Page 55 of Bend
“No,” he says. “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds annoyed.
On a whim, I call my landlord, Dursey. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to let you know— I wanted to ask if you know of any jobs and tell you I’d take almost anything. If you have any friends or anything…”
Silence stretches out between us before finally, Dursey clears his throat.
“For sure. I’ll let you know.”
But he won’t. I can tell.
The days begin to slide through my fingers. My eye starts twitching like it did after Mom died. I stop eating. I just can’t choke food down. I watch my phone and check my e-mail and apply for more jobs. I even go by Hugh’s and ask the owner, Benjamin, if he would hire me.
“In a heartbeat, honey. But I’ve got no openings right now.”
One night, in a state of panic, I look up escort services. I’m not super sexually experienced—no more than average, whatever that is—but I like orgasms, and I’m not ugly. I could maybe have sex with carefully vetted strangers if it meant I could afford a small apartment.
I check college apartment boards, hoping to find a situation where I’d be one of several roommates. Maybe I could get a low rent that way. I e-mail two girls, but get no response.
A week goes by, a week in which I collect an additional $264 from the sale of various belongings. A week in which I awake in the night, heart beating frantically, and check my inbox with sweaty fingers. A week in which I stand up the Journal crew for bingo.
On a Wednesday afternoon, I sell most of my clothes, adding a measly $43 to my sad sum. I go door to door again, hitting literally every business on Beacon Hill and the surrounding neighborhoods. I swallow the absolute last smidgen of my pride and frenziedly appl
y at a work-all-night janitorial service, at a Wendy’s, at a car wash down the street.
I wish I hadn’t had to sell my Kia to make rent last month. If I still had it, I could expand the door-to-door part of my job hunt.
On Tuesday, I take the bus to West End and Boston Commons; on Wednesday, Back Bay, and Cambridge. I spend both days walking as far as I can, grabbing job applications from every place with an opening and filling them out on the cold sidewalk, pressing my pen down on my wallet and trying to keep my trembling fingers still enough so my handwriting is readable. I get home at half past two a.m. Thursday, exhausted and trembling from hunger.
Katie pops up the next day and breezes right into the apartment, which is, accidentally, unlocked.
She looks around with horror on her face and puts her hands on her hips. “Red, what the hell?”
I’ve been found out, and I’m slightly mortified, but I shrug and play it off. “I’m moving.”
“Holy wow.” Her mouth lolls. “Just…holy.”
I twirl around the almost-empty living room with my arms out. “I’m trying to live simply.”
“Holy shit, you got evicted, didn’t you? Because Carl left you high and dry.”
“I didn’t get evicted. I’m moving.”
“In with Gage and I.”
“No way.” They live in an 800-square-foot flat and fight and fuck like a pair of rabid cats.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“Katie—”
“Then where are you going?” she demands.
“I’ve got plans.”
“You don’t, Red. Quit putting me off. You’ve been doing it for weeks now and I’m tired of turning a blind eye to this…to this crisis.”
