As I mentioned in a previous post, the changing economy has been relatively unkind to my family. In mid-December, I was laid off from a copy-editing job that had made small diversions like buying two or three books once in a while, eating out at a mid-priced restaurant, and seeing an occasional show feasible. Since then, the job market in Cincinnati has been — to be kind — brutal. Luckily, my wife still had a great job that made the necessities possible.

Then, last Tuesday, I got that long-awaited call. I had an interview. Maybe the economy here in Cincinnati wasn’t as bad as I had thought. Maybe the stimulus package and the housing bill had already started working its hermetic magic. Maybe, if the interview went well, my wife and I could once again look forward to the uncertain future.

On Wednesday morning, my wife helped me get ready (yes, it’s come to that point), ensuring that my goatee was neatly coiffed and that I had a black-gray-and-white shirt-sweater-slacks-tie ensemble that somehow managed to make me look like a long-lost member of The Hives without sacrificing an iota of professionalism. I was feeling good. Like a rock star. Like a rock star with a masters degree. Like a rock star who did his undergraduate degree at one of the best universities in the world. Like a rock star with impeccable references.

Unfortunately, at the interview, I probably performed about as well as Ashlee Simpson at the Orange Bowl. I was, naturally, nervous and out of practice, and the interviewers did absolutely nothing to ease those nerves. Instead, they handed me a pop quiz and ushered me into an unfinished conference room where workmen were scaling a step ladder into the ceiling to bang something metallic into shape. And, let’s just say that without that reassuring handshake and bright “hello” that seems a hallmark of most business decorum, the interview, like Ashlee Simpson’s performance, quickly transformed itself from something worth celebrating into an ordeal.

Still, I was hopeful. I’d take a day and think about how I missed the right notes in my presentation by not making enough eye contact or failing to explain sufficiently the work that I’ve done in the past or not laughing at one of the interviewers’ mean-spirited attempts at humor. We’d still be ok. This, I reasoned, was progress.

Then, the next day, my wife came home early. She, too, had gotten laid off.

And when I heard the news, what could I say? Maybe, I could have said something like, “We’ll manage” or “We’ll get by.”

I said, “Fuck.”

You see, we are now entirely jobless and dependent on her severance, some meager savings and a few of the remaining provisions of LBJ’s Great Society. Now, rather than feeling deep sympathy for those people who may lose their homes, we are them. We are the statistics that have dampened the so-called free economy. Oh, wait, that was before my wife got laid off. The first-time jobless claims, to which her slice of misfortune will be a portion of a percentage point, have yet to arrive, though the National Association for Business Economics just released a report suggesting that she’ll have company soon. The U.S. unemployment rate may reach 9% this year.

Yep, I’m guessing that there market is going to drop a wee bit more.

So by Thursday night, I no longer felt like a long-lost member of the Hives or even Ashlee Simpson. I felt more like Britney Spears in late 2007. Only, you know, without the media coverage. Or the fans. Or the assets to liquidate. Or the recording contract I could use to bounce back.

Ok. I felt nothing like Britney Spears. I’m just not pretty enough to make that simile work, even if I did shave my head last year. More, though you could point to random decisions I’ve made over the course of my life that haven’t worked out as well as I’d hoped (like moving to Cincinnati and buying a house), it would be difficult to pinpoint one instance (or a coherent series of instances) where either my wife or I made a clearly poor decision. Sure, I should have written that novel already. Sure, we both should have saved more since the time we were wee infants.  But…

Then, of course, there’s that list of maybes — too long to be cataloged — any one of which might have made some tangible difference in the way the world looks to us right now.

Sound familiar?

So, yeah, I guess I’m nothing like Britney. But, the real difference between Britney and folks like me is that she seemed to have lost control. Whereas, we, lucky us, get to realize that we never really had much control in the first place. We seldom do anything detrimental to ourselves; instead the detritus of other people’s detriments tumble down like some Tower of Babel.

