My first day out looking for work, all in the same shopping center (four corners of a major mid-Dallas intersection) would also be my first day out on my own in semi-freedom.  The long bus journey to Texas didn’t really count, because I was so shell-shocked and tired that there was very little I could do but try to make it from station to station.  This, however, was my first day of what seemed like being a normal person (despite all the phone calls I would have to make).  I knew I had to make the most of it, because the following day I’d be dealing with another nightmare: a trip to my therapist/counselor for the duration of my halfway house stay, followed by a trip BACK to the halfway house (because passes were only permitted for a certain number of house), and THEN back out to try and figure out how to get my Social Security card and driver’s license.  What fun!

Because I was going to be out during lunch hours, I had been sure to sign up for the bag lunch the halfway house provided.  Meals there were hit and miss.  Breakfasts on weekdays were decent, but only served VERY early; get up or you’d be out of luck.  Lunch was simple cafeteria food, and dinner could either be rather edible, or terrible, depending on what they had.  Overall it was still better than prison food.  On weekends, breakfast was a stale donut or some sugar cereal, and lunch and dinner (while no better than other days) were big events for those of us who didn’t have weekend passes.  Meals were pretty much all you had to look forward to.

I’d also been smart enough to schedule my leaving on this job hunt for after 9:30am, so I didn’t have to fight for space in the van with all of the people who actually HAD jobs.  If the van was full, you were out of luck, unless another driver was around to take the backup van and drive the leftovers.  All they did was ferry us up to the train station, from where we began the public-transportation journey to wherever we were going.  Dallas actually has a decent light rail and bus system, so you can get quite far within the “metroplex” – as far north as Plano, out to parts of Mesquite and Garland, and by tying in with the heavy-rail Trinity Rail Express, you could connect with the Fort Worth system too.  As I may have mentioned previously, if you got a job where it was even remotely possible to get there and back by public transportation, you would not be permitted to drive a car.  Only if you found work outside those areas could you apply for driving privileges.  And since the only way to apply for those types of jobs in person was to have a family member drive you around, that plan was out of reach.  While my family was planning on moving my late father’s old Hyundai Accent down to Texas for me to drive once I was ready to be on home confinement, in the meantime it was the bus and the train for me.

Part of the difficulty with applying for jobs when you live in the halfway house is you have to be completely honest when filling out the applications.  There’s no sense lying about your conviction, because the employer is going to have to deal with the halfway house on a regular basis anyway.  So when those questions about “have you been convicted of a felony within the last five years (or seven, or ten), you are instructed to mark yes and when it asks for details, to put “will explain in person.”  The theory is that this gives you the opportunity to speak to the manager in person, and put the best possible face on what you did and how you’re been rehabilitated.  In practice, it doesn’t work that way at all.  I moved from store to store on my list (and even one or two which I hadn’t listed), filled out their form (or used their electronic kiosk for job applicants), and left.  Nobody asked for more information, and if I wanted to speak to the manager I was always told they were not available.  There simply wasn’t much hope for me to get any of these retail jobs.  Aside from the fact that I was a convicted felon, with no mode of transportation other than public (which limited the hours I could work), my address was some odd-sounding place in Hutchins which to some might appear to be a homeless shelter of some sort.  I was over 35 years old, with no retail experience since I had been 17.  Plus, because I had been convicted of a type of fraud, my crime was of the “moral turpitude” category…in other words, I could not be trusted.

I think I filled out about 8 applications that day, and only received one bit of positive response.  The deli manager at a grocery store asked me if I was truly interested in working, because she needed people.  I said I absolutely was, would work any shift I could based on bus schedules, and was willing to work weekends as well.  She seemed enthusiastic, and told me she’d go pull my application and be in touch the following day.  As expected, I never heard from her.  If she HAD called, I doubt the message ever would have gotten to me anyway, but I just assumed she brought it to her boss and he gave it the thumbs down.  I was actually a bit surprised that there was less interest from retailers about menial jobs for felons, if only because of the $3,000 tax break they could apply for if you worked there for a full 90 days (I think, maybe it was 120 days).  Still, my experience during my time at the halfway house showed that most of the people I was living with would think nothing of skipping work, or quitting with zero notice.  So the prospect of actually finding someone who you wanted to keep for that long AND who was willing to show up for work for that long was probably a major long shot.

On the bus, heading back towards the pickup point to return to the halfway house, I dug through the bagged lunch I had been provided.  Clearly these lunches would not be a preferred method of sustenance.  There was a delicious dry bologna sandwich on white bread, a semi-edible apple, a pack of crackers, and a juice box.  As my time at the halfway house went on in the coming months, I would find myself still requesting these bagged lunches, specifically to leave on bus stop benches for the homeless or others who might really need or want the food. 

The following day I was ready for the daunting and enjoyable task of running back and forth between the halfway house and Dallas.  First thing in the morning I had to make a trip to my mandatory drug/alcohol/psychiatric counseling intake interview.  Then, instead of simply being allowed to go downtown, I had to pass THROUGH downtown and go BACK o the halfway house, wait half an hour, and THEN go back downtown to try and resolve this who Social Security/driver’s license mess.  During the course of the time I’d been at the halfway house, family members had been calling the prison, asking if anybody had located the ones that had been sent for me there (and signed for).  No luck…either they were lost, someone was lying, or (most likely) people were simply too lazy to go look for them.

