“Don’t you hate your job?” asks Limor, one of the girls in Orli’s group of friends.
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, then this is great,” says one of the other girls.
“But, I don’t want to get fired,” I whine. I’m terrified of losing my job. For some reason, maybe it is because I don’t have any family here, I’m afraid I’ll end up homeless and on the street.
“Jessica, you should have left that job a year ago. Any other company would be lucky to have you!” Orli says.
“Listen, this is great news,” Limor says. “If you time this just right, you can find another job and get fired at the same time. That way, not only will you have a new job, but you will also get compensation.”
I smile and think to myself, “I can do that.” After surviving the army, I can survive anything. I’m a real Israeli after all.
Psychological Warfare
At work, I start acting like Peter Gibbons in Office Space. I show up late. I take long lunch breaks. I stop answering emails. I take an hour and half to go through the newspapers in the morning. I take naps in the bathroom. I never gutted a fish on my desk, but that’s only because I’m a vegetarian.
At the same time, I start interviewing for a new job in high-tech. A high-tech job with a car in Israel is what a house with a white-picket fence in the suburbs is in America. It is the Israeli dream. The high-tech world in Israel is dynamic and creative. Having a high-tech job in Israel means that you’ve made it. It’s where all the most successful people in Israel work. The benefits are better. The work is better. The pay is better. I’ll get a car and gas paid for. It is the Israeli dream so now I’m trying to achieve it.
After a few months of trying to get laid off, Carmella upped the ante. One day I walked past her room when she was interviewing someone for my position, with her door open. She would leave mean notes on my desk—just like a bully in high school. I would just crumple them and play basketball with them. She did not realize that I had dealt with the devil in a beret while I was in the army and survived.
On Thursday afternoon, nearly two years after the Second Lebanon War started, my war with Carmella feels like it is about to come to a close.
“Hello?” I answer my cell, even though I know who is calling.
“It’s Mati, how are you? I’m calling because I would like to officially offer you the job,” he says.
Yes! I got it! I’ve made it in Israel! A high-tech job! And I’ll get a car! In my new job, I’ll be making more than my current managers are making, with better benefits and conditions. I do a little party in my head and stomp my feet up and down in excitement. “And I would like to officially accept,” I say as professionally as possible.
“I’ll send you the contract. You can start in a month, right?”
“Of course,” I say.
Damn. Carmella still hasn’t fired me. Now I’m going to have to quit and I’m not going to get any compensation . . . and after all of that hard work I did to get fired. I thought I had played my cards just right.
I had a feeling I was going to get this job offer. I have been trying to time it so that I’ll get fired this week. For the past two weeks, I have been sending emails to Ronit, another manager of mine who works under Carmella, asking her why I wasn’t being invited to meetings with my clients. After not hearing back from her, I told her it was rude that neither she nor Carmella were getting back to me after I put in over two years at this company. I told her that I wanted a promotion, and I gave her a list of new responsibilities that I could focus on. I wanted to make it clear to them that I was planning on staying, that I saw my future at Mitoog. If they wanted me to leave, they would have to fire me. But if I don’t get fired today, I’m going to have to quit first thing next week.
In an attempt to get laid off I marched into Ronit’s office two days ago and asked her, “Do I need to get my résumé ready?”
Ronit didn’t know how to respond. She stared straight at my forehead and didn’t move for an entire minute. She was hanging onto the arms of her chair for dear life, trying not to scratch her nose, since just a week beforehand, we had been to a body-language expert who told us that people subconsciously touch their nose while lying. I thought she’d had a stroke until she finally said, like a true PR person, “You should do whatever you think is best.”
I got up and thought, checkmate! I know Ronit will call Carmella and tell her to lay me off now because they are afraid that I know something.
But Carmella still hasn’t fired me and it is nearly afternoon on the last day of the week—which is the day that people always get laid off.
I stare at my computer screen thinking about what to do next.
NEW MESSAGE.
It’s an invite from Carmella’s secretary for a meeting with Carmella at the end of the day today. That can only mean one thing.
Yes! I’m getting laid off today!
I start packing my belongings. I clear off my desk. I distribute my work load to all the different people I worked with.
At 4:00 P.M. on the dot, I walk into Carmella’s office. She closes the door behind me.
“Jessica, we both knew that this was coming. You . . . um, well . . . have been here for two years. It is just that . . . well, you can tell people that . . .”
This is the first time that I haven’t heard Carmella yelling. Maybe she doesn’t know how to talk in a normal tone and that’s why she is so confused. Either way, I’m enjoying hearing her struggle and babble, so I let her continue.
“I don’t know . . . I looked for a solution . . . but we just don’t have the money . . . you will be able to find . . .”
After listening to her trying to avoid saying the words, ‘You’re fired,’ for five minutes I finally say, “So, this is it? You’re laying me off?”
She looks down, flustered. “Yes, I’m sorry. But you can use the office space. You can use the computer here to look for another job. Whatever you need. No one is going to fill your position; we just don’t have the money to retain you anymore.”
