The morning woke him to the roar of nightmarish trucks. He lived near the ring road. Opening a window meant poisoning his respiratory system. But what did it matter? Unemployment was Nobody. And he knew it. The sun's rays were blowing his mind. He didn't have a hangover. He hadn't had a drink in ages. The headache had become an inseparable part of his existence. He opened his eyes. Monday. Another nightmarish day. Fucking boredom. Fucking job hunting. "I don't have the energy," he always said. He was tired of browsing job offers, browsing newspapers, surfing the internet. It had always been the same—for several years. He didn't even know how long he'd been unemployed. Everything was messed up: dates, times, employment certificates. He stared at the ceiling. White. A spider sat in the corner, staring at Unemployment. I wonder what a spider gets out of looking like that. How many legs does it have? he thought. Fuck, if I had that many legs, I'd get a job in a circus or at the zoo. Hmm, it would be better to beg outside the church as an invalid. I'd put my RUM book open on the unpurchased prescriptions for limb atrophy and glance at the plate. Yeah. Fuck, that spider has it good. He eats who knows what, flicks some threads, and has everything in his spidery anus. I wonder if he thinks? What does he think? Or maybe pure Being. Eat, shit, breed, and sleep. The unemployed knew this without one thing – he didn't breed. Shock. Some truck exploded with a sound like a jet plane, making the windows shake. How did he know he was going to a jet plane? He used to watch TV, Discovery. The unemployed had a TV when he was Somebody. Fuck, you have to get up. Drink some coffee and do something. What does it mean to do something? For the unemployed, doing something is doing nothing. Getting up like that, or he'll actually have limb atrophy. Brain atrophy is already underway. At least he needs legs to look presentable in the coffin. He put on the kettle. "Do I still have coffee?" He opened the cupboard. There it was. He begged it from a priest friend. The priest sometimes helps the unemployed. He poured a lot. He likes strong coffee. He waited for the water. He envied the priest for being a priest. Damn, they had so much money. School pay, parish priest pay, Christmas carols, funerals, weddings, fuck. Why didn't I become a priest? Women? Ha ha ooo. The unemployed man smiled, women? - once, condoms fell out from behind the priest's books. What's the problem? You can fuck, and then what? What then? - confession to another priest. The priest had a Nissan Primera, poor priest. Fuck, why am I not a priest? He poured water over his coffee. He turned on the radio. Before seven. He looked at the dirty windows. People were going. They were going, going, going. They were rushing to work. Some fast, some slow, some hungover, others high, they were going to work in offices, in asparagus processing plants, in carpentry shops. They're going to the fucking... because they have jobs - he heard the answer in his brain. His brain spoke to him. The unemployed man spoke aloud and his brain responded. A friendship between two morons. But what a lasting one. He sat by the window. Good coffee will give you a kick. It will stimulate you to think. For fuck's sake, thinking - said the brain, unemployed man, you are fucking existence, existence doesn't think, existence exists, hee hee, the brain is satisfied with itself, what a metaphor I've created.The unemployed man knew it was the caffeine that had messed with his neurons and triggered the electrical short circuits. How did he know? He saw and heard it on TV, on the "Health and Science" channel. When he was Somebody, he had a TV. Yes, I had a TV. The unemployed man thought for the second time today about when he had a TV and was Somebody. Another sip of warm, good coffee. How did these people get jobs? That's the question. Berobol knew how to ask questions. He'd graduated from college once.
UNEMPLOYED. Dear.