The procedure to solve this problem was a bit convoluted.  First I’d have to go to the Social Security office, present them with my birth certificate and a photo ID (which in this case would be an expired driver’s license that Heather brought me from home).  Then the Social Security department would be willing to provide me with a letter stating that they verified that this was in fact my proper Social Security number.  With that, I was told I should be able to get a copy of my current DL (which I’d renewed prior to incarceration, so it was NOT expired).  Then, with the birth certificate and the CURRENT photo ID I could get a true Social Security card.  The offices were within a few blocks of each other, so it wouldn’t be much travel time; just bureaucracy time.  With luck I MIGHT be able to complete these errands in one afternoon.  If not, I’d find myself wasting another precious day filling out forms instead of looking for a job.

First, however, it was off to meet Tom, my new counselor.  He was a very easygoing, friendly sort. He asked a bunch of questions, went over my personal history with me, and informed me that as part of my after-prison program I would now be required to meet with him once a month personally, and to attend twice-weekly group therapy sessions.  As I wasn’t working yet, the groups would be Tuesday and Thursday in the late afternoon.  There was also a Saturday morning meeting, but that was usually reserved for people who couldn’t get off work during the week.  The bus schedules I looked at made these appointments look like a hassle to get to and from, but otherwise it would simply be part of life.  The only positive was it meant I would NOT have to take part of the counseling program they did within the halfway house, which I’d heard was a pain in the ass.  My halfway house case manager Mr. Jonas (who was also a pretty easygoing guy) told me I did have to take a few life-skills classes, but the way he ran them if you couldn’t make it because of work he just wanted you to do the page of homework and turn it back in.  More than anything else, it sounded like a formality which they were required to do in order to retain the contract with the Federal government.

After the complete beating or going ALL the way back to Hutchins, waiting 30 minutes for the next van, and leaving for Dallas again, I made my way to the Social Security office.  Unfortunately, it was clear I would Not be able to complete this maze of lines and forms in one day, because the SS office closed earlier than I hoped.  All I was able to do was get the initial letter from Social Security, and then go wait on line for 90 minutes to get my drivers license.  Twice I had to ask someone to hold my place in line as I went to the payphone to call in and request “additional time” from my two hour pass to complete the task.  Fortunately for me, Mr. Chekov (the head of the halfway house) was unavailable both times, and the woman who worked directly under him was much easier to deal with.  She simply approved my extension and said to get back as soon as I was able.

The only eventful part of the driver’s license process (aside from the horrendously long line, filled with people who didn’t bother to fill out the forms properly or listen to instructions) were the two female County Constables.  One walked up and down the line, asking to see paperwork so they could try and make sure you were where you were supposed to be, and had what you needed on hand to complete the task.  This way you would waste the least amount of time when you made it up to the front desk.  The Constable walking the line didn’t take crap from anybody.  If you gave her any grief, she’d threaten to have you pulled from the line.  A number of very grumpy people discovered they did not have what they needed to complete the task they wanted, and left muttering obscenities.  When she reached me, she was going to do the same until she realized I wasn’t looking for a NEW license but a copy of a “lost” and unexpired one.  So I’d passed the first test.

For an anxious mess like me, who had no faith in the criminal justice system to get things correct, the NEXT step was the scariest.  See, when you’re almost ready to released from Federal prison, they do a thorough check with all state and local agencies to make sure that you don’t have any outstanding warrants or other legal complications.  If you do, they try to help you work them out…otherwise, instead of being released to a halfway house, you are released into the custody of the state, county, or local jurisdiction.  So, in 99.9% of the cases, once you’re released, you know you have no other criminal legal problems waiting for you.  In my case, that was no surprise.  I’d never had a problem before, except for two speeding tickets (one in Texas and one in New Jersey) which I had paid immediately.   But I’m a worst case scenario kind of person, so as I got closer to the front of the line my anxiety grew.

I’d heard about this from people at the halfway house.  Fellow “clients” had gone to get driver’s licenses or (if unable to do that) Texas state ID cards, and never come back.  What happened was, when you got to the front of the line, they’d run a check on you in the computer system.  If something came back, a “red flag” from a warrant to an unpaid ticket of some sort.  That’s when the clerk calmly asks you to “stand to the side for a moment” until someone comes through the door behind the counter with your paperwork (supposedly your license, ID, or whatever you came there for).  Instead, a huge African-American 7-foot Amazon-looking Constable comes through the door, asks you to follow her through the doorway…and you disappear.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case with me.  I made it to the line, and left with my copy of my unexpired driver’s license.  While I still needed to get a true copy of my Social Security card, the confirmation letter I held would suffice temporarily.  While it took the waste of an entire precious day to complete this mission, and the clock was ticking before my first “violation” for failure to find work, I could at least feel like I was headed in the right direction.  That didn’t make me feel any less anxious, however…find a job was clearly going to be the hardest part of my halfway house existence.