Stripped of Career, Man’s Search for Work Becomes Full-Time Job : Recession: It has been months of dashed hopes, updated resumes and rejection letters in the life of an unemployed manager.

PITTSBURGH — When James Morton lost his job overseeing 240 Mister Donut stores six months ago, he set a goal for himself: He would be back on someone’s payroll by July.

Though he has come close a few times, he remains on the roller coaster of joblessness, complete with plunges, buildups and twisting turns akin to the denial, anger and depression that make up three of the four stages of grief.

All that’s missing for Morton is the final stage, recovery, even though some economists say it has arrived following the longest recession since World War II.

“There are days I could have slammed the door out of sheer frustration,” he says. “I go through a range of self-doubt every day. The mood swings are enormous. When you don’t have a job, you’re perceived as a loser. How do you take your resume and say to yourself you’re a winner?

“Recently, I’ve been in some valleys. I get home and walk up the steps very slowly. The longer you’re out here, the more negative you become. They say the first year’s the toughest.”

Morton, 47, had never been out of work until his job as director of operations for two regions of Mister Donut stores was eliminated on Dec. 13, after the chain was bought by a British firm.

Less than two weeks before Christmas, he had to tell his wife and two daughters that his status as bread-winner had evaporated with his paychecks.

Now his full-time job is finding another full-time job.

In a typical week, Morton makes 50 to 75 phone calls, writes 20 to 40 letters, scours the want ads, and he networks, networks and networks.

He has learned that there is one chance in 100 he’ll get a response to a letter.

A man with a salesman’s practiced pitch and nervous energy, Morton has been forced to do things he has never done before, like standing in an unemployment line in his business suit and polished loafers, and rehearsing for job interviews in front of a home video camera.

For the first time in 21 years, he needed a resume. It took three weeks and eight rewrites to get it just right.

And then there were the cuts: He cut back on socializing, he cuts his own grass instead of paying a college student $60 a month to do it, he cuts out newspaper coupons for bargains and he cuts costs by BOGO-ing--his term for buy one, get one free supermarket specials.

“I’m working harder now than when I had a job,” said Morton, who belongs to three jobless support groups. “The way I see it, I’m the chief executive officer of my own corporation, and the product I’m selling is me.”

A marketing manager delivered the bad news in person: He and Morton were riding down Interstate 77 in Charleston, W. Va., in Morton’s company car.

“I was slam-dunked,” Morton said. “In our society, your job is your identity. Your whole vision of yourself revolves around your job. If you don’t have one, it’s like you have the plague.”

Although his wife’s nursing salary cushioned the blow, the family had to learn to do without Morton’s salary and perks, which totaled more than $60,000. He had to tell his daughters, Traci and Kristin, ages 20 and 16, to curb their spending.

“I told them we weren’t going to starve or have to dress in rags,” he said. “Then my younger daughter asked, ‘Will I still be able to buy some hair spray?’ I felt so insignificant, like an ant in a world of giants.”

Kristin got a job at a fast-food restaurant and offered Morton her first two paychecks.

Then came the initial trip to the unemployment office to sign up for $300 a week to supplement his severance and savings.

“Guys were looking at me with a smirk that said, ‘How does it feel, big shot? You have to sign up too.’ That’s humble pie, the entire seven cuts,” Morton said. “This whole process has humbled me.”

As part of his severance, he was enrolled with Bizet & Co., an agency that helps find jobs. Among his out-of-work colleagues were bank presidents, chief financial officers and accountants.

Bizet is Morton’s new headquarters, a place to work the phone and typewriter, to thumb through Ward’s Business Directory of companies and the National Ad Search.

“You can always tell a new person,” Morton said. “They keep their doors closed. They don’t want anyone to know they’re hurting. I insulated myself the first four days.”

His windowless work space is purposely Spartan. The only ornaments are a portable radio, a philodendron sprouting from a coffee cup and a sheet taped to the wall that begins “Each new day is an opportunity to start all over again.”

“I don’t want to be too comfy. I want to keep nails on my chair. I want to get out of this jail cell,” Morton said. “I’m used to being on the road. All those days in the car, the bad meals, the nights in strange hotel beds--I miss that. It eats away at me every day.”

Too antsy to sit still, Morton recently attended the International Franchising Assn. conference in Washington. He drove 660 miles in two days, spending $200 for a room and registration to hobnob with franchisers of pizza, fish, cookies, sandwiches, mufflers and water softeners.

“Wow, you’re back out there. Dressed. Pumped up. Psyched. Name badge on your suit. It’s like you’re working, like being alive,” Morton said. “I’m cultivating contacts. I’m scattering seeds everywhere. Some will take on the hillsides. Some will fall on fertile ground. They’ve got to grow sometime. This is the extra effort it takes.”

In return for the 30 contacts he made, however, he got rejection letters to add to his growing file.

Five notices recently arrived in a single day.

In five-plus months of searching, Morton has been interviewed seven times and has received three offers. None worked out, and the experience underscored some painful realities about the job market.

There are more job seekers than openings, especially for white-collar middle managers. And in a buyer’s market, salary offers are lower. The jobless rule of thumb is that for every $10,000 in salary you want, you have to expect to be out of work one month.

One offer meant a move to the Midwest for a three-month trial. Another was for half his old pay.

“The guy said, ‘You need the job.’ Well, there may come a time when I have to accept half an orange, but not right now,” Morton said. “One of the worst things you can do in a job search is not put enough value on yourself. I’m willing to bend a little bit, but I made a decision I’m not going to settle for anything less.”

The third job he rejected was the toughest to turn down. Again, the bottom line was money; the offer was for a fraction of his old salary.

Two months after sending out a marketing letter to a health food company, Morton got a call. That led to two interviews--complete with dry throat and racing heart--for which he crammed at home and brought along his cue cards.

Morton wore his best white shirts and subdued ties, combed back his thick hair and took special care grooming his gray-flecked mustache. He buffed his shoes with pantyhose, an old Navy trick to bring out the gloss. He even splashed on his Calvin Klein cologne, a Christmas present he vowed he wouldn’t wear until he had a job.

After an offer and a counteroffer, and two sleepless nights, Morton finally turned the job down at the end of April. He just couldn’t accept such a huge cut in pay.

“I feel like I’ve been batted around like a badminton bird,” he said. “I’m back to square one.”

Morton tries not to get his hopes up too high, so they won’t have too far to fall. For solace, he tends his flower beds or drives to a hunting cabin two hours from his home. He’s pedaled more than 1,200 miles on his secondhand bicycle, picked up for $20.

“I have learned not to get anxious. Anxiety is caused by worrying about tomorrow, which is something I can’t control.”

The day after his latest rejection, Morton’s phone rings. It is a call from a food service company he had interviewed with once before.

“I could use this call now more than ever,” he says, his spirits rising. “This could be the one. Hey, you never know.”