Terminated

"What?"

"Your pass code to get into the building."

"4700."

And with the surrender of those four digits, I have sealed the door behind me and joined the ranks of the unemployed.

Able Seaman

Welcome to my unemployment. In the age of slippery reality TV, this article is a glimpse into the first six weeks of joblessness, from the initial elation of freedom and the camaraderie of your fellow "letgoees" to the nighttime sweats that come with the threat of bankruptcy and loss of health care. I'm a big believer in the idea that nothing happens until it happens to you. Lately, I've been cutting out notices of nationwide layoffs as if they're obituaries. The numbers are startling -- tens of thousands in the auto industry, up to 200,000 in commercial banking. ATA Airlines bankrupt and "virtually all the employees" told their jobs are gone.

And they all have families. I can feel their pain. My wife, Chris, works for a small company with lousy benefits. My debt -- too many ski trips -- far outweighs my savings. My two children are grown, but my son is still in college and extremely needy, as in, "Dad, I need $168 for this macroeconomics book." He's about to get the economics lesson of his life. He's oblivious. And in this weird twilight, even I can't quite feel it. Not yet.

The big company sets you free with enough severance to cover short-term debts, entree to a high-priced career planner and mental health counseling to ward off "the blues," but where does it end? How do you make the transition or reinvent yourself when jobs are few, image is everything and competition is fierce? Being thrust into the job market after 20 years is akin to suddenly having to take your driver's license road test all over again. You thought you were good for life, and now he's back, this bespectacled guy in a skinny tie, shaking his head and checking off all the wrong boxes. You just know you are going to fail.

A former associate whose position was eliminated a few months ago recently notified me that, at age 42, she has moved back in with her mom. It's a trend I'm sure you're already reading about.

So I better relate this story while I can still see the humor in it. Something tells me that, a year from now, you're not going to want to hear from me. None of you will be returning my calls. And even if you do, my mom will probably be picking up.

Upon hearing the news of my termination, Laura, the office manager, told me quite simply, "I'm worried. Jana is beautiful and younger, and Bob is Bob, but you, you I worry about. You need someplace to go."

I go to the unemployment Web site.

Signing up for unemployment benefits puts it all into perspective: I'm screwed. My particular brand of expertise is evaporating more quickly than boiling hot dog water.