5:49 AM and the cell phone rings. It is not an attentive boyfriend wishing me a "good morning" nor a friend calling to say their plane has just landed in the United States and needs a ride from the airport. It is a machine, an automatic calling system that my livelihood depends on. I must say something in order for it to start it's rehearsed answer. I suppose I could indulge in any greeting, an over-enthusiastic "I missed you so much!" or "Good morning!" I'm sure that others choose to curse the automated caller, but I'm neither creative nor cynical this time of morning. I opt for the same hello I would give any friend. I won't indulge in superstitions that a sugar-sweet cooing will somehow grant me better teaching job offers than what the automatic system already has prepared.
He offers a single elementary teaching position. I know not what grade. Apparently the teacher hasn't recorded her name herself, for the machine on the other end attempts pronunciation at the name and follows with a deliberate "T-C-H-R." Teacher, I get it. The grade level is what I wonder at. Too noncommittal to actually accept or reject the job, I choose to call into the automated system to see if any other jobs are listed. More cryptic T-C-H-R's. Elementary, special ed, ESL. I was hoping for a high school position today. I begin praying and struggle with the idea of getting up to check online.
By 6, I have rolled over and out of bed, noticing scattered books on my floor and wonder if they fell there or if I placed them there the night before. Too lazy to clear more books from my desk chair, I hunch over the computer screen and scan for jobs. Elementary, elementary, elementary, gym, health, P.E.. Some of these jobs start within the hour and I'm still noncommittal. Sense overtakes me and I consider the teacher clothes in my closet and decide to shower. I'm shuffling into the hallway my roommate's alarm vibrates in the bedroom next door. By 6:30 I am showered and cosmetified with styled hair, and it's into the kitchen to start my coffeemaker. I decide I ought to make extra--I might be home all day. As my roommate packs her lunch, I hope she doesn't ask me whether I'm subbing or not.
It's back to the computer screen and I'm praying again, wanting a high school teaching job or at least a job in my subject matter--visual arts. I refresh the page every few seconds, and I wonder if there's something wrong with the schools and teachers that aren't having their jobs taken. I consider a half-day high school math sub job for too long and it is snatched by someone a little more eager for work today. I contemplate another position that I'm not crazy about, praying and lotioning my hands. In the time it takes to distribute the moisturizer, that too is taken.
My roommate's voice echoes in my head. But it's a job. It means work. I begin researching elementary, middle, and high schools. I even consider what it would like to substitute gym. That might not be bad. I consider my closet again and realize that my wardrobe is not conducive to being a gym sub. Some of the schools look interesting, and I like the prospect of being a minority in the school.
I refresh the page again, and it appears. Half day. Media specialist. I love books. Why not? I'd rather be in a library all day than a 3rd grade classroom. I'm accustomed to different age levels coming and going. Plus, I might even meet the teacher before I go. She's got to have great lesson plans already prepared if she's going to be there half the day preceding. I cannot hesitate; it's work. If I don't take it, someone else in this 9% unemployed economy will. "Accept job."
I walk back into the kitchen and pour my coffee, waiting for a roommate to appear so that I can declare that I will be subbing in a library today.
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