On the Friday before Father’s Day, I lost my job, and Chocolate Diapers had nothing to do with it. In an instant, my nine-to-five, half our income, and my livelihood were gone. I’ve been unemployed before, but not since I’ve been a father, so this was, in addition to being upsetting, kind of strange.

After the tears and the bat-to-the-face shock subsided, Amy said that now I could spend more time with Jake.

It occurred to me that I’d never spent a full day with Jake, just the two of us. I had run errands with just him, and we had our weekday afternoons and Sunday mornings when I didn’t voluntarily pass out on the couch, but never a father-son day. Amy is off Wednesdays and calls it her Mommy-Jake day. I tested the idea with Jake while he and I (not passed out) sat on the couch Father’s Day morning.

“Jakey,” I said. “Daddy doesn’t have a job anymore, but the good news is that we can spend more time together.”

He nodded slightly.

“You know how you have Mommy-Jake Day? Well, tomorrow is going to be Daddy-Jake Day!”

Jake handed me the remote without making eye contact. “Watch Sessie Elmo,” he said.

We started the next day by returning a mattress cover to Bed, Bath and Beyond. We came home and played in the basement, and Jake told me that,

“Mommy so so pretty. Daddy so so bald.”

“But am I also so so pretty?” I asked.

“No.”

“I’m just so so bald?”

“Ah hah.”

“So you’re saying being bald and pretty are mutually exclusive?”

“Yes.”

We took a trip to Costco for another return and waited in line with a man in a shirt and tie with a Blue Tooth in his ear—clearly on his lunch break— furiously scrolling his Blackberry. I tried a little too hard to pretend that I wasn’t unemployed. I began making shit up loud enough for Mr. Blackberry to hear.

“Isn’t this nice having the day off!” I yelled at Jake. “I’m so glad I’ve accrued enough PTO to have a day like this! I have to write SEVEN proposals tomorrow.”  I shook my head at Mr. Blackberry,  an engaging gesture that I understood his world. He just frowned at me.

You can’t just return something at Costco and leave. For a moment in the liquor section, I lost myself, casually grabbing a bottle of Macallan 12, which costs $40. I came to before placing it in the cart.

That’s right. Got to be more cautious now.

I put it back on the shelf. We bought nothing, and instead of stopping somewhere for lunch, we ate free samples of Swedish meatballs, Kirkland tortilla chips and hummus, Home Run Pizza triangles, Nestle Toll House chocolate chip cookies and Flinstones vitamins.

When we got home and went on a walk, Jake inquired about mushrooms sticking out of our neighbor’s grass.

“Jakey eat it?”

“No, you’ll hallucinate.”

“Hawoosnate.”

“Right.”

Before putting Jake down for nap, we did our customary rocky rocky time on the glider. He understands when we tell him that the babysitter is coming or that we’re leaving town or that we’re taking him to the doctor. I wanted to discuss my situation more, but he was being silly.

“Daddy is unemployed,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said laughing.

“Is that funny?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it going to be funny when we have to sell your crib and use food stamps?”

He went to sleep, and I filed for unemployment benefits and started applying for positions. Amy, ever the planner, got the ball rolling the moment I broke the bad news to her. She updated my profile on Monster, CareerBuilder and Indeed, and created job alerts. Lists of  good-looking corporate communication opportunities waited for me in my inbox, and friends were reaching out to their contacts on my behalf. I made good progress while Jake slept, and suddenly, I felt a little better. Jake woke up in a good mood, and that lifted me even more. Then he headbutted the shit out of me.

Amy and I discussed ways we’d need to cut back until I got a new job: fewer dinners out, babysitters maybe once a month, scale back daycare from three to two days a week, cancel Netflix and our wine club membership. I knew the wine club would be nosy, and when they inevitably asked why I was canceling, I’d tell them it was none of their fucking business. The call went like this:

Me: I need to cancel our membership for now?

Girl: Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask why?

Me: I lost my job.

Girl: Oh no. Are you doing okay?

Me: I am. Still kind of shocked, but I’m hanging in there.

Girl: Well, I’m sure you’ll find something soon, and you can always rejoin when you’re ready.

Me: Yeah, it’s still so new. I didn’t see it coming at all. It’s really tough to swallow.

Girl: Okay, well…

Me: I guess I’m kind of a stay-at-home dad now, which isn’t so bad because I get to see more of my son.

Girl: That’s great. Well, when you’re ready, just…

Me: At least now the job market’s better. A year ago, I would’ve been screwed.

Girl: Yeah. Okay well…

Me: So it looks pretty promising, you know?

Girl: Yep. Okay, have a good day Mr. Telisman.

I showed her.

Having been in this awful place before, I knew I had to quickly establish a routine, otherwise I’d drown. Like I would at work, I’ve been setting daily agendas:

• Apply to jobs
• Follow up with my network
• Update Linkedin profile
• Dishes
• Laundry
• Marinate chicken
• Swim

I’ve been operating from our home office, which Amy and Jake have decorated for me.