What the hell happened? Had she finally gotten that heart transplant? The only other time I saw her like this was when she asked me to put ear drops in her ear one day. I shiver at the memory.
“What should I do? Where should I look for a job?” I ask her, pretending that I’m shocked.
I may still look like an innocent American, but I know how to work the Israeli system. It’s the best of both worlds.
“You will have three months of compensation. You will be fine. You will find a great job.”
I try to look sad, but all I want to do is jump up on her desk and do a little jig.
“Okay,” I say as I get up.
I walk out of the office singing “Freedom” by George Michaels in my head and decide to go buy a new summer dress, just like I did after my interview for the army, to celebrate fulfilling another of my Israeli dreams.
* * *
1 . Approximately $2000 USD.
9
Professional Life
I’m standing in front of the company CEO, president, and all of its VPs. I’m about to present the company’s new website, which is set to launch in a few weeks. I’ve spent the past four months creating the entire site and preparing the launch campaign. I should be nervous, but I’m not. I’m excited. I’m confident.
I love my new job.
This morning, I came in early just so that I could start work. I worked from home last night, just so that I could get more done.
The company has its problems. Mainly financial ones. The CEO is from an intelligence unit. Used to keeping information secret, he doesn’t believe in marketing. So, the job can be a bit difficult, but I’m always up for a challenge. Besides, I’m used to nothing being easy in Israel.
The presentation goes well. There are a few changes, but I’ll still make our launch date.
I look at my phone. No missed calls. It is 6:30 p.m. I’m going to be late. I have to get to class.
&nb
sp; I run downstairs. My company laptop on one shoulder, my purse on the other, and my car keys in my hand. The sun hits my face. It is beautiful outside.
There it is. My car. My baby. It is mine. It is all mine. It is my chariot of freedom. It may be small and by American standards, it is really nothing special, but to me it is shiny and new and it will take me anywhere I want to go. Unfortunately, I have to go straight to class.
I look at my gas tank. It is full. I smile. The company pays for my gas. Since all of Israel’s oil neighbors hate us, the gas prices in the country are exceptionally high. It would be cheaper to run a car on Absolut vodka.
I turn the radio to Galgalatz and start singing along with Shlomo Artzi at the top of my lungs. I might be making up half of the words, but I don’t care. I’m on top of the world. I feel like I have finally made it in Israel. I feel like I have paid my dues to this country and now my life will be easy. I have worked hard for years and now feel as if I have finally achieved many of my goals. I feel stable and secure here. I’m no longer worried that I will ever leave the country, like so many other American girls. The chorus of the song starts and I join Shlomo Artzi in singing about how much he loves his wife. I sing louder, almost willing myself to be that woman.
The traffic outside isn’t as bad as normal. I’m used to bumper-to-bumper traffic. Instead, it is just the typical hectic driving. Cars switching lanes without blinkers. Drivers cutting me off. Motorbikes and motorcycles swerving in and out of lanes and driving on the shoulder. It doesn’t bother me anymore. In fact, I drive the same way now.
Nefesh B’Nefesh, the organization that helped me make aliyah, might consider living in Israel three years a measurement of success in the country, but many new immigrants consider their aliyah a success once they have a car. Maybe it has something to do with the 150% tax on cars in Israel.
After parking on campus, I run into the school. I’m late, but not panicked; everybody is late in Israel. Our finance professor during our first semester told us that we could never be late, and then he was a half an hour late to the next class.
After stopping to get a cup of nes coffee and a bureka1, I walk over to our usual classroom. When I enter, I see that it is completely empty.
Damn! I hope they didn’t change the date of the class again. I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone in our MBA program has complained about the administration problems, from scheduling a class on Memorial Day to changing a test time an hour before the test. In answer to our complaints we got the same response that Israel gets from the UN when it makes a complaint against Hamas—we’re ignored.
Where is class? I text one of the other students.
After getting a text with the room number, I make my way across campus. I am now fifteen minutes late. When I get there, I see a group of students from my MBA program sitting outside the classroom.
“What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you in class?” I ask the forty-year old businessman in Hebrew.
When I signed up for the MBA, I was hoping to meet some eligible Israeli bachelors to jump start my love life in this country, but I quickly gave up on that hope when I realized everyone was already married and fifteen years older than me. However, it would be nice to have a relationship. I feel stable enough in this country that I’m ready for something serious. I’m even beginning to look forward to starting my own Israeli family.
“The professor said we have to wait and then all come in together at half past so we don’t disturb him.”
“I was only thirty seconds late and he wouldn’t let me in,” says another guy.
“That’s bullshit. I’m going in. We are paying him to teach us,” I proclaim like a veteran Israeli. Hopefully that line of reasoning will work better on him than it does with police officers.
“He’ll kick you out.”
“Watch,” I say confidently.
