Legally, in the Netherlands, you’re allowed to set off fireworks from midnight on December 31st through January 7th or something. In practice, some buttfaces will start blowing their money on firecrackers as early as November, but anyway….

On December 31st, my mother and I were chilling on the living room couch on the first floor of our home when we heard a momentous BOOM that made both of us leap a foot into the air in fright. We glanced around, at first figuring it must have been close to be so loud, but we couldn’t see anything, so we figured somebody must have had illegal fireworks or something.

My mother called the non-emergency police line and something like:

Mother: “Hey, something’s super not right here. This was no ordinary fireworks. Could you send someone over to check?”

And the policeman on the other end of the line gave her the most disinterested reply.

Policeman: “Well, little lady, it’s New Year’s Eve, fireworks are allowed.”

My mother was so disgusted that she just hung up.

We didn’t think about the kaboom anymore until the next day when we happened to be checking the news and read about an explosion on our fudging street. The house down the block was empty, and some kids had decided to try and blow the door off its hinges using a ton of illegal fireworks.

Needless to say, my mother felt vindicated — but none too pleased with Officer Lazy over on the non-emergency line.

I have been dealing on and off with unemployment agencies for seven years since I first had an autistic burnout. Every year, some office or another office makes an attempt to get me back into the workforce, cuts corners with my needs, and places me in jobs that cause me to shut down again and have the agencies going, “Oh, you are not fit for work yet, it seems. Here, have another year on welfare and we’ll try again then.”

Rinse and repeat for seven years, and what you get is a whole lot of frustration and distrust in the system. At this point, volunteer jobs won’t even have me because I can’t hit the ground running and need patience and training. Needless to say, I’m exhausted with this way of dealing with things, and every time I’m expected to go back into another round of job hunting, I’m literally terrified. 

I got a new job coach this year. I knew him from a government-issued workplace I went to when I first got unemployed, and he seems like a good guy. During multiple appointments, he hears my story, sympathizes, and assures me that even though he’s working for a “big, bad unemployment agency”, he wants me to see him separately from that, and he assures me again and again that he has a heart for my cause.

Because of my long and disappointing history with unemployment dealings, he agrees with me that he will take on all the preliminary work when reaching out to new employers to save me stress and frustration. He instructs me to send him a list of companies I am willing to work for. I am aiming for small, privately owned shops at the moment.

A day after I send him my list, I get a phone call from him. 

Job Coach: “Hey, [My Name], good news! I reached out to one of those shops on your list, and they have an opening. It’s that tea and chocolate shop you told me you like so much. We are going there tomorrow to meet with them. How’s that for fast work, huh?”

Me: “Oh, my God, that’s wonderful! What time are we expected?”

Job Coach: “About 1:00 pm. I’ll pick you up at home beforehand. See ya!”

I’m ecstatic. I text all my friends and family that I might finally have a break in my luck and I have a meeting with a potential new employer. The next day comes, and I wait anxiously for my job coach to arrive.

He only does so at 1:00 pm — the time when I thought we had the appointment with the store. I meet him at the door and ask him about this strange planning.

Me: “I thought we were supposed to be there at 1:00, not that you would pick me up at 1:00.”

Job Coach: “Oh, we’re not really on a schedule today, really.”

Me: “How so? Didn’t we have an appointment with the people of the shop?”

Job Coach: “Appointment? Where did you get that idea? No, we were just going to check the place out. Feel the vibe and such and see if it suits you. I never said anything about an appointment.” 

I feel my insides deflate. I was excited about finally having a way in, but it seems I have nothing yet after all. 

Me: “Well, that’s a bit unnecessary. This shop was at the top of my list because I know the place. I get my tea there regularly — I told you that. I know the vibe. I thought you got me a way in?”

He shakes his head and smiles like it’s an obvious oversight.

Job Coach: “No, that’s getting ahead of things.”

Me: “I thought you called them to see if they had an opening? And what else?”