There is a silver lining to all this. There are a lot of neat jobs out there, and they seem to present bigger and better opportunities. Also, I’m really enjoying this time with Jake. I may never have this opportunity again. Jake is succeeding in wrapping me more around his finger. I don’t yell as much, and when he says he wants a sucker candy for breakfast, I give it to him.

I wouldn’t wish unemployment on anyone except the people who bestowed it upon me. That and scabies. It damages your self-worth, and that horrible moment when they tell you you’re out creates a new trauma for you. It’s enough to crumble you. But things are looking up for me. I have three interviews scheduled, and everyday I find job postings that excite me. I’ve got momentum, and I’ve got Jake.

I take one look at him, and I need no other motivation.

Railroad crossings used to make me anxious because I hated getting stuck at them. As I’d approach, and suddenly the lights would flash and the barricades dropped, I’d feel like a complete loser.

“Goddamn it!” I’d yell and watch the train roll by.

In that moment I questioned every decision I made leading up to that point:

• Why didn’t I leave the house sooner?
• Why did I waste time tying laces when I could have worn flip flops?
• Did I really have to stop and feed Jake?

Sometimes reckless thoughts enter my mind. Hmm. The barricades are down, but the train is a good 100 yards away. I should go for it! I’m sure I’d make it, but I wouldn’t want the train to honk at me. It’s like getting yelled at when you know you’re wrong. And if I didn’t make it, I’d be killed. So there’s that.

There’s a crossing on West Lake Avenue near my house where I get stuck a lot. That it’s so close to my home makes getting stuck more aggravating, especially when I have a code brown.

A neat thing is happening though. I don’t mind getting stuck anymore. In fact, when I’m with Jake, I look forward to it. He loves trains, and the glow in his face when he hears and sees one is simply indelible. “Kids make everything better” suddenly isn’t an entirely bullshit statement.

What used to irritate me has changed into a bonding opportunity.   On Tuesday, I turned onto West Lake and hoped for a train. Sure enough the lights flashed, the barricades dropped, and the cars in front of us stopped.

“Jakey!” I beamed. “A train is coming!”

He smiled widely. “Wow! Train. See it!”  It was a long cargo train.

I turned to my mesmerized son. “This is cool, isn’t it?”

“So so cool,” he said.

The train continued, and Jake craned his neck and said something that sounded like “go kart.”

“Go kart?” I said.

“Go car,” he said. Then for clarification, “GO CAR.”

I got it.  “Oh, you want the cars to go?”

“Yeah.”

“So we could get close, and you could see the train better?”

“Yeah.”

“But if the cars go, they’ll get hit by the train.”

“Ah ha.”

“Do you want that?”

“Ah ha.”

“You want cars to get hit by the train?”

“Yes.”

“There will be bloodshed. Do you want bloodshed?”

“Yes.”

“Body parts will be strewn about. Do you want that?”

“Ah ha.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”   I did nothing, and my disappointed son continued to crane his neck and command the cars to go. I let him down.

Perhaps seeing an androgynous human being at a bus stop would cheer him up. After the train passed, we came to a stop sign, and that person was waiting for the bus.  Claudia or Claudio—we’ll call said person—wore jeans and a polo shirt, had curly hair, some boobs and a soul patch. I studied the person more and mumbled, “What is that?”

“Womanman,” Jake answered jubilantly.  He pointed and repeated himself, “Womanman.”

Niceties first:

• Over Memorial Day weekend, we attended a beautiful wedding, watching the last of my un-hitched college friends get married.
• We visited dear friends and family.
• I brought Amy to my high school in the Bronx and reconnected with teachers and administrators whom I haven’t seen in 18 years.
• And I ate perhaps the best slice of pizza I’ve ever had.

Everything else was horrible.

We knew ahead of time that it would be a whirlwind of a trip, fitting in all of the above in three days. But I, the optimist, found comfort in the fact that we would not be flying with Jake or waking up with him. That mattered little. Our hopes of relaxation were dashed by the chaos, heat, filth and shitness that is New York City.

After being solicited by nine unlicensed and over priced vigilante drivers, we took a real cab from LaGuardia Airport that had no air conditioning. Fifty dollars and an hour of screech and go later, we checked into our claustrophobic and dangerous Columbus Circle hotel room. While inside the room, I felt like I was in the trash compactor scene in the original Star Wars. The walls weren’t closing in, but I had no reason to believe there wasn’t a garbage monster living in the blue carpet. The beds (Yes that’s plural, because why put one fucking bed in a tiny room?) had wooden frames with jutting corners as sharp as spears. Each time I moved, one of the corners jabbed my shin.

At least we had a view of the place where junkies come to die.

