I went back to work. Six months since the last contract. The timing wasn’t great with Lily just home from treatment but when you’ve been out of work for that long any timing will do. And when I heard it was time I felt it deep inside, I was ready.

That’s because work gives me a feeling of self-worth. The money is good, but it’s the other intangibles that make work so important. In the absence of paid work I scurry around the house trying to mimic the same activity. Because I need work to feel good about myself and and to give something to my wife and kids. For me it’s a form of love.

I’m getting older and I’m reminded of that when I look at myself on screen. I record all my meetings and then go back to review the transcript or replay afterwards. These are tech contracts so the people speak a different language. It’s still English, it’s just cloaked in jargon and nuance, acronyms. I nod and understand maybe half of what they’re saying, then fill in later.

On the first day back to work we had our septic tank pumped. The filter is supposed to be cleaned annually but we hadn’t done ours in five years. Though they are buried underground you can see where the lids are because the grass is really green and thick there. It was starting to pool up.

I stood with my pressed polo shirt and antique watch while the guy dug. Then I went inside and put on my Carhartts so I could help. I was supposed to be online starting my new job but dealing with our waste took precedence. The septic guy said his daughter was named Lily too. I thought about what he did and what I did and both of us dealt with human waste. He got paid to suck out shit and me as a marketer, I got paid to make it.

I thought about his daughter Lily telling other kids at school that her dad cleans out septic tanks, how they would make fun of her for that. But his work clearly mattered to people like me at times like this. Then I thought about my work, this contract where I’d create PowerPoint decks to enhance sales narratives for Microsoft salespeople, “bridge content” between the industry sales narrative and solution plays. I got to write, that’s what mattered. I got to help people sell, to do their jobs better. And I could provide for my family too.

I was getting up early again, before 5. I opened all the windows to cool down the house and sat on the lawn chairs, wet with morning dew. Sat listening to the first birds while the coffee maker brewed. Glad to be working again, to have somewhere to be and someone counting on me. All that waste had to go somewhere. It was better we didn’t understand how it really worked, until it didn’t.

Categories: Memoir, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, identity