The unemployed knew how to ask questions. Sometimes even his mind wondered where he got such knowledge. But this ability to ask questions wasn't his strength; on the contrary, it was a terrible flaw. Hamlet also asked questions, the effect is well-known. The unemployed knew that asking questions didn't lead to a job. After all, what employer wants an unemployed person who asks questions? An employer who wants to bring about their own ultimate ruin. Employer, what a beautiful word. It has such power, magic, strength; behind that word lies life, smiles, happiness, dignity. The unemployed man pondered, staring out the window. And people were rushing to work. Some he knew, others he didn't. He had a moment of doubt, whether to leave the house or stay. Or maybe try? What the fuck? Slitting his wrists? I won't mess up the floor, a heater with a broken cable to the bathtub? I won't be telepaced until I shit myself. Drugs, yes, drugs are the best. I fall asleep and don't wake up. Do I have any drugs at home? He opened the cabinet where he kept various things. What is this? Hello C, Polopiryna S, and this? Magnesium. His brain listened to these unemployed people's speculations and began to whore himself, wondering if unemployment had the strength to do this, and when to start intervening. His fate was inextricably linked to the fate of unemployment. The end of unemployment meant the end of his brain. He didn't want to lose what was most precious—what constantly brought him to an orgasm of oxygen, blood, constant flows of delicate currents. Oh no, this was too good to lose, and he was lucky—there were no drugs.
Outside the window, the human traffic slowly faded. And another latecomer. She works at the city hall, issuing passports. He knew her; he'd been there once, when he was Somebody. He needed a passport, and he remembered the coffee mug with the words "Friendly Office" printed on it and the huge queue at the office. Her pace was rational—one applicant per hour.
Whenever he was in the office, it felt like he was watching a slow-motion movie, sometimes "Stop" frames. He liked it all—the balanced, distinguished art of holding a pen, the timbre of her voice, as if from a theater stage, deep, supported by the diaphragm. The unemployed man knew that work in such institutions was exclusively for clans. And he wasn't a clan member. Okay, no drugs, he had to go.
Every time he went outside, he experienced an extraordinary experience. On the one hand, joy and hope for success, on the other, a nightmarish trauma. Each time, he felt human eyes on him, their piercing eyes, contemptuous smiles, the wide berth they gave him. Unemployment reeked of unemployment. It exuded a distinctive odor recognizable to humans. The smell of sweat combined with eye secretions—once called tears—were now just drops of his own salt. He wore four-year-old jeans, a five-year-old hip-hugging jacket, and shoes from Biedronka (a discount supermarket chain) that his retired mother had bought him. He walked hunched, his head tilted toward the sidewalk; it was best not to look up. He knew every paving stone, every patch of grass, every curb. He had traveled this road for years. He even knew which dog shit was fresh and which wasn't. He knew its distribution on the lawns. Unemployment, contrary to appearances, had taught him many things. He knew how to respect a dime, how to be silent, how to ignore what others didn't care about. The sun was shining. But Bezropol knew that the sun shone differently for him than for others. Solar realism. For him, the weather was always bad; the sun's rays penetrated his skin like needles, stinging, the falling rains biting with the force of unemployment attracting the stench from the surroundings. The weather was a constant pain. His eyes had long since stopped perceiving the colors of their surroundings. He saw everything as if through a filter like a theater spotlight. And it stung like hell. He walked. Meetings with friends were the worst. He had acquaintances. Acquaintances? Not that that's a bad word. He recognized beings who recognized him. Once, they were acquaintances, friends, colleagues. Every time he saw someone—some familiar being—he wanted to hide, cross the street, take a shortcut between the apartment buildings. But he was also very lucky; they usually refused to talk to him, only bowed their heads discreetly as if in greeting. They themselves were afraid that none of their acquaintances would notice that they knew Bezjobol. He liked that. The safety of the lack of conversation. He noticed one man. That's how he remembered him when he was Someone. He helped him many times, gave him errands, honestly, the guy needed help. This being was kind, polite, and cheerful; she even drove him around in her car. She showed up at Unemployment's place at every good opportunity. He remembered that. They were on first-name terms. A thinking person noticed Unemployment, nodded, and quickened his pace as if afraid Unemployment would accost him and ask, "Have you heard of any work?" Unemployment knew he ran a construction company. Unfounded fears. Unemployment was a leper for people like this great human being, and Unemployment realized it. He wasn't worthy of talking to someone like that, he couldn't. He was at a different level of development. He was at rock bottom. And you can't rise from rock bottom. You can't bounce back. Those who say you can, how the fuck is that possible, are talking nonsense.Does the unemployed have springs in their shoes? How can moths and stones rise from the bottom of a river? Only an excavator will pull them out, maybe the river current? But where the moth goes, the moth goes down. Fucking stupidity. The unemployed went. He went to the Career Office.