Walking the steamy, rank streets of the West Side, I couldn’t avoid a corner where someone wanted me to buy something. Peddlers peddled anything: bus tours, homemade postcards, shirts, electronics, shawarma. Ice cream trucks called Mr. Softy stopped in the middle of the street (the middle of the street) to feed amorphous Ohioans.

Great city planning Mayor Bloomberg. After dissolving term-limits and declaring yourself Absolute Monarch, did you get everyone together and say, “Men, let’s turn this city into the largest flea market in the world!”? 

I wanted to bring our luggage down to the streets to see what we could sell, but there wasn’t enough time.  Say what you will about Chicago politics, but Mayor Daley doesn’t put up with that shit in the city. Our streets are clean. Repressed Amish teenagers on their Rumspringa can stroll Michigan Avenue unapproached by some pushy vendor trying to sell them picture frames.

Still, I kept trying to like New York. I lived in the Bronx as a teenager and loved taking trips into Manhattan. I romanticized New York City as the creative center of the world  where the greatest opportunities lay. Even on this trip, I found myself awed by Broadway, the Carnegie Deli and the global headquarters of major corporations. But to call this place the greatest city in the world is absolute horseshit.

When the mugginess causes my balls to stick to my leg, I expect the greatest city in the world to be air conditioned. Except for our hotel room, where we spent the least time, nowhere—restaurants, drugstores, cabs, buses—provided air conditioner. It’s like a thing in New York, and it was intolerable.

Call me overly utopic, but I think the greatest city in the world should try to contain vermin. After dinner one night, we grabbed dessert at the famed Magnolia Bakery in a posh West Side neighborhood. There wasn’t space to eat inside (Shocker!), so we stood on the sidewalk lined with small trees that sat in beds of mini bushes. A mouse scurried out of the one closest to us to snatch a crumb and returned to the bushes. Okay, I thought, big cities have mice. At least it wasn’t a rat. Not one second later, like a digitized special effect, up to 30 mice zipped out.

“Oh Christ!” I shouted and jumped in Amy’s arms.

Even more disturbing, the mice hung around; they weren’t afraid of people. Does Chicago have mice? Yes. Are there terrifyingly plump rats. Absolutely. Do they brazenly hangout in front of Alinea, Tru and Roy’s? No, because we have alleys. We don’t pile our garbage in front of our businesses. We give a shit.

Our flight was scheduled for 4 p.m. on Tuesday, giving us enough time to visit Fordham Prep in the early afternoon. We were food, alcohol and heat fatigued, but we had enough energy for one final event. We arrived, I shook hands with the alumni relations director, and Amy got a call from American Airlines that our flight was cancelled due to weather. But there was a chance we could go on standby for a later flight.

“But it’s sunny here, and it’s sunny in Chicago,” Amy told them. Right, they said, but there was bad weather everywhere between. Of course.

We carried on with the tour of the school while trying to come up with a plan. Jake would be fine because he was with my in-laws. We’d have to make arrangements to miss work and to find a hotel in Queens for the night. We would have to cover the cost of transportation and the hotel. American Airlines is not monetarily responsible for what they term an “Act of God.” I wondered if I could make diarrhea on the face of Gerard J. Arpey, Chairman, President and CEO of American Airlines and claim it was an act of God. Arpey. What kind of name is that? Asshole. Fuck you.

We took a sixty dollar cab ride to LaGuardia from the Bronx to learn that all American Airlines flights to Chicago for the remainder of the day head been cancelled. Our only option to get the fuck out was a United flight that left Newark. We took a fifty dollar hour-and-a-half ride in a van shuttle thing with no air conditioner to Newark Liberty International Airport. We waited in line at security, placed our carry-ons in those bins on the counter, separated our ziplocked liquids, removed our belts and shoes, and the X-ray machine broke. I’m not FUCKING KIDDING. We put on our belts, shoes, repacked our carry-ons, walked to the next security area, nearly causing an insurrection as the TSA allowed us to cut the line.

Amy was livid, but I had nothing left. I just took it like a whipping boy.

“Let’s have a drink and a good dinner,” Amy said.

Naturally the terminal in this vomit of an airport had neither a bar nor any restaurants. We were determined, so we took a shuttle to the Continental terminal and found a pathetic sit down joint where a man who looked
like a down and out Vincent D’onofrio ate lemon wedges at the table next to us. We waited back at our terminal through two delays. I stared out the windows. Newark, like Northwest Indiana, is a place that shouldn’t exist.

Amy’s mom met us at our house at 10 p.m with Jake, but not before we got stuck at a railroad crossing waiting for two trains. When we leave him behind, I always fear he’ll resent us a little when we take him back home. Amy opened the door to her mom’s car, and Jake gave us a tired smile.

“Hi,” he said.

That was the best part of the weekend. Even better than the pizza.