Brooklyn accent screamed at the top of his lungs: "Yo, Corey! You do all these jobs. Go open another register!"
Which is great. But then he wanted what Larry David once dubbed the "stop and chat." I used to love chatting with readers, but now it's a big ball of awkward. Should I have bummed Mr. Brooklyn out with an update? No, and I continue to resist. People have their own troubles; they don't need to hear mine. (Hopefully, he's reading this now and getting set straight. He did sound Jewish.)
Unlike most of my former colleagues, I eventually got lucky enough to find some journalism work. I now blog about TV shows for msn.com.
But it's just freelance ("free" being the operative word, since it pays a third of what my old job did). And there's no place for the funny voice I entered journalism to cultivate.
But, hey, I'm not complaining. For one thing, my wife still works fulltime. DAVID promises more of the kind of work I love, so look for it here on a regular basis. And my home office has the best dress code ever: testicles covered (except on casual Fridays).
Plus, I lied to you before. I do have a fulltime job: keeping a miniature human being alive. As a matter of fact, stay-at-home dad is the most important job I've ever held.
I won't bore you with the sort of "Mr. Mom" detail that causes me to hide close friends from my own Facebook feed. Suffice to say that only once in life will I overestimate the fastening power of a bloated diaper.
I suppose if this challenge had to present itself at some point in my life, now's perfect. How many other dads get to spend most of their child's first year in the same room? (Actually, in this economy, I'm sure there are plenty. But I made myself feel good by typing that, so shut up.)
And while it's true that earning the same paycheck I did at age 22 puts a serious crimp in my family's ability to afford shelter and food simultaneously, the anxiety about finding a job is surprisingly less acute than the anxiety about losing one. (The bottle of Xanax I haven't touched since June can attest to that.)
Recently at Trader Joe's, a gray-haired lady kept staring. Eventually, she approached and told me how what I do is so great and special, I should be proud of myself.
It's moments like these that give me the hope to press onward.
Smiling and nodding, I listened to her gush and thank me for at least another minute before it clicked: I was wearing the T-shirt given me after the day I spent with Las Vegas Fire Station 1.
She thought I was a firefighter.
"You're very welcome," I said.
Links to Corey Levitan's humor articles are posted at www.coreylevitan.com.