“Really, Jessica, it might be better just to wait,” says an American who is just in Israel for the program and hasn’t spent any time really living in the country. He is used to following the rules. He is used to raising his hand in class, instead of just blurting out comments, like a real Israeli.
I throw open the doors and start making my way to my chair like I belong there.
“As you will see, if you apply the —” the professor at the front of the large lecture hall abruptly stops his explanation to the seated students. “You have to wait outside until half past. You are late. I don’t like interruptions.”
“Yeah, I tried to get here on time. But I had a work meeting,” I calmly reply as I continue walking to a seat.
“Well, those are my orders.”
Orders? “I was released from the army over three years ago. I don’t take orders anymore.”
“You can’t sit down in the middle of the class. I have rules,” the professor demands.
“And if I do?” I ask. What the hell is he going to do? Court martial me?
“I’ll leave,” he proclaims.
Damn. I walk out. Guess I still have room for improvement on being an Israeli.
Negative Space
“So, how long did it take you to learn Hebrew?” the girl asks me from across the table.
“Well, I’m still learning. Every day I learn at least another word. But I finally started feeling confident in Hebrew towards the end of my army service,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, disappointed.
“But you can learn Hebrew without the army. You just have to be stubborn about it. Force yourself to speak only in Hebrew. Read as much as you can,” I say, trying to cheer her up. “You know, when I first came here, I could barely even formulate a sentence. I made so many embarrassing mistakes.”
Nefesh B’Nefesh asked me to meet with a new immigrant so that she could get advice from me on how to succeed in Israel.
“What about work? How did you find your job? Do you like your job?”
“After the army, I worked at a company called Mitoog,” I start.
“Really? That is like the top PR agency in the country! How did you get a job there?” she asks.
“Well, the army again. I mean, my experience in the army helped, but someone high up in my unit who used to work there gave me a recommendation. It was pure chance, but that is how Israel works. It’s so small,” I say, suddenly realizing how much the army has affected my life. “Now I’m the marketing communications manager at a high-tech company.” I smile, thinking about it.
“That is my dream job. But, I’m too old for the army. Do you have any other suggestions?” she asks, concerned.
“Oh, there are many immigrants that don’t do the army,” I say. And those are the ones that don’t learn Hebrew, don’t find a good job, and then end up going home, I think to myself. “You don’t have to do the army to succeed here. Just make sure to meet people. It will be hard, but stay determined. It will pay off,” I say, trying to encourage her.
“How long until you felt settled here? Like you succeeded?” she asks.
“Like five years,” I think. Wow, that was only like half a year ago.
“Do you have lots of Israeli friends?”
“Yeah, I do. Many from the army. Then there is Orli, my roommate, and all of her friends,” I tell the story about how I met Orli.
She looks sort of jealous.
“You’ll make friends. It takes time. You should come out with us!” I offer. “I’ll call you next time we go out.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asks.
I wince, but hope she doesn’t notice.
I think about my friend who was on my volunteer program and made aliyah like me. She just got married. It must be so nice having someone to really depend on in this country, having a family, having a place to go to for the holidays.
“Uh, no,” I say, my voice shaking. I clear my throat to hide my hesitation. “I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I’ve dated, but I just sort of decided a long time ago that I want to be completely settled here before I get into a serious relationship. T
here are too many American Jewish girls who fall in love with Israeli guys and then leave after breaking up. I’m determined to stay here, so I’m being cautious. I didn’t come here for a guy and I’m definitely not going to leave here because of one.”
I may be able to convince everyone around me that my life is complete, but I still haven’t been able to convince myself.
Unholy Sex in the Holy Land
Dating in Israel hadn’t been as easy as I expected. The probability of finding a nice Jewish guy in Israel, the Jewish homeland, should have increased since I was surrounded by eligible Jewish men. The country is a Jewish mother’s dream come true for her daughter. However, I have now been in Israel for more than half a decade and have yet to find anyone that I’d like to be in a serious relationship with.
The First Officer
The first Israeli man who I fell in love with was the young Israeli officer who trained our group of American sixteen-year-olds for a week during Gadna, army training, while we were on a trip to Israel. The first time I saw him, he looked like a dark-skinned Jewish Rambo with his hair slicked back. The entire group of girls was standing around giggling in our too-big army uniforms, but when he walked up, we all froze. We stared at him without breathing. We wanted to be with him. The guys in the group puffed out their chests, stood up taller, and raised their heads. They wanted to be him.
He was everything that American Jewish guys aren’t. He was tough and commanding. The first night of Gadna in my shared room, I drifted off to sleep thinking about him, but was then awakened when one of my roommate shrieked, “A cockroach just crawled over me!”
Having joined in with our roommate’s shriek, we barely heard the knock on our door. We all turned to the door simultaneously but didn’t answer.
Another knock. More silence.
“Why you yell in there?” a deep voice asked from the other side.
In my pajamas, zit cream, and retainer, I turned on the lights and opened the door to the officer who looked like a Greek god.
“What is da problem, girls?” he asked.
Chutzpah & High Heels Page 20