Surely our president, our senators, and our congressmen know this?

Well, maybe…

Let’s see, by April 1, you should start seeing your tax cut, assuming you still have a job. Of course, this year, that amounts to a little more than $13 a week for an average taxpayer. In 2010, that plummets to almost $8. This, of course, will make all the difference: by April, thank your stars, you will be able to afford to eat at McDonald’s once a week. Is it just me or does this instance of reaching across the aisle feel a little bit more like an unwelcome reach around?

Granted, from my perspective, there’s a lot to like in the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act. I like the notion, for example, that states will receive aid to help them avoid the need for further cuts or increased taxes. More, I like the idea of expanding the Pell Grant program, and I’m even happy with the notion that this bill will help our country move toward a greener tomorrow on bridges that are less likely to collapse.

Still, I can’t help but get stuck on the 3.5 million jobs that will be created or saved. Compare that, for example, to the 8 million jobs created by the WPA between 1935 and 1943. Or if you’re feeling morbid, compare it to the 5 million people who, as of February 7, are receiving unemployment. And keep in mind, that doesn’t include those who are no longer eligible for unemployment.

Is it possible that I could end up being one of them? Even with a college degree? A masters? Extensive work experience? A winning personality and an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture?

I hope not.

Nevertheless, the fact that I’m even contemplating that possibility should tell you something the news and politicians have thus far neglected to mention: the demographics of our great nation may very well be changing for the long term. A college degree may no longer be enough to move from working to middle class, and any aspirations beyond that may, in fact, be reserved to the insanely lucky.

Of course I may be wrong.

The housing plan could work. It will be fantastic, for example, if you are buying your first home now. I could certainly have used that $7,500 tax credit when we bought ours. Or now. But these days, who exactly will qualify for those mortgages? And how many of those $7,500 tax credits will help pay for people to buy foreclosed homes?

And then there’s the refinancing provision, which could certainly help everyone with nasty ARMs or balloon payments. Of course, even if you manage to get an FHA backed loan under the provision, the FHA basically owns any foreseeable equity for the first few years, and five years after you’ve signed that deal, the FHA owns 50% of all the equity. And that percentage never drops. So, if you need to sell the house (now more appropriately appraised), you’ve just given the government whatever hope of equity in your home you once had.

Hope you don’t lose your job and need to relocate. Or was that how you got here in the first place?

Confused?

Don’t worry: soon an Office of Housing Consulting will be able to answer your questions.

It could work. Seriously.

And I could be a rock star. I could sing about how the American Dream has gone the way of Horatio Alger novels. I could sing about the working man, assuming he still exists. I could sing many a familiar ditty, like this one that’s been rattling around in my head since my wife told me that she, like millions of others, had just gotten laid off:

No future, no future, no future….

But I don’t want to sing out of anger. I just want the government to help with three simple requests: I want a good job, a home with a fair note that won’t get taken from me, and to not feel like someone — or rather something — is out to rip me off. I don’t know if the politicians can hear us over their bickering and spin, if the issues seem too complex to them, if they’ve simply arrived too late to make a difference, or if the lobbyists have already discovered each new senator’s asking price.

But here’s the catch. We don’t need them. We can do it.

If you hear another story like this, do what you can to help. Keep your eyes out for jobs of all sorts and send any openings you see to friends, neighbors, and whoever. Ask people — neighbors, random people in the street — how they’re doing. Barter. Give gifts. Support charities. Buy lunch for someone who might need a bite to eat. Invite random people to share a meal with you.

And if you’re in a position to hire someone, take advantage of this market. Be sympathetic to interviewees. Hire as many people as you can. Don’t squeeze the consumer. Remember the basics of offering a fair service at a fair price. And keep as many people as you can — even if you have to operate at a loss.

Is that enough? No, probably not. But what if you added a few simple, kind ideas? What if everyone you know added a compassionate idea or two? How many people could we keep at work and in their homes?

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