RENTER

I didn’t need an alarm clock. The upstairs neighbor played fetch with her dog at 5am. Waking up was more like giving up on sleep. We responded with the tap of our Neighbor Sabor™. The ball of tape wound round the broomstick prevented ceiling marks. Another day had begun.  




In a West Coast city, epicenter of the tech scourge, our quality of life had deteriorated. Only pretense remained. There was wealth for a few but not for most. Landlords turned into feudal lords, reigning over their little fiefdoms. If you were lucky, you found yourself under the protection of a benevolent dictator. We had no such luck. We found only negligence and sleep deprivation. Two adults and two children in a dank 2-bedroom basement apartment.

We were poor and we lived in a rich neighborhood. You wouldn’t have known it to look at us. We weren’t always this poor but now we were and every day was a struggle to abide alongside the rich.

I went to shop at the nearby grocery. I couldn’t afford to shop there but I couldn’t afford to fix my car either. I was too tired to walk all the way to the cheaper grocery. I checked my bank account before I left home. Good to go. I walked up and over the hill and into the cool world of the Theftway. I passed the lady selling Spare Change, the publication benefitting the homeless, and said “No, thanks.” I had to buy toilet paper. I wanted to buy olives in bulk, with some nice cheese — the sliver at 12.99/lb looked to be delicious with some bread — but I did not.

I put toilet paper in the cart, indispensable toilet paper. I remembered my elderly college professor. She was from Germany and she told stories of life after World War II. Every evening, her family would cut the newspaper into squares for tomorrow’s wipe. “Nothing was wasted,” she said. I had canceled the paper to save money. I missed the solid thud of the New York Times on a Sunday morning, a sound that comforted like rain. I bought pasta and sauce and non-organic milk and I treated us to a single heirloom tomato ($5/lb). That would do. That would have to do.

The people I passed wore fabrics of high quality. Even the loose summer sundresses had a well-tailored edge. I remembered when I had the time and energy and arrogance of budget to be fashionable. I lamented the torn lace in my lingerie drawer. As I fell asleep every night, I had a different counting of sheep. It was one that kept you awake, a financial assessment of life. One popular refrain sounded now in my mind:

“I can pay that bill in two weeks time and,

still buy food
still buy food
still buy food.”

I wore a nice black sundress, purchased from the consignment store. It looked good and I felt good in it. I washed it more than once to rid it of the second-hand stink. I noticed a stray thread that protruded from the seam. What was I pretending at?

I heard a squeal. I turned. It was a woman I knew. Her son was my son’s friend. Her vowels were false falsetto and long-drawn. “How aaaare you?” “Great,” I lied. She began to complain. She was tired. She had so much to do. I eyed her basket. It had a large container of olives in it, with a sliver of cheese too. She caught herself. “I really shouldn’t complain,” she continued, “we are so blessed.

So blessed
So blessed
So blessed.”

I stifled a gag reflex. I thought how I had checked my balance before buying food; how my car didn’t work and how sleep-deprived I was. I thought how we stopped taking vacations. Maybe she knew. She fidgeted and glanced sideways more often than in my direction. Did my dress smell? Did she know I couldn’t afford to give each of my kids a room?

I thought how I didn’t invite her son over to play. I didn’t want to embarrass my kids by inviting their friends to my little apartment. If the weather was good, I would take them to a park to play. But they were older now and outings meant driving and driving meant having a car which I could no longer afford.

I was so vulnerable in my story that I had forgotten to wonder about hers. In the end, we spoke of nothing of consequence and of everything that had to do with pretense. We upheld the world as we thought we should. Clear and secure and founded on lies.

I made excuses so I could escape. “Busy day! Have to run!” I fought back tears and went to the checkout. It cleared. I breathed a sigh of relief that I was certain no one else in that rotten store breathed. I left, averting my eyes from the Spare Change lady as I walked away.

So fucking blessed, was I.

Lady friends gathered over the lunch hour the following day. I mentioned the loud noise of construction that shook my cupboards.  “Oooh,” one cooed, “Your property value will go up,

Will go up
Will go up
Will go up.”

I could tell she fell asleep to a different refrain than I. Another woman began to complain about The Help. “I don’t think she likes to clean for me,” she said, “but I don’t do toilets and dusting. I pay people for those things.” I cut her off.

“I’m just a renter,” I said. A woman’s jaw dropped and her mouth remained open. Awkward silence filled the room. They drew quiet lines as they came to understand that I was not Us but rather, Them.

I laughed and hoped the sound would shatter their bubbles. I knew better. The sound of forced cheer reverberated off the walls of our collective prison. Nothing changed. It was so uncouth of me. I should have known better.

But I am just a Renter.