Nothing on the job front yet. It's getting very bleak. I thought New York City was supposed to be the land of opportunity?

But to give you an idea of my progress: On Tuesday I'm scheduled to interview for a job selling television sets to hospitals in Queens. Jesus, could it get any worse?

Yes, perhaps it could: I've also got an interview to take telephone lunch orders at a well-known sandwich shop in Midtown. The want ad made a big deal of it. It said 'WELL KNOWN Midtown deli … must have telephone skills …' Talk about prestige. All the free corned beef I can eat. And if that wasn't enough – free reign on the soda fountain. No shit. That's what the manager told me on the phone.

But what can a convicted felon expect? That's what I keep telling myself. That's what I can hear everybody saying under their breath – they give me those meek, puppy-dog eyes and say, 'Well, it could be worse.'

My question is: how, exactly, could it be any worse? You tell me. I guess I could be digging ditches. But at least then I'd be getting in shape, maybe getting a tan too. I could be wiping asses at a nursing home. At least then I'd have benefits.

The worst part, by far, of my new convicted felon status, is filling in that little box on all the paper work. I never noticed how much it pops up until I actually had to check it. It's on everything: job applications, bank applications, apartment applications. Before all this, no matter how ill-suited I was for a job, I always thought: Whew! At least I'm not a felon. Life really is funny that way, because here I am.

Here I am, a college graduate, a middle class suburban kid, a privileged member of the great democratic society, a son of the American West with everything going for me (globally, historically speaking) Yet here I am: a first-class fuck up, a beer-bellied felon, a homeless drifter, looking for handouts. I guess I'm just lucky enough to have a family who isn't as fucked up as I am.

But that's what I like about New York City – it constantly reminds me how close I am to being one of those guys begging for change on the street. And although she probably wouldn't admit it, I think that's part of the reason Aimee pressured me to come out here. What a good little sister huh?

But back to the job process. Even worse than simply checking the 'convicted felon' box is when I am obliged to fill in the box, but they don't give me a line to describe my crime. It leaves way too much to the imagination. I know what they're thinking then: armed robbing, child molesting, drug smuggling, wife-beating sonofabitch!

And that's exactly what happened with the guy at the temp agency. He sat me down across from his desk in one of those nasty little offices. He set his elbows down, sort of half smiling in my direction, and glancing over my paperwork. Then he puffed out his cheeks, and followed this gesture (exasperation? resignation?) by saying exactly nothing, which is very frustrating. Then, at length, he spoke:

"So, ah, Adam. You're from Arizona? That's nice."

"Yes sir," I said. I picked up the 'sir' thing recently. The legal system will do that to you. Judges, lawyers – they love that kind of shit. It helps make up for their shitty government salaries.

"Well," he said, picking his words very carefully. "You're qualifications are all pretty good – computer skills look up to speed. You've held steady jobs. You've got management experience. You're typing skills are proficient."

He shook his head in the affirmative.

"Yep, everything's in order – just about."

Then he did the puffed-out cheek thing again, and began tapping his pen on the bottom of the paperwork, right next to the goddamned box.

"Is there some kind of problem?" I asked, just sort of waiting to see how he would broach the subject.

"Well, it's just," he picked himself off the desk, and brushed away a fly. "It's just this felony," he let out an abrupt laugh, and leveled his eyes at me, like a real regular Joe.

"I mean personally – well, I couldn't care less. You seem like a nice guy to me. But the only problem is that I'm not the one hiring you," he paused, his eyebrows raised at me, pleading with me to finish this sentence for him.

I just smiled as bright as I could.

"Look Adam, I don't mean to pry," he put up his hands like he was fending me off. "But what, exactly, were you convicted of? You don't have to tell me, of course. I only ask because, well as you can imagine, people jump to conclusions about this kind of thing –"

"Felonies," I said.
"Yes," he said, laughing again. "Felonies."

"Yeah," I said. "They're sticky little bastards."

"Exactly – exactly," he said, holding his hand out like he expected me to shake it. "And here's the problem we're faced with Adam: Your resume and your job skills all suggest something professional – office work, that sort of thing. But this felony, well, to be honest, it raises red flags with employers."

"Red flags?" I said.
"Yeah, ah, red flags. That's what we call them."
"I gotcha," I winked.
"So, what were you …?"

"Embezzlement." I said. "Nothing violent."
"Ahh, good," he said, somewhat relieved.
"Oh, and Forgery," I said.

"Okay – embezzlement and forgery. Well, that's not too bad I suppose," he said, wincing.

He took note of this and stood. We shook hands vigorously.

"We'll get you set up with something real soon," he took another glance at my papers. "This all up to date? The phone number I mean."

"Yes, you can reach me there."

"Great, great," he said.

I've been plastering my resume all over the five boroughs. I must've faxed out 300 copies in the past two weeks. Yet still, I don't really feel committed to finding work. And curiously, I think in some metaphysical way, the people receiving my resume must know this. They must be able to feel that I don't really want their stinking job. Maybe it's the lilt of my handwriting, or something subtle in the wording of my cover letters. Something that says: I am not a fucking team player. So, the search continues. And I still haven't heard back from the temp agency yet. But seriously, If I were an employer, I wouldn't even hire me.