Poverty

He knows the quicksand grip of poverty - how every moves seems to dig his and those near him deeper into its grip. He remembers the acid taste of hunger. He knows a world where food is everywhere but out of reach, the impossible distance between zero and a ninety-nine cent value hamburger. He knows sickness and medicines that may as well be magic. He knows the temptation to take, how his empty pockets called to him as he walked down aisle after endless aisle of food, of soups, of packages, of cereals, of juice, of milk, of sugars and cream. He remembers the injustice of EBT cards, the glares of those who had no idea, who assumed his irresponsibility. He remembers his rage at those he knew who truly were irresponsible with their welfare. He remember the futility of reasoning with those who had long ago traded aspiration for desperation and desperation for apathy. And how can you convince someone languishing in the blissful impotence of negligence to try again?
He remembers how it began.
Tiny debts, layer by innocent layer. A shirt, a CD, a meal above his means, a television, a car. Each purchase, all too easy to justify and rationalize. And the credit offers kept coming in the mail, each one better than the last. He bought into the deception that being offered credit meant he had good credit which meant he was worthy of all the charges. If he wasn't able to pay on them, they wouldn't have approved the credit in the first place - that was his reasoning.
And then at the end of a particularly careless month, he noticed how little was left after all the minimum payments were made. And then he didn't have enough left over to pay for things like batteries, gas, food, water. And then he realized that he didn't take his rent into account. And then what seemed so easy, so justified, became something dark, dangerous, nearly out of control. But he had a handle on it all. He understood his resources, even if he had brought himself to their limits. It was a delicate balance but with a bit of careful spending and the decision to pay cash for things from here on out, everything was manageable.
But there were birthdays he forgot to plan for, shoes that wore out too soon, pieces of his car that needed to be fixed. And then the floor fell out from beneath him - he lost his job to corporate down-sizing. Then two things. First, the unexpectedly generous severance package dulled the depth of his true financial situation so he dragged his feet looking for a new job. Second, weeks turned into months with careful living (and a steady stream of deductions from his savings account), and when he finally put his job search into overdrive, he was surprised to find that two months away from work was a huge liability in a saturated job market.
Zero to six thousand took a long time to accumulate. Six thousand to zero took no time at all. And then he sees his world transform. It hits him the first time the electricity is cut off. He woke and half the morning was gone. It was one of those jarring awakenings. There was far too much sun in a room that should be dark. He throws the covers off and turns to the clock next to his bed and it tells his it's still two AM but the sun says othiswise. And so he fumbles for his cell phone and it too is off - no charge. His wristwatch then, and finally the truth - it's ten fifteen. He had a promising interview at nine thirty.
He wants to fly into a rage but like the coil of a constrictor, terror is squeezing in on him. He knew to expect this because of the letter from the power company. He had hoped that the grace period would be longer, or that they might forget - an unreasonable hope, but he's found that hope is the only currency he has left and so he manufactures hope out of impossibilities because the truth of the matter is just too unbearable.
He knows that the gas will soon follow. And then his cell phone (which doesn't really matter since he can't charge the thing). And then the landlord. And the coil tightens.
He thinks to call the office where he had the interview to explain, to make up some excuse, to beg for another chance but he has no phone. He wracks his brain trying to think of the nearest pay phone but when he thinks of one, he realizes that it's twenty minutes away by foot, five minutes by bus but he just missed the last one.
All these tiny tragedies, otherwise small and insignificant but without money, without a job, they are monumental feats. And so he clings to what small hopes he can find. And so he showers, dresses for the interview, waits for the next bus and he prays that it doesn't rain.
When the bus comes he finds his bus pass has expired. He needs two dollars but only has a five and the bus driver does not carry change. He turns to the passengers onboard and asks if any of them have change but most ignore his and those that do respond only shake their head. The bus is already in motion. He slides the five into the money slot and takes the first empty seat he can find. He looks out the window and tries not to punch his fist through it, tries not to cry.
He takes a moment to look himself over. The edges of his sleeves are fraying and his leather belt is starting to crack. But these are small things, unnoticeable, he hopes, from afar. The style is unfortunate as well. Rather than opting for the safety of more conservative styles, he was always one to opt for clothes that were a bit more of the season. He regrets this now because a more generic shirt and tie would have withstood the test of time. Now he looks like someone who buys his outfits at thrift stores - which would be true if he had money to buy clothes.
Despite it all, he steels himself. He hopes that a practiced kind of confidence will help his perspective employer to see beyond the frayed hems and the dated tie. He hopes he can sell himself, explain away the missed appointment, and land himself a job.