Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 26

Sunday is uneventful. I want to sleep in again, but I've got things to do. Exciting things like my laundry and going to the supermarket. I don't cook, exactly, but I have a microwave. Great for ramen noodles. And a hot plate. Great for almost burning the building down. And a sink. Great for roaches to use as some kind of express tunnel into my life. No bathroom of my own. That's down the hall. Basically, I live in a dorm. Dorm style, they call it.

Most of my neighbors are students at NYU or one of the other schools. So I am daily reminded by this fact that I have not progressed at all since college.

In fact, I lived much better in college, sharing a huge two bedroom apartment with Molly for less than half what I pay here.

But that was in Ohio. Life is cheap in Ohio. I often wonder if I should have stayed there.

My mom thinks so. She doesn't exactly come out and say it. But it is strongly implied every time we talk on the phone. Which is every Sunday, at a minimum.

"That city is so expensive!" she tells me, as if I do not know this.

"There is so much crime!" she informs me, as if this is also news to me.

I think Mom has subscribed to the crime alerts for every neighborhood in the city. She is up to speed on every break-in, mugging, robbery, murder, assault, and drug arrest from Staten Island to Yonkers. "Is that near you?" she'll ask, after quoting a police report verbatim, time of day and street address included. I explain that no, that shooting occurred in the Bronx, which is nowhere near where I live or would ever go. "Well, just you be careful, Charity. Stay alert. Remember to—"

Look both ways before I cross the street.

I am serious. She is still telling me this. Like I'm six.

Also, no one in New York does that. We just cross. It's an art.

I say we. Like I'm a New Yorker.

Which, in the literal sense of living here the past few years, I am. I can hail a cab. I know which subway line to take where. I can fold a pizza slice. I jaywalk. I know how to order a bagel.

I've picked up a few things.

But honestly? I'm not a New Yorker. This city is getting the better of me. It's wearing me down. I'm starting to believe all my favorite TV shows lied to me. You know, all the ones about the great friends who live in fab apartments and have fun, glam, interesting jobs and get into wacky hijinks week after week. New York is not like that at all. At least my New York isn't.

By 11:00 p.m. I'm lying in my loft bed in my PJs, staring at an ugly ceiling, listening to depressing music, counting the ninety-nine thousand things that have gone wrong in my life and the ninety-nine thousand ways things are sure to get worse. Have I made one right move, one good decision, since coming here?

Nothing comes to mind.

Except, maybe, listening to Molly. That usually turns out, if not well – because I can screw up anything – at least better than expected.

Molly is right. What I most need right now is a job.

A real job. Not temping. Not another one-off gig.

Or another unpaid internship where my creepy supervisor is alway perving down my blouse and making inappropriate comments of an inappropriate nature.

I'd at least like to get paid if I've got to put up with that. You know?

The point is, money may not be the root of all evil, but it's the root of all my problems.

Or most of them.

Student loans. Credit cards.

Rent, which I somehow manage to scrape together each month, just barely.

Guilt over taking the money my favorite aunt loaned me. Which I'm totally going to pay back! Eventually. Even though she told me not to worry about it.

I have to repay Gallant George too.

George is ... well, hard to explain. A strange character. A friend, I think. Super nice. Yet weird. Currently in the Peace Corps, somewhere in Africa where the internet doesn't reach.

Anyway, he left me an envelope full of cash before he went. The note said he wouldn't need dollars where he was going and I should just "pay it forward."

Which is a lovely thought.

I used the money to pay rent.

I did buy a purse with some of it.

Ironic, if you think about it.

Because my purse is pretty much empty. Of money, I mean.

I carry all the standard girl things a girl should carry in her purse. Naturally.

But money, that I lack in abundance.

Hence, my need for a job. Otherwise, my next big purchase will be a bus ticket back to Ohio.

And that I cannot face. That's defeat and disgrace.

That's a thousand I told you so's thrown in my face.

Let's just say the support for Charity chasing her big dreams in the big city was far from unanimous.

At this point the job doesn't have to be glamorous.

Or exciting. Or involve wacky hijinks.

It just needs to pay the bills, be legal, and not involve nude dancing, nude modeling, or other nudity-based career opportunities.

Not that I wasn't flattered to get such job offers on several occasions. It's just that I was more icked out than flattered.

Nude is not my best side.

Although if it were the only thing between me and Ohio...

No. No nudes.

Otherwise, I'm game for anything. I'd even work for the MTA.

"I just need a job!" I shout at the cracked and suspiciously stained ceiling. A loose piece of plaster falls. It rattles as it hits the parquet floor. I sit up in bed, startled.

"That is entirely doable," says the little imp standing on my hot plate. He tips his bowler hat to me.

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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