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GREENSBORO — Right after daybreak Monday, in the back room of Tex & Shirley’s, they drank coffee and longed for a better day.

There were nearly two dozen of them. Some had lost their jobs as recently as two weeks ago; others have been jobless for a year. They all looked for ways to weather the worst economic storm anyone can remember.

The guidance they got was heartfelt. The solutions, though, were hard to find. Still, this early morning meeting has become their life raft, and every other Monday, they come to Tex & Shirley’s to be with people just like them.

White-collar workers without jobs.

They’ll tell you it’s tough out there. Every week, they make phone calls, send out resumes and troll job-recruiting Web sites. Often, they come up with nothing more than frustration and anger.

So, they converge on local churches and this popular pancake restaurant to join job support groups for helpful tips and a place to vent, share and find comfort.

They tell one another at least 80 percent of all jobs come through the grapevine known as the hidden job market. It’s never posted. It’s all word of mouth. It’s all who you know.

That’s why they look out for one another. But they know they’ve got some kind of competition. Their numbers are large — and getting larger.

As of December, according to statistics from the N.C. Employment Security Commission, nearly 59,000 people didn’t have jobs in Guilford, Forsyth, Randolph and Rockingham counties.

People like Hallee Hogan.

She’s 51, a divorced mother of two. Two weeks ago, she lost her job as an executive recruiter for a company that specializes in senior housing.

It’s the first time she’s ever been without a job.

She says she feels like “such a weirdo.’’ So, she came Monday to Tex & Shirley’s for the first time to listen and talk. It helps. That and reassurances from her 14-year-old daughter, Rebecca: “Mom, it’s going to be OK.’’

“You know, I went to the unemployment office to get benefits,’’ Hogan said, “and the guy there said, 'Oh, this is good for 25 weeks,’ and I told him, 'I’m not going to be needing it that long.

“And he kind of looked at me like, 'You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ’’

Tricia Gaydon does. She’s 34, an unemployed human resources officer, and she’s been laid off twice before. But this time, it’s different.

In the past, she’s snagged at least one phone interview a week. This time, she’s had five face-to-face interviews. And she’s been laid off for a year.

What’s worse, her husband, Shane, is unemployed, too. They have a 3-year-son, Josh, and they want to stay in the Triad to remain close to family and friends.

So, she networks, surfs the Internet, and checks and rechecks a notebook to keep tabs on prospective jobs she has applied for. Meanwhile, wherever she goes, she takes along a palm-size folder.

It contains her business cards and has a Bible verse across the front that reads: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

Gaydon has her Bible verse. And Rob Rachlin, an unemployed marketing executive, has his birds. He carves them — the dowitcher, the American oystercatcher, the black-bellied plover.

Rachlin sells them online and at an art gallery in Oak Ridge. He says he makes about $1 a day. He used to make $155,000 a year.

“It gives me a sense of something to do,’’ says Rachlin, 63. “That my work is appreciated, and at least a few people are willing to plunk down their money and buy it. There’s a great deal of validation in that.

“And that gets you through, you know, that basic depression of not having a job to go to.’’

Bill Linton understands that. He’s been laid off five times in his career as an executive in the textile and apparel industry. The first time he lost his job was in the 1980s. Recently, he asked his youngest daughter about that.

“What did you think when I lost my job for the first time?’’ he asked her.

“I thought we would be homeless,’’ she told him.

A year ago this month, he started a job support group at his church, First Presbyterian. He began with nine people. He now has 170 on the e-mail list.

“I feel in my heart what they are going through, and I wish I could fix it but I can’t’’ said Linton, a 74-year-old grandfather of nine. “I can only be there as a shoulder to lean on, and to tell them, 'I’ve been there. I know your pain. If there’s anything you want to talk about, I’d be happy to listen.’ ’’

Contact Jeri Rowe at 373-7374 or jeri.rowe@news-record.com