F'K U, HAUS! — The Employment Status Death Metal Anthem
Or: Six Days On, Two Days Off, Two Weeks Without Pay, and One Raccoon With a Guitar
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
A Jerry's Marginalia — by Department of Petty Affairs
There comes a point in life when a perfectly reasonable question stops deserving a perfectly reasonable answer.
For example:
"Am I still employed?"
Simple question.
Yes or no.
Two possible answers.
You would think an organization capable of managing hundreds of clients, employees, schedules, procedures, and enough paperwork to bury a small civilization could manage those two fucking words.
But apparently not.
Instead, we got suspensions, investigations, silence, more investigations, more silence, and eventually a telephone call informing me that my services were no longer required.
And after all that?
I made a death metal song.
Ladies and gentlemen, presenting:
F'K U, HAUS! — The Employment Status Anthem
Three minutes and twenty-four seconds of industrial death metal, administrative despair, and the sort of emotional release normally associated with throwing an office printer through a window.
Don't worry.
No printers were harmed.
Unfortunately.
Chapter One: Six Days of Bullshit, Two Days of Freedom
Here's something that might surprise people.
I actually would've preferred to keep working at Haus Morgenrot.
Yes.
THAT Haus.
The place I've spent an unreasonable amount of time complaining about.
Why?
Because the money was real.
Six days on, two days off.
Twelve-hour shifts.
Overtime.
I could tolerate six miserable days if I knew two days of freedom were waiting at the other end and the paycheck would make the aggravation worthwhile.
Was I in love with the job?
Fuck no.
Was I planning to frame my employee badge and pass it down to future generations?
Absolutely not.
But I was willing to work.
Show up.
Do the job.
Go home.
Get paid.
Repeat.
That was the deal.
They get my labor, not my spirit.
And for a while, the deal worked.
Then the Haus decided the story needed additional seasons.
Chapter Two: The Disciplinary Cinematic Universe
Let's discuss the write-ups.
Because apparently no workplace experience is complete without collecting disciplinary paperwork like Pokémon cards.
There was the lunch-timing issue.
There was the contraband bag-tag issue.
And then there was the medication incident.
A client came through carrying pills intended for the med tech.
The morning supervisor caught the situation.
And I received a two-day suspension.
This was shortly after I'd started working there.
Four days into the job, and I'd already unlocked the unpaid vacation DLC.
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR TWO DAYS OF UNPAID PERSONAL REFLECTION!
Honestly?
At the time, I treated it like a vacation.
Two days off?
Well, shit.
See you when I get back.
But that was only the beginning.
August brought another incident.
An allegation involving a pat-search.
I was taken off the schedule while it was investigated.
I maintained that I'd followed the two-person approach and used the back of my hand.
Eventually, I was allowed to return.
Retraining was promised.
According to my experience, that retraining never happened.
And the wages I lost while waiting?
They didn't magically reappear.
Then September rolled around.
Another allegation.
This time during wanding.
A client offered to lower his pants after the wand sounded near his groin.
I refused that offer and intended to involve the supervisor on duty.
And once again, I found myself removed from work.
Another investigation.
Another period of waiting.
Another round of wondering what the hell was going on.
Now, I'm not going to pretend that workplace procedures don't matter. They do.
But allegations, procedural questions, and established findings are different things.
And the part I can speak to without hesitation is what happened to my employment and income.
The hours stopped.
And once the hours stopped, so did the money.
Chapter Three: Please Remain on Hold While Your Bills Multiply
Here's where things got especially irritating.
I wasn't immediately told I was fired.
Quite the opposite.
At one point, I was told I wasn't fired.
There was even discussion about possibly moving me into a night med tech position.
Six in the evening to six in the morning.
Was it guaranteed?
No.
Did it happen?
Also no.
Meanwhile, the days kept passing.
No shifts.
No pay.
No definite answer.
But plenty of bills.
Because, as everyone knows, the electric company absolutely loves hearing that your employment status is under investigation.
I'm sure they'll happily suspend your payment obligations while management figures out whether you still have a job.
HAHAHAHAHA! NO.
The phone company wants its money.
The grocery store wants its money.
Everybody wants their money.
And the only thing I'm receiving is uncertainty.
Call.
Wait.
Check.
Wait.
Ask.
Wait.
Eventually, September 30 arrived.
The phone rang.
And just like that, I was terminated.
The letter was dated October 1, effective September 30.
The reason cited unsatisfactory or careless work and failure to comply with applicable guidelines or standards.
No detailed explanation of the specific incidents in the letter itself.
Just the conclusion.
After all those days wondering whether I'd be returning to work, the answer finally arrived.
No.
Wonderful.
Glad we cleared that up.
Chapter Four: The Paychecks Were Real, Damn It
Now, here's why I was willing to tolerate the job.
I've got the pay stubs.
Not estimates.
Not wishful thinking.
Actual paychecks.
May 20: $2,528.47 take-home.
June 5: $2,178.15.
June 18: $2,048.32.
August 5: $1,953.11.
That's not imaginary money.
That's rent money.
Grocery money.
Transportation money.
Money that lets a person contribute to the household without feeling like he's becoming someone else's financial responsibility.
And then came August 20.
$1,009.32.
