I Don't Know You

What is the definition of poor? I suppose you could say it depends on who you ask. To the people at the top of the social hierarchy, poor was anyone who didn't own a pair of Jimmy Choo's. Or, in the male case, a Porsche. Coincidentally, those socialites also happened to be brimming with money.

If you asked a middle-class person, or someone working at McDonald's in their 30's, they would say that they were the ones who were poor. Then they would shrug it off with a laugh; knowing that at the end of the day, they had food to put on the table and that was enough.

And then you could ask those like me. I would probably lie or ignore you... Without letting you know that I'm the one with financial troubles to spare. It's a pride thing - you're poor and you know it, but you don't like to say it out loud. It's embarrassing.

Sure, there were people worse off than me, but I didn't like to think about it. I couldn't imagine having it worse off than I did. That may have seemed selfish, but when you're stuck in the pit it's hard to see over the side.

I got paid two hundred dollars a week to take out trash for The Boston Tribune. I wouldn't even call that a job, though, more of a connection thing - a family friend I had known for a while was the head journalist, and, although she couldn't get me a proper job without the credentials, she had landed me this, to which I was incredibly grateful.

I was surprised I had asked for help at all. I had seen Jennifer's name on an article, seeked out her business number, called and explained who I was. After her squeals and excitement over the reunion, we opted to go for coffee. I had explained part of my situation - that I needed a job, mostly - and Jennifer had quickly thought of something small she could do. She was just one of those likeable types, the friendly ones who are willing to help anyone who needs it. And I just so happened to be one of those people. She set it up for me, and a few days later I was good to go.

I wouldn't say Jennifer was a good friend of mine. I didn't bother with friends. I was embarrassed about my situation, whether I wanted to admit it or not. I was sure she thought I had another job and just needed some extra cash, because when she insinuated the idea I didn't deny it. I thanked her, did my job, and on the rare occasion we would pass one another I would put on a brilliant smile, add a quick hello and then continue on with how busy I was and how I had to go. Acted happy and content. It was the same with everyone. I didn't want pity, I didn't want anyone to help. I didn't want to make friends, have them find out about my predicament, and try to help. That was the last thing I wanted. The only somewhat friend I had was a woman in her early 40's named Amy down at the small diner a street over from my apartment. The food was cheap, and it was good enough for me. It usually wasn't busy, and so Amy and I had chatted quite often in a booth there, sipping on milkshakes. She knew enough to know I wasn't well off, and sometimes slipped me extra food to bring home. But other than that, it was just me.

I had grown up independently. My parents were never home, and I knew they had no idea where I was now. I wouldn't dare ask them for help - I couldn't. They couldn't know I left and ended up like this. Which was why me asking for Jennifer's help was surprising, even to me. I rarely asked for help for the sole reason that I wanted to prove I could take care of myself. Which, you know, was exactly what I was doing...

I lived in a small apartment building on a corner just outside of Downtown Boston, and although the regular rent was 300 dollars every two weeks, the owners, an elderly couple, had taken pity on me and were letting me stay there for a hundred less than the normal. So I had to pay the 200$ rent every other week, and that left me with a bit left over for food and other necessities.

As I walked down the street to the apartment, I found myself sighing. The day was dark and rainy, suiting my mood perfectly. I watched the lights from the bar across the street reflecting on the shiny pavement before I headed inside and up the stairs.

The narrow stairs along the left side of the wall had always terrified me. The steps were small and I was certain I would fall at one point or another. I hadn't yet, not in the 6 months I'd been here.

I reached the landing and turned sharply to the right, around the banister and then another right until I reached the door at the end. I stuck my key in the grey, worn-out lock, having to shake the entire contraption in order for it to click. I pushed the door open, yanked the key out, and shut it behind me.

I glanced around at the small living room with nothing but plates and glasses scattered about. I usually waited awhile before I cleaned; I didn't have many possessions, so the dishes everywhere made it feel a bit more homey.

The only other things in the room were an old brown couch, a box filled with my camera things and photo albums that served as my coffee table, and a small TV stand with a small, old, black, 90's looking TV on top.

To the right of the front door was a small kitchen, only consisting of the built in countertops, a few cupboards and an old beige fridge. To the left was the tiny bathroom, and beside that was the door to my bedroom. The door was off the hinges, and so I left it open. I took a few steps towards it, running my fingers over the wood and drumming on it as I surveyed my room.

It was a small room, big enough for the tiny single bed I had taken three months to save up for. The owners of the apartment, the Jesper's, had given me an old mattress, and so I had bought the box spring. The thrift store lady offered an ugly, dark brown night-table to go with it for free. I knew she was desperate for it to be gone and I thought, hey, what's wrong with another piece of furniture to add to my collection?

I ran my fingers through my hair and turned into the washroom. Though small and cramped, it was probably the thing I was most grateful for. The Jesper's paid for the electrical bill of the entire building, and so I got heat and hot water. Boy, was I grateful that I could get a shower every morning. Even though I knew it didn't make a difference, I always tried to cut the cost by getting fast showers.

I glanced at the time, deciding it was a decent time to get in bed. I threw a ten dollar bill in my 'University Money' jar, glanced at my coffee table box, sighed, and headed into my room.