The Miss Jobless Chronicles: Selling my Soul (And My New Wave)

Ed. note: "The Miss Jobless Chronicles" is a weekly series written by Caitlin O'Toole. Read the rest in the series here. I'm beginning to resort to desperate measures to make ends meet. Like, to pay my rent and go out for the occasional drink. I sold all my old records yesterday. All of my Culture Club and Duran Duran and Cure albums... many of them collectibles... gone. For a measly $40. The guy said he couldn't get that much for them, but he was totally lying because I know you could get a lot more if you sold them individually on eBay. I just can't be bothered. And I needed the $40. Bad. I'm also going digital -- I'm beginning to burn my thousands of CDs into my iTunes so I can weed them out and sell them. There's a store in the Village that buys individual CDs for anywhere from $1 to $8 a piece. Not bad. But... I have to part with all the history that is my collection of music, all the fingerprints on the jewel boxes, all the scratches and dirt and grease marks. I loved each one of them dearly. Each one has a story, each one got me through a particular phase of my life, a sort of dysfunctional soundtrack, if you will. But selling them will give me quick cash, and much-needed space; essential if I'm going to get a roommate. The guy at Disco-rama is a douchebag. Totally elitist in the way he picks out CDs, and condescending if he views anything as not as good as the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Mike (the guy) knows me from other selling excursions, but he acts like he doesn't -- so I kill him with kindness. "Hey, Mike," I say, "how are you? Got some stuff for you." "Put it on the counter." Ass. He's skinny and pale with annoying skinny black jeans (maybe I just hate anyone skinny, can you sense my resentment?) He has greasy, slicked-back salt and pepper hair, deep set beady eyes and mutton chops. Looks like an Elvis impersonator, but uglier and maybe after he went through the spin cycle. He picks each CD up, inspects it, looks at the track listing, opens it, looks at the back for scratches, and puts it into one of four piles. I ask what the piles mean. "These are the rejects," he says, putting my New Kids "Right Stuff" CD-single on the growing last pile of discs. "Really? Isn't that a collector's item? Nostalgia?" He snickers. R.E.M, the Pixies, Depeche Mode, T. Rex, James Brown and the Who make it into the first pile; Everything But the Girl's first album, Norah Jones' second, and Joe Jackson's "Night and Day" land in the second. My heart is kind of racing -- selling stuff is exciting. But I can't help but feel a sadness about what I am doing, I feel like I am selling a piece of my soul. Unemployment is making me feel worse and worse. He continues to stack them in piles, then looks up. "Why are you selling these, anyway?" Um, duh. Oh, just for shits and giggles, I almost say. "I need the cash." And my eyes actually start to water. Then my old boss, Paul, walks in. The one who fired me from Snapshot. I try to not catch his eye, but he sees me and comes up to the counter where a big piece of my life is reduced to little stacks of CDs. "Caitlin, hi!" he says enthusiastically. "Hey! How ARE you?" I feel like throwing up. "I'm good!" "What are you up to? Selling CDs?" "Well," I say. "They're my... brother's. He's cleaning house and needs the money." "What are you doing? What are you working on?" "I'm freelancing -- really enjoying it." "Oh yeah? Where?" "Um... a new tabloid." "Yeah? Great! Which one?" "Er, they haven't gone public yet. It's kind of hush hush at this point." Oh god, I am such a liar. "Hmm. Well good luck with that!" "Well, Paul -- how IS Snapshot?" "We've continued to downsize, but somewhat ironically, our circulation is through the roof." It's always nice to hear that things at the office are going swimmingly after you leave. "Wow, that's great! I hope things continue to go well. Great to see you! Say hi to everyone for me." And he hugs me awkwardly and disappears into the jazz section. (Pretentious motherfucker. No, I'm not bitter) I ended up getting $95 for the CDs I brought it; it was just a trial run, I literally have thousands. But I figure I'll sell them in dribs and drabs to get money when I need it instead of in one big chunk. I wander home with my cash in the June heat, stopping at Starbucks for a $3 iced venti Americano because I feel sorry for myself. Now I have $92. Enough to save for next month's rent and see Laura for a drink later. Thank god for alcohol. Caitlin O'Toole is a New York City-based writer and editor. A native of Washington, D.C., she began her illustrious journalism career as a Washington Post paper girl. She has since written and edited for Sesame Workshop Digital, Star Magazine, The National Enquirer, Glamour, People.com, Parade.com and Washington's City Paper. Her work has also been featured on Fox News, ABC, MTV and VH1. She lives in Chelsea with her two cats, Lucy and Ethel. She can be reached for work at her LinkedIn page.

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The Miss Jobless Chronicles: Selling my Soul (And My New Wave)

Rachel Kaufman

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Rachel Kaufman