Unemployed Career Office.
There are various peaks. The peak of rudeness, the peak of stupidity, the peak of impudence, the peak of power, the peak of pain, the peak of peaks, i.e., the shit on Mount Everest, but there is also the peak of cynicism – the Career Office for the unemployed. What is an office? A place where you can ask for a decision – most often unsuccessfully or at an unspecified time of issue. The unemployed have already known weather relativism, and this is time relativism. In the office, he and you are. He has the power, you don't. He can, in an instant, with a single signature, delete you for life. Delete you, and you will be deleted. He is all-powerful. He is God on earth, an official, the chosen one, the superior's anointed. And HE was in the career office. The Career Office. Whoever came up with that name should be put under the gallows. A barbed wire noose should be placed around his neck as painfully as possible and a handle pulled from a hole in the floor. Let him tremble and stagger in spasms like Judas. Gallows should have been allowed to stand in the Fourth Polish Republic. Career Office for the Unemployed. But if it existed, it must have been necessary. The unemployed didn't argue whether it was necessary or not. They didn't have the strength for such reasoning. They knew it was irrational, but they didn't need commentary. Why? The Career Office is a beautiful office. Magnificent glass doors, a beautiful large hall, a break room perfectly equipped for office staff, a manager's office, new furniture, computer cabinets, two conference and training rooms. The restrooms were locked. The unemployed won't be cramming new toilets, Mrs. Manager. The only advantage he got from the Unemployment Office was that he could read the press for free and browse online offers. That was the office's advantage. There were only two newspaper headlines, half the pages were unavailable online. It doesn't matter, we build illusions. The unemployed's lives are made up of illusions, and they know it well. By building illusions, we build a sick hope. Why do the unemployed need hope? That we—we—are needed and money is needed for us. He remembered these words from some training session. The unemployed used to be "Someone"—he trained. The place was a mecca. The unemployed sat down at a beautiful new club table. He picked up the first title and turned it over to the offers. It was a service. Like in church. Touching such a newspaper, he could imagine the offers waiting for him. He could see the queue of employers who wanted him. He imagined that whoever placed them there had placed them thinking of him. He opened each page with reverence, scrutinizing every tiny print with his eyes, swallowing the words, swallowing the verses, swallowing the sentences, swallowing the newspaper, swallowing his tongue, his thoughts, "We're looking for, we're hiring," He swallowed it and choked on it, nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing for him. Nothing. Reality returned, unemployment and nothing, nothing, and totalitarian unemployment. Fuck, how it hurts, how it hurts. He loved watching them, the chosen ones in the office. He always stole glances at their work, imagining he was there in their place. There were three chosen ones. An office like this requires such staff. The manager,A woman in her early 30s, ugly, horrible, and disgusting. Her voice screeched. The deputy manager, a young, chosen one from Ostrynów, constantly stared at his GG. And she, a specialist, young, thin, hopelessly made-up, with massive acne, staring at singles websites. The chosen ones, anointed, they are the Holy Trinity. The Holy Trinity. Whenever he went in, the manager would browse the latest IKEA offers online, and there wasn't a moment when she wasn't talking on the phone at taxpayer expense about dresses, fucking shoes, and sanitary pads. husband, food, lipsticks, perfumes, shops, fuck, fuck, fuck, and she talked, talked, and ... He wondered this question, but his brain wasn't stupid. His brain had long since stood on its veiny legs quite firmly... Fuck, you can't be anointed. You see unemployment, there are mountains and there are valleys. There are worms, single-cell bacteria. And they are beautiful, proud, they in beautiful suits and costumes, in beautiful shoes, leather bags. They are unemployed, and that's how it should be. The brain got so worked up about itself, he spoke so beautifully today. He was proud of himself. You're fucking there, you can't even see it this low. And you see them because they're high up. Reach where the eye cannot reach, break what the mind cannot break. And Bzerobol reached, reached, but didn't reach, broke. He broke, broke, but he couldn't break. You see, you can't even reach out and break. The brain had already become entangled in its own thinking. The brain was already tired. The demons of the everyday life of unemployment had awakened. The unemployed had left the table; today, the internet wasn't working. Strange, in their rooms, it worked for the unemployed, but it didn't. That's how it should be, the brain snapped. That's how it should be. And so it was. He left through the same glass door he'd entered through, not touching the glass, pulling his sweater over his hand so as not to stain the doorknob with the smell of unemployment. He left and felt like crying again. He forgot what crying was, he had no tears, he had no more tears.Perfume shops, fuck, fuck, fuck, and she