Job Coach: “I didn’t call them. I let my supervisor do that, and I don’t remember exactly what they told her. You’d have to call her to hear what has exactly been said, but as far as I know, we’re only taking a look today.”

Me: “Why did you let your supervisor do that?”

Job Coach: “You know, that whole mediating between client and employer isn’t really my scene, so I let others do that.”

Hearing that, I’m about to explode, but I try to hold back on account of being brushed off as unmanageable for the umpteenth time in my life. He notices that I’m seething.

Job Coach: “I see you have some things you want to say to me. It’s okay; lay it on me. I can handle it.”

So, I go out on a full tangent, telling him it is literally his job to mediate for me. Then, I try to get a hold of his supervisor. It takes a while for her to answer the phone, but eventually, she tells me the same thing: that she only called to see if they had an opening and I must have misunderstood things. I have her on speakerphone while I chew out my job coach, reminding him that he knows how sick and tired I am of being aimlessly dragged around from one hopeless venture to the next. I’ve told him many times before that I need something concrete and realistic, and I’m done being dragged around to only look at “maybes”. I tell him to his face that no matter how good he claims his intentions to be, he has royally f***ed up.  

Job Coach: “I don’t like the attitude you have toward me right now. I don’t deserve that. I don’t know you like that, [My Name]. This is uncalled for.”

Me: “No! This is what seven years of dealing with incompetent coaches who can’t communicate clearly to save their lives looks like! You told me to lay it on you. I have. You can’t expect to take on a case like mine and not have a near decade of backed-up frustration to navigate around. You promised me you’d try to do better than all those before you, and our first dealing together is already loaded with miscommunication, false hope, uncertainty, and a general disregard for my needs. And you even dare to tell me that doing your actual job for me isn’t ‘your scene’. I don’t know where you get the sheer nerve. Do. Better.”

He stands there, just staring at me for a moment.

Job Coach: *Absolutely deadpan* “I want tea.”

Me: “…excuse me?”

Job Coach: “I want tea. We were going to a tea shop. I’m getting myself a bag of tea. You can come along if you like. Or stay home and have wasted this day. But I’m getting tea.”

I was so baffled that I found myself begrudgingly getting into his car, and we went to the shop. He pretended that the whole row hadn’t happened, and he talked about how nice a place this could be for me. He did try to get me an interview a week later, but the shop honestly told him that they needed someone who could hit the ground running because the holidays were coming up, but I was free to try again once the place calmed down come January when they had the time and space to give me the training I need. 

I’m still not sure whether to fire him or not.

We rent out houses for people with low income. About 99% of our clients are normal, decent people. And that 1%…

This happens when I am still relatively new at the job. A woman walks into our reception and yells in a mix of English and Dutch.

Client: “I’m not paying! I’m not paying! I’ll pay when I feel like it!”

Me: “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”

Client: “I’m not paying!”

Me: “I heard that, but which house are you renting from us? Then I can look into it.”

Client: “I won’t tell you that.”

Me: “Can you tell me your name, then?”

Client: “You don’t need to know that!”

Me: “I’m afraid I can’t find your file…”

Client: “YOU DON’T NEED THAT, AND I AM NOT PAYING! You white people are all the same! You are all alike! You white people are evil! I won’t give you anything! You should all rot in Hell!”

At that moment, a more experienced coworker comes in. He is of color; I am blonde and pale-skinned.

Coworker: “Hello, Ms. [Client], I heard you down the hall. How may I help you today?”

Client: “That white witch tries to steal my identity, but I am onto that hag! I’m not paying! This bill is illegal!”

Coworker: *Gets papers from her* “Ms. [Client], this is your rent. Your curator deals with your bills for you. You don’t have to worry about this.”

Client: “I want that racist b**** fired! She is corrupt!”

Coworker: “I’ll deal with her, Ms. [Client]. Do you have any other questions?”

Client: *While leaving* “I’m not paying! I’m not paying!”

My coworker notices my shocked face.

