Finding work in the current climate was always going to be competitive but I was unprepared for reality. Packing the car for a two day break at Yamba in northern New South Wales, the answers I’d received during that horrid phone call about the disappearing job kept replaying in my mind.
‘We pulled the advertisement early,’ the woman had said. ‘We received over two-hundred applications for the job in eight days. We physically can’t read all those applications.’
Pacing the garage, I kept my voice gentle against rising anger. ‘I called you yesterday and you didn’t return my call.’
‘I got your message,’ Rochelle said. ‘I just didn’t call you back but I thought I’d better call after reading your email.’
My heart was thumping. I wanted to abuse her. Instead I spoke through gritted teeth. ‘If you called my back yesterday I would’ve applied for this role,’ I said. ‘I’m perfect for it and I think I should be allowed to email my application to you.’
‘You’re too late,’ she said. ‘With more than two hundred applications we probably wouldn’t have read yours anyway.’
I couldn’t think of anything polite to say so I stayed silent.
‘You must understand this from our perspective,’ she said. ‘Most of those applications aren’t going to be processed.’
Her name was Rochelle. She didn’t offer a hint of sympathy because she didn’t have to. I wanted to ask if she could understand things from my perspective. I don’t have a job. I need one to support Angus and Kristine. I need people like her to read my application.
There were dozens of things I wanted to tell her, most of them unfriendly. I stayed calm though I’m sure she understood the tight, blunt way I spoke.
I had to be nice. Three weeks earlier I applied for another job with the same company, another role I am perfect for. I wondered how many applications they received for that role and if mine was even looked at.
‘That job on the Sunshine Coast,’ I said. ‘You wanted someone who has intimate knowledge about the new hospital. You want someone who knows all the bureaucrats involved and someone who has dealt with the Minister’s office.’ I paused to stay calm. ‘I know the project and all involved. I need to know if my application for that role was looked at.’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Can I talk to Katy?’
‘I’m not sure if she’s here?’
‘Well find out.’
After a brief period on hold Rochelle was back with a predictable answer. ‘I’m so sorry she’s not in today. I can take a message.’
‘You’ve got my details so pass them on,’ I said. ‘And I’m wondering. When you receive applications are they processed in the order you get them or in alphabetical order?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Rochelle said.
‘Sure,’ I said. I hung up and swore. The situation was grim. If applications were processed alphabetically, my surname could put me at a disadvantage.
Thousands of sacked public servants are currently vying for about five jobs in the private sector. I’d applied for about twenty jobs and given what Rochelle said, I was up against 250 other people. When the odds are that bad, skills become irrelevant. It all comes down to luck.
The state government is pleading for patience but the only way to ease the situation is to open the books and start offering jobs, because there isn’t much in the private sector.
If patience is a virtue, how long must I be virtuous for?
The break at Yamba was good. My mate Andy bought his family down. We stayed in the same complex. On Thursday morning I went into a real estate agent seeking information on acreage for sale, purely to satisfy my curiosity.
Buying acreage right now is fantasy. Buying acreage when I had a job was fantasy. I didn’t tell the agent I was wasting her time and I asked about job opportunities.
‘It’s always been hard getting a job in Yamba,’ she said. ‘But if you talk to the right people you never know.’
About seven thousand people live in Yamba. It couldn’t have been too hard to find the right people but I didn’t even look. ‘If you hear of anyone who needs a communications professional, you’ve got my details.’ I said, handing her a slip of paper.
On Friday morning I took Angus for a walk along Pippi Beach while Kristine showered and finished packing up. A pod of dolphins frolicked in the surf while a few people watched.
‘Can you see the dolphins,’ I said, pointing. Angus misunderstood, watching two middle-aged surfers striding into the waves. I took my boy south along the beach. The pod of dolphins remained about fifty metres offshore, surfing the waves, heading south too.
‘It’d be nice living here,’ I said, kissing Angus on the cheek. ‘You’d love it. Kristine can work at the medical centre and we can come down to the beach every day. I’ll teach you to cook, clean and how to make beer.’
Angus remained silent, just hanging in the harness. People walked past and said hello. A few dogs ran excitedly from the water to the dunes. An old woman stopped me and said hello to my boy.
‘You’re the second pregnant dad I’ve seen this morning,’ she said, smiling and waving at Angus. He smiled back. ‘He’s got beautiful blue eyes,’ she said. ‘You should have a look at them sometime.’
We walked on. Yamba is beautiful. The people are friendly.
About ten minutes later we turned around. ‘We have to go back to the unit then go home,’ I said. Aauugghh, Angus said.
Before we left the beach, we watched the waves, hoping for dolphins.
‘Just keep looking and hoping,’ I said. Angus watched the water. The dolphins were gone. ‘We must understand things from their perspective,’ I said.