talked, talked, and ... He wondered this question, but his brain wasn't stupid. His brain had long since stood on its veiny legs quite firmly... Fuck, you can't be anointed. You see unemployment, there are mountains and there are valleys. There are worms, single-cell bacteria. And they are beautiful, proud, they in beautiful suits and costumes, in beautiful shoes, leather bags. They are unemployed, and that's how it should be. The brain got so worked up about itself, he spoke so beautifully today. He was proud of himself. You're fucking there, you can't even see it this low. And you see them because they're high up. Reach where the eye cannot reach, break what the mind cannot break. And Bzerobol reached, reached, but didn't reach, broke. He broke, broke, but he couldn't break. You see, you can't even reach out and break. The brain had already become entangled in its own thinking. The brain was already tired. The demons of the everyday life of unemployment had awakened. The unemployed had left the table; today, the internet wasn't working. Strange, in their rooms, it worked for the unemployed, but it didn't. That's how it should be, the brain snapped. That's how it should be. And so it was. He left through the same glass door he'd entered through, not touching the glass, pulling his sweater over his hand so as not to stain the doorknob with the smell of unemployment. He left and felt like crying again. He forgot what crying was, he had no tears, he had no more tears.Perfume shops, fuck, fuck, fuck, and she talked, talked, and ... He wondered this question, but his brain wasn't stupid. His brain had long since stood on its veiny legs quite firmly... Fuck, you can't be anointed. You see unemployment, there are mountains and there are valleys. There are worms, single-cell bacteria. And they are beautiful, proud, they in beautiful suits and costumes, in beautiful shoes, leather bags. They are unemployed, and that's how it should be. The brain got so worked up about itself, he spoke so beautifully today. He was proud of himself. You're fucking there, you can't even see it this low. And you see them because they're high up. Reach where the eye cannot reach, break what the mind cannot break. And Bzerobol reached, reached, but didn't reach, broke. He broke, broke, but he couldn't break. You see, you can't even reach out and break. The brain had already become entangled in its own thinking. The brain was already tired. The demons of the everyday life of unemployment had awakened. The unemployed had left the table; today, the internet wasn't working. Strange, in their rooms, it worked for the unemployed, but it didn't. That's how it should be, the brain snapped. That's how it should be. And so it was. He left through the same glass door he'd entered through, not touching the glass, pulling his sweater over his hand so as not to stain the doorknob with the smell of unemployment. He left and felt like crying again. He forgot what crying was, he had no tears, he had no more tears.And they are beautiful, proud, in beautiful suits and costumes, in beautiful shoes, leather bags. They are unemployed, and that's how it should be. The brain got so worked up about itself, he spoke so beautifully today. He was proud of himself. You're fucking there, you can't even see it so low. And you see them because they're high up. Reach where the eye doesn't reach, break what reason can't break. And Unemployment reached, reached, but didn't reach. He broke, broke, broke, but couldn't break. You see, Unemployment can't even reach and break. The brain has already looped itself in its own thinking. The brain was already tired. The demons of the everyday life of the unemployed have awakened. Unemployment got up from the table, but today the internet isn't working. Strangely, in their rooms, it worked for the unemployed, but it didn't work. That's how it's supposed to be, his brain snapped. That's how it's supposed to be. And so it was. He left through the same glass door he'd entered through, not touching the glass, pulling his sweater over his hand so as not to stain the doorknob with the smell of unemployment. He left and felt like crying again. He'd forgotten what crying was, he had no tears, he had no tears anymore.And they are beautiful, proud, in beautiful suits and costumes, in beautiful shoes, leather bags. They are unemployed, and that's how it should be. The brain got so worked up about itself, he spoke so beautifully today. He was proud of himself. You're fucking there, you can't even see it so low. And you see them because they're high up. Reach where the eye doesn't reach, break what reason can't break. And Unemployment reached, reached, but didn't reach. He broke, broke, broke, but couldn't break. You see, Unemployment can't even reach and break. The brain has already looped itself in its own thinking. The brain was already tired. The demons of the everyday life of the unemployed have awakened. Unemployment got up from the table, but today the internet isn't working. Strangely, in their rooms, it worked for the unemployed, but it didn't work. That's how it's supposed to be, his brain snapped. That's how it's supposed to be. And so it was. He left through the same glass door he'd entered through, not touching the glass, pulling his sweater over his hand so as not to stain the doorknob with the smell of unemployment. He left and felt like crying again. He'd forgotten what crying was, he had no tears, he had no more tears.