Coworker: “Yeah, she’s early this month; we should have warned you. She has mental issues and has a memory worse than a goldfish. She won’t remember you next time she’s in. Might even call you the sweetest doll. But if she’s upset like this, she only wants to talk to non-white people. I’ll contact her caretaker to let them know she’s upset about something again. Are you okay?”

I took a small break to compose myself again. When this woman returned the week after, she was a charming rainbow, talking all about how wonderful the world was, with all kinds of people. Two weeks later, she was upset again and I was called a white w***e who probably slept my way to this job, including sleeping with my female manager.

It took quite some time to get used to her… antics. She was banned once, which resulted in her screaming racial slurs from the sidewalk. Believe me, letting her come inside, accepting the screaming, and informing her caretaker was the best way to deal with her.

I have some… memory issues. I am very good at retaining information, but events as they are happening, not so much. What this means is that I can recite long poems I had to study in Literature classes without hesitating, explain the symbolism of many flowers because I read a rather fascinating book on it years ago, or recount the history of the textile industry in my hometown almost exactly the way I learned about it in school, but don’t bother asking me what I ate for dinner two days ago. I also frequently forget where I’ve put things, what I was doing when my thought process was interrupted, and stuff like that.

I deal with this to the best of my abilities. I use not only the calendar app on my phone for reminders, but also a paper day planner AND a wall-mounted calendar, so I don’t forget appointments, birthdays, or when essays and such are due. I set a daily alarm so I don’t forget to take my medication. (Though, I still forget sometimes when the alarm goes off while I’m in the middle of something.) I make grocery lists so I don’t get back from the store only to realise I’ve forgotten something crucial… and sometimes I reach the store only to realise I’ve forgotten to take the grocery list with me).

And I am used to triple-checking things, like if I have everything I need before leaving the house, or if I’ve got the right time and place for an appointment. I still end up forgetting things on a regular basis, but I always thought it wasn’t all that noticeable to other people. Wrong!

One day, I arrive at the university I attend for a seminar. I enter the classroom as usual with everyone else, find a seat, and go to take the stuff I need for class out of my bag.

Me: *Resigned* “Aww, darn it.”

Classmate: “What is it?”

Me: “Forgot my textbook.”

I want to add that I was sure I’d put it into my bag last night, but the teacher, who I’ve had for a few different subjects over the last three years, breaks into the conversation in a matter-of-fact tone.

Teacher: “If I got a bottle of wine for every time you forgot something, [My Name], I would have a very well-stocked cellar.”

Me: “I swear I’m not doing it on purpose, sir!”

At the next seminar, I remembered to bring my textbook… but I left my water bottle on the kitchen counter.

Let’s face it: I’m hopeless!

It’s December 30th and my husband comes home, bringing Oliebollen — Dutch fried dough balls, a traditional New Year’s or fair food. He tells me the bakery only had Oliebollen with raisins, which he doesn’t like (and I do). I tell him not to worry; I saw our local supermarket had some, so I offer to get some while he gets a shower.

I walk to the supermarket, get a basket, and make my way through the crowd.

I hear a nearby woman talking to someone who I presume is her husband.

Woman: “Oh, I don’t think they have any Oliebollen anymore. I don’t see them anywhere.”

Me: “Oh, they are way in the back.”

Woman: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Heading there myself.”

Woman: “I’ll follow you! Come on, [Husband]!”

We continue, but the woman suddenly waves.

Woman: “[Woman #2]! [Woman #2]! This lady found the Oliebollen!”

Woman #2: “They still have them?! [Woman #3], they still have OIiebollen!”

Woman: “Come on, follow me!”

Random Man: “Wait, where did you say the Oliebollen were?”

Woman: “Come on, this lady will take us there!”

And that is how a crowd of about eight people followed me to the small Oliebollen stand in the back of the supermarket. I saw the young girl’s eyes grow; this must have looked quite intimidating to her. There was no line when we arrived, and I believe she was still packing Oliebollen after I left the store.