number of things—women who haven’t been in the workforce in years and are suddenly widowed or divorced and just ready to get back to work and find their skills and experience rusty, maybe illness, a family member’s illness, military men and women whose skills don’t match the current job market or who have been displaced since active duty, homeless people trying to get on their feet, maybe drug addicts in recovery, migrants or refugees, anything that took them out of the job market for a while and they need help reconnecting. If you read any of the intake forms, please remember that information is confidential.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Don’t give advice. Leave that to the counselors. Just be friendly, welcoming, ask them if they’ve been here before, if not give them an intake form.”
“And should I answer the phone?”
“Of course! Answer Banyon Community College Reentry and Employment Counseling. I’ll answer my own phone or if I can’t, it’ll go to voice mail. If a call comes for me on the general number, my extension is 515. Good?”
“Good,” Adele said a little weakly.
Shortly, a few women began to trickle in and timidly approach her desk. Most of them looked the way she felt—scared and nervous and shy.
“Just fill out this intake form and then one of the counselors can help direct you to the best services,” Adele would say.
They would invariably tell her what had happened to them.
“My husband left and I thought he’d come back but here I am. I’ll have to work.”
“My husband lost his job and can’t find another, so I’m going to have to go back to work.”
“I was a corporate administrative assistant until my first child came along, and I’ve been a stay-at-home mom, but—”
Then a woman came in who said, “My husband died and there’s no money and I’m seventy. Do you think I can get a job at my age?”
Addie was frozen for a moment. Stricken. She’d been worried about her fifty-two-year-old sister, but seventy? People should be retired at seventy. But what if you couldn’t?
“I’m not a counselor, just a receptionist,” she said. “Go ahead and fill out this intake form and someone will help you.”
A couple of counselors came in. She met Felicity who looked like she sounded, a slight, very young, freckled redhead. “Yay! Secretarial help!” she said as she greeted Adele.
Ross, an African American woman of about fifty, was not so chipper, which was somehow more appealing. “I’m Ross,” she said. “I guess you drew the short straw. You getting along all right?”
“I hope so. It’s so new,” Adele said.
“Just ask for help if you need it.”
At one point Fran stuck her head out of her office door and said, “Check your email. I set it up for you.”
She looked. There was a message for her that said, “Will you please print this out for me? Fran.” So she did, taking it to her. Then the printer displayed a low ink error message. Only slightly terrified of breaking something, Adele opened cupboards and pulled out drawers until she found a box of cartridges, and changed the depleted one. She printed a sample page and actually put a hand to her chest in ecstasy. She’d done it! When she was evaluated later to assess her job skills, she’d make sure to mention this.
It’s a receptionist job, she reminded herself. I was halfway to my master’s! I may not be too handy with office work, but I’m way overeducated.
A beautiful woman came into the office. She was dressed to the nines, too. She introduced herself as Carmon Fautz, an engineer. She was looking for work. Her husband, a doctor, had wanted her to stay home to raise their children, and now he was leaving her and she needed a job.
“But you’re an engineer!” Adele said, forgetting herself.
“Have you ever heard of the half-life of engineers?” she asked. “The advances are rapid-fire, and a few years out of engineering put me way behind. I’m hoping for some new ideas. And I hope this is the place to find them.”