UNEMPLOYED. CHRYSANTHEMUM.
The tears streaming from his eyes were probably the only sign he was alive. Dead bodies, after a while, when the worms have eaten them, don't get any. But he did. So he fucking existed. His brain thought, "I'm alive." It's OK. Unemployed left the office. The sunlight hurt again. Head down, the starting position. Where to go? What to do with my time? I can't afford bread again. Unemployed thoughts always revolved around fixed points. Hope perfidiously built up by them, food, and sleep. Nothing but nothing in return... hmm. That's all. So he walked to kill time somehow. He knew where he would go. There were places where Unemployed felt good. He sat on a bench by the street. Cars were driving. They were driving. Where do people get cars? So nice. Where do they go? Why do they drive? He looked at the vehicles. They fucking have cars because they work. They have wives and families who love them. They have jobs. Unemployment, so they have cars. My friend, the brain, intervened in the dialogue. You'll never have that. Even the homeless are better than you. You know why? Because they don't know shame. And you are a shame. Not only a shame for being unemployed, but a shame for others: for your mother, a pensioner, for your father who disowned you, for the children you fathered because you couldn't support them, for the wife you once had because you couldn't support her. You are a huge SHAME. Unemployment, a shame. Even an imaginary number is worth more than you.
He stood up. What the fuck will looking at cars like that gain him? Nothing. There was a place where Bzrobol felt good, the only place where he was among his own kind. Where there was no life, where every breath was death. Where there was nothingness and one form of regret: regret for being alive. It was a cemetery. He liked going there. He didn't have many human qualities left in him, but liking something so much. He liked going to the cemetery.
One thing distinguished him from those there. They were dead corpses, he was a living corpse. And he regretted, like a damn regret, that he was no longer with them. He was so jealous of them, so jealous that they were there and he was here, that they didn't have to do anything, that they weren't there. He was there and he was gone. A jobless being. He sat on a bench near one of the mounds, a grave dear to him. His grandmother lay there. His beloved grandmother. He was born exactly in 1900 and lived to be 86 years old. She saw him grow, saw him cry, saw him fall in love. And then he saw her lying in a coffin in the cemetery chapel. She alone was close to him. Flowers stood on the tombstone. Chrysanthemums. There was no wind. Grandma, can you hear me? The flowers bowed. Grandma, my dear grandma. The dialogue between Unemployed and Grandma always lasted at least an hour. Of course, to the rational brain, it had little significance. The brain tolerated his obsession with flowers for purely practical reasons. Unemployed was bullshitting, so Unemployed lived as he lived, which is oxygen.
So everyone is happy. In this place, Unemployed often returned to the past. He thought back to the times when he was Someone. He returned home to where the children were waiting, smiling, two little angels, and dinner was cooked. Fuck, it's been so long since he'd had a normal dinner. Besides, what does normal even mean? He knew his place in the Darwinian hierarchy and knew that this was his normality. Unemployed is unemployed. That's how you light candles. He went to another grave, took a candle, moved it, and set it down. He stole, he simply stole. But is it theft to give someone a little silver? Is it theft to take a few pennies from the church basket for newspapers to buy bread? Is that theft? Is it a greater sin to starve to death?