A noticeably smaller check during the period affected by the August suspension.
The September 18 check was $1,694.78.
And after the termination?
As far as another paycheck was concerned:
DICK. FUCKING. ALL.
But you know what didn't stop?
The bills.
Of course not.
Bills don't get suspended.
Bills don't go under investigation.
Bills don't spend two weeks waiting for somebody in an office to make a decision.
They just show up.
Every.
Fucking.
Month.
Chapter Five: The Paperwork Outlived the Paycheck
And now we reach the part where the Department of Petty Affairs officially begins chewing through its own furniture.
After losing the job, I applied for assistance.
Food assistance.
Because apparently eating remains necessary even when you're unemployed.
Who knew?
Texas Health and Human Services conducted the interview.
Then came the verification request.
Proof of income.
Proof of expenses.
Proof of benefits.
Proof of employment separation.
And who gets asked to verify that employment separation?
HAUS MORGENROT.
The same employer that terminated me.
The same employer I spent weeks waiting to hear from.
The same employer whose decision left me without the income I was depending on.
Now I have to politely ask them for paperwork.
Again.
I prepared the form.
Attached it to an email.
Explained the deadline.
Asked for the information.
Professional.
Courteous.
Respectful.
All while Jerry was somewhere in the background trying to figure out whether a stapler could be classified as a percussion instrument.
And if HR responds?
Great.
If they don't?
I'll document the attempt, give HHSC what evidence I have, and ask what else they'll accept.
I'm not spending the rest of my life begging an old employer to acknowledge that I'm no longer employed.
The paperwork outlived the paycheck.
That sentence alone deserves its own fucking death metal album.
Chapter Six: Jerry, Get the Fucking Guitar!
And this brings us to the song.
Because eventually, there are only so many times you can repeat the same question before ordinary language becomes inadequate.
"Am I employed?"
"Can somebody call me?"
"What's happening?"
"Where's my pay?"
"Can somebody please explain what the fuck is going on?"
No answer.
No answer.
Still no answer.
At some point, the polite voice runs out of batteries.
And that's when the guitars come in.
Not soft guitars.
Not relaxing guitars.
Not the kind of guitars you'd hear playing over a corporate presentation about teamwork.
INDUSTRIAL DEATH METAL GUITARS.
The kind that sound like somebody fed an entire Human Resources department into a malfunctioning cement mixer.
And my favorite part?
The bridge.
The music stops.
A polite voice asks about employment status.
Hello?
Anybody?
Then comes the whisper.
Jerry...
Oh, no.
Not Jerry.
Surely we aren't about to summon that furry little bastard.
And then:
JERRY! GET THE FUCKING GUITAR!
WELL, YOU DON'T HAVE TO ASK TWICE.
Jerry has entered the building.
Gerald the Cactus is on percussion.
The Gremlin has somehow acquired a smoke machine.
Nobody knows who approved the equipment budget.
Nobody knows whether the building has adequate fire insurance.
And nobody particularly cares.
Because sometimes you don't need another carefully worded email.
Sometimes you need three minutes and twenty-four seconds of screaming accompanied by guitars that sound like the apocalypse having a workplace grievance.
Chapter Seven: I Didn't Want to Stop Working
Here's the part beneath all the jokes.
I didn't want to lose that job.
I wanted to keep earning.
I wanted to pay my bills.
I wanted to contribute to the household.
I wanted enough money to enjoy the things I like without having to calculate whether one purchase would leave me short on groceries.
That's it.
Nothing particularly extravagant.
And now I'm applying for other jobs, going through interviews, dealing with unemployment, dealing with food assistance, and watching money disappear faster than I can replace it.
That shit gets exhausting.
Especially when I remember what I was making.
Especially when I know I was willing to keep working.
Especially when I'm still being asked to chase paperwork from the employer I no longer work for.
But here's something I refuse to do.
I refuse to spend the rest of my life letting that place define me.
I'm angry.
Of course I'm angry.
I can be angry and still move forward.
I can miss the money and still recognize that the job came with problems.
I can wish things had ended differently without pretending that the way they ended didn't hurt.
And I can make a ridiculous death metal song about the whole fucking experience.
Despair is optional. Distortion is mandatory.
Final Chapter: F'K U, HAUS!
So here's my closing statement.
I worked.
I earned.
I dealt with the write-ups.
I dealt with the suspensions.
I dealt with the investigations.
I waited for answers.
I lost the job.
And now I'm doing what I have to do to move forward.
Would I have preferred six days of work and two days off, with a dependable paycheck?
YOU BET YOUR FUCKING ASS I WOULD.
But that's not what happened.
So now it's time to find the next opportunity.
A better arrangement, hopefully.
A paycheck that doesn't depend on somebody remembering to call me back.
A workplace where I can show up, do the job, go home, and leave the bullshit at the door.
And until then?
I've got my paperwork.
I've got my pay stubs.
I've got my applications.
And I've got a fucking theme song.
Haus Morgenrot doesn't get my spirit.
It doesn't get my future.
And it certainly doesn't get to silence the guitar.
F'K U, HAUS!
Now, Jerry?
One last solo.
Make it loud enough to rattle the filing cabinets.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
https://theglitch.bearblog.dev/