They are retired now. They don't have to work.

They sit on their benches, they shake their heads and they watch young people look for work. Because, in this mall, across from the no-frills grocer and the dentist's office, there are a dozen sleek Human Resources Development Canada computer terminals.

The terminals look like one-armed bandits. They are high-tech job-finders. The odds are lousy any way you look. You thought the economy was picking up? On the screens today: Short order cook, $7/hr. Bartender, $10/hr. Cushion filler, $9.59/hr. Weight loss counsellor, $8.50/hr. Career info specialist, $18.33/hr.

You see where the real work is?

You can make a buck getting people fat and drunk and comfortable, you can make a buck helping them take off the pounds. But these days, finding work for people is better work than, well, work.

There are always more clients than jobs.

Michelle just lost her job. She stands at her terminal like a veteran gambler. She is a pleasant young woman in a bright winter coat. She navigates the screen by touch, sees a listing she likes, touches a pad, and the terminal spits out a ticket – she hopes it's a winner – containing a job description and a phone number. She is looking for something in payrolls, anything to do with data entry.

She used to work for a plastics manufacturer. She was there seven months. She got downsized. "I could see it coming. My manager was let go. My husband is also laid off. We have two kids - a boy, age six and a girl who just turned two. It's hard. You can only find a few listings that match your skills." Is she worried? "No." She hesitates, purses her lips and changes her mind. "Yes, I am worried. I'm going home now to check the newspapers."

A security guard ambles by with a walkie-talkie on his belt; he has a sailor's rolling gait; in his wake, the first of the sales clerks with their cups of coffee in their hands; behind them, a fleet of shoppers in battery-powered wheelchairs.

A young man turns away from the job computers with a faraway look in his eye. His two-year-old son holds onto his hand. The man pauses, unsure, as if he's wondering how he got here.

"I'm from Pakistan. I have a degree in business administration. I was a management consultant in Islamabad. Here, I've taken courses to be a chartered financial analyst. I'm trying to break into the financial industry at the entry level. The trouble is, I don't have Canadian experience." He's right, of course. We only let the best-educated people come here, then we don't recognize their credentials. Which is why so many of Toronto's cabbies have PhD's.

Mudassar's wife works at a Wal-Mart although she is trained as a teacher. He says, "I see a lot of immigrants in Toronto. We are not given a chance. We do upgrades, we take courses, but most employers think we are incompetent." Studies indicate that most immigrants are paid less than native-born Canadians for work of equal value and their skills are not used to the fullest; some studies show immigrants subsidize the Canadian economy to the tune of $55 billion a year.

Mudassar says, "I came here to find a bright future for my children. Now, after one year, I'm not so sure. My wife is always saying, 'Why did you have to come here and bring me?' But I can't go back. And I won't give up." By now the mall is getting crowded with kids who are cutting classes, goofing off, dragging their heels, making the bench-bound old men nervous. Oscar pays the kids no mind.

He's got more important things to do. He is short and sturdy, wide of shoulder, broad of foot; he's also out of work. He came here from El Salvador 18 years ago. Why Canada?

"There was a revolution in my country. The death squads were looking for me. I couldn't stay. My wife was in the hospital, she was pregnant, she was having a hemorrhage, but I had to leave her or they would have taken me and. . ." He lets it hang. "I went to the Red Cross, they helped me to get here."

He has been out of work for two months now. He's a welder but "I'm 47 years old. Welding, it's no good at this time of life." He has taken courses in sheet metal work and inventory control. He has had three different jobs in the past year. You can see the worry on his face. He has two children, ages seven and 11. You know what that's like; kids cost money.

His wife is at home; does she have a job? Oscar bends his wrists and curls his fingers into claws to show how useless hers are. "She has arthritis." There are no job listings for Oscar today but, like Mudassar and Michelle he says, "I'll do whatever it takes."

And then there's Jacqueline.

While Oscar was talking about the death squads, she was jabbing her manicured finger at a screen. She's wearing tiny white sneakers, skin-tight jeans, a little leather jacket. Her makeup is perfect. She has long platinum hair with mall bangs over her forehead. She's holding a double latte and a fistful of job tickets.

She used to be a credit analyst – that's a fancy way of saying she ran checks on people who didn't have the cash to pay for their couches or their stereos, so they applied for store credit. You'd think that business would be booming.

"Yeah, well . . . I got laid off last month. They replaced me with someone on a work program; the company got a subsidy from the government for her. As for me, I still haven't got any money from unemployment. And my rent is due, and I can't pay it."

What's that like, not having a job?

"I'm going cuckoo."

What's her plan? She points to her pile of job tickets; there are 15 in all. "I have a computer at home. I'm going to go through these and e-mail my resumé. You never meet anyone in person any more. It's all done by e-mail now."

The old men on the benches watch her for a while, and then they move down the mall to the coffee shop. They need a break. Watching people look for work is hard work.