This Is Not Charming

Being dirt poor in America is an interesting beast. It's a different standard. Take, for example, me. Checking my bank balance today, I saw that I had $3.05 left to my name. Keep in mind, there is no savings I can dip into or secondary account to transfer funds from. This is it. That's all I have. I found myself rolling change from an old jar, scrambling for nickels and dimes ... spending around 30 minutes sorting through it all and meticulously wrapping it to come up with $9 total. I then found myself driving to the bank with my gas gauge lit up, far past empty ... standing in line, trying to figure out how I'm going to "play it cool" that I'm attempting to deposit $9 in rolled change. Do I go with the "Oh, hey ... I figured it was time to clean out the old cup holders" bit? Do I say nothing, slide it to the teller and give a sly smile indicating that I'm fully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation? In the end, it was sort of a mixture of the two ... only dropping the cup holder line when the silence became awkward.

As I'm driving away, I get a call from work. They want to see if I can come in tomorrow. I say "yes", as I eyeball my gas gauge ... wondering if I'll even make it home, much less all the way to downtown tomorrow. My prideful nature has gotten me into many a jam in the past, and it seems that pattern won't be stopping any time soon.

Then I'm back home, cooking Ramen noodles stolen from a roommate, trying to figure out how I'm going to make it until the 15th of the month. That day happens to be my birthday ... but, more importantly, it's pay day .... and I may be looking forward to a check of anywhere from $0 - $70. Happy birthday indeed.

And, while I'm as broken and stressed and destitute as I am ... I'm cooking those noodles on my functional gas stove, typing this to you on my high-speed internet connection, with my electricity still running. My cell phone still works, although mostly to intercept calls from desperate creditors. Meanwhile, there are bums standing under the overpass that probably have more money in that can they're shaking than I do in my bank account. In this country, it's possible to be penniless and still passable to the naked eye. We are broke because we're living to the very brink of our means ... all desperately clawing to eek out some semblance of normalcy. By any means necessary, it seems ... even if that equates to not eating for a couple of days or staying locked in your room because you can't afford the gas. Every time I walk down the street, I know I'm passing others like me. Those who sit on the edges of their bed at night, wondering what the hell they're going to do. Trying to figure out what they can sell or pawn or how they can re-arrange things to just scrape by for another week. But, you wouldn't know it unless they told you. Their jeans look ripped simply to fit the fashion ... their t-shirts seemingly faded for the same reasons. The line between poverty stricken pity case and street savvy hipster have been blurred. I thank my lucky stars every day for this. As long as the entire ass portion of my jeans doesn't blow out completely, I can still pass in public.

I remember a time when I didn't half seriously consider mugging drunken frat boys on Bourbon Street as a possibility.

I remember a time when I didn't research plasma, marrow, and sperm donation on the internet.

I remember a time when I didn't make jokes about eating toilet paper or fighting pigeons for French fry scraps in order to survive.

I think about those times quite often. Those were good times, those times ...

... and now that goddamn Michael Jackson song is stuck in my head.