I have never had a school loan, never financed a car, never owned anything worth a damn. I wrote bad checks on an overdrawn account for a month when I was twenty-one, but somehow I never ended up in jail. I did end up in ChexSystems, which is like poverty jail and meant I couldn’t get a real checking account at a recognizable bank for the seven years it took to be removed from my credit history. And because my people are poor people who were masters in the art of robbing Peter to pay Paul, I didn’t learn about establishing credit until I was thirty-four. I knew how to write a check to myself and cash it after five at the nearby Currency Exchange, because it wouldn’t get deposited at least until the next day, and take another couple of days to clear, and by that time my direct deposit will have gone through and there would be enough in my account to cover it. But I did not know that if you get a store credit card, you have to immediately pay it off; otherwise you risk fucking your credit up for the next *checks watch* thirteen years. When I applied for a Discover card, I got a letter that essentially said, “Wow, are you sure you aren’t dead, bye!” because my credit history was so thin. Trying to establish yourself financially late into your thirties is a ridiculous and almost insurmountable undertaking. I’m forty this year. I still don’t know shit.
Hence, when Erik, our beloved mailman, delivered the very official letter from the government asking me just where the fuck was their percentage of my money, I hid that letter under a pile of notebooks on my desk in the hopes that it would disappear if I just didn’t look at it or think about it.
Am I rich now? Absolutely not. Did I drive away from a toll machine shooting nineteen dollars’ worth of quarters at me because I only had a twenty-dollar bill at the Indiana dollar toll, and my card wouldn’t swipe, and my rental car was too far away for me to do anything other than fruitlessly claw at them while the seatbelt sliced open my neck skin, and an impatient line formed behind me? Yes, the fuck I did. Because I will melt into a puddle of soft goo if I get violently honked at on the skyway. So that’s the kind of money I have. “Drive away rather than be humiliated” money. “I forgot to stop for candy at Walgreens so I’ll get my overpriced Red Vines at the theater” money. “This candle is just for decoration” money.
“More than one midweight jacket to choose from this winter” money. “Bitch, you pay for it, I owe the state of Michigan two thousand dollars” money.
hello, 911?
Hello, 911? There’s a middle-aged dad standing next to the yogurts in Trader Joe’s actively strumming a guitar and trying to make meaningful eye contact with every harried person trying to get a box of Pastry Pups on a dismal Saturday afternoon, and everyone other than me seems to be maintaining a relaxed and happy exterior despite the fact that this is terribly embarrassing and he is singing Bob Marley. Please get me out of here. All I wanted was a bag of reasonably priced shelled nuts sold to me by a relatively attractive retired shoe salesman in a faded Hawaiian shirt. Is that really too much to fucking ask?
Hello, 911? The good guy in this movie has made a lot of dumb mistakes, a lot of miscalculations that I can identify with, because, of course, when you do something in haste under intense pressure, you’re bound to make an error or take a misstep. But I can’t stop cringing and burrowing into my chair, and I did not watch the trailer all the way through because I didn’t want to spoil it for myself, but now I’m not sure if he lives until the end and I’m feeling real stressed out about it. Also, can that woman two rows over hear my nervous popcorn crunching during these excruciatingly quiet scenes?
Hello, 911? Is some invisible force going to push me down this flight of stairs?
Hello, 911? Which line is moving faster, the one I’m in or that other line, and do you think I should switch? Does it matter? It’s not like I have anywhere to be, but just standing here makes me feel like my organs are going to burst out of my skin. I can’t prove it, but I think this line is moving incrementally slower: Why does that make me feel like I’m losing a race? Should I just stay where I am, or do you think it’s okay if I ease over to Lane 8 in a way that silently telegraphs “I’m not mad, just having an inexplicable panic attack, please ignore me” to the checkout girl? If I move to that other line, will the Target gods smite me by throwing a clearance rack shirt with a missing price tag into that lady’s cart? Why did I even come here?
Hello, 911? I can see foot shadows beneath the door of this single-service bathroom located in the indie coffee shop I only go to because I really do want to care about shopping local even though it’s definitely out of my way, and when this person jiggled the doorknob to find it locked why would they not just go sit back down at their table or run out to hide in their car like a normal person? Why stand there, guaranteeing that I will have to confront them with the whoosh of moist air that smells faintly like my dripping undercarriage, when all I wanted to do was piss out this latte I drank too fast and maybe poop a little? What am I supposed to do with my eyes when a stranger and I are trapped in a gentle tornado of my rancid-smelling solid waste? Do I say “oh, hey, good morning” or “wow, please excuse me” or “I’m sorry I ate such a large serving of corn”?
Hello, 911? I am the first person at this party.
Hello, 911? I was watching that show Greenleaf on the Oprah network, and these two characters were riding in a car and having a passionate conversation, and dude turned to lady and I was gripped with what can only be described as STOMACH-CURDLING PANIC as my entire body clenched in anticipation of his car jumping the curb and crashing through the plate glass window of a laundromat, because he took his eyes entirely off the road for at least twelve seconds. When was the first movie ever made, 1888? And in all those years of practice people still can’t film a realistic conversation in a moving car?! His eyes need to be on the Toyota in front of him, OPRAH WINFREY. I’m going to have a fucking stroke.
Hello, 911? What if I fall asleep on this bus?
Hello, 911? I just turned to this guy and said, “I’m so sweaty, right?” to break the tension. Because even though we’re both standing still in this air-conditioned bank, I was outside under the August sun five minutes ago and now sweat is just pouring out from under my hair. Good Lord, it’s like someone turned a faucet on my scalp, and I am literally squishing around in my shoes, and he has to be noticing, right? He hasn’t moved away from me or anything, but it’s definitely on his mind. I can tell. He’s totally not thinking about his mortgage or anything; his attention is definitely focused on my endocrine system. Oh, man, dude just side-eyed me. Did he just see me swipe my brow sweat into my pants pocket with my forefinger, or am I bugging? Why does he keep suspiciously glancing around like that? Does he think I’m guilty of something or just fat?
Hello, 911? I’m in a parking lot and this brand-new minivan just parked dangerously close to me and I’m afraid of getting out of my car and accidentally banging the door. It’s so new it sparkles under the sun, and the reflection of the dirty Honda I haven’t washed since last fall in its gleaming passenger-side window is causing me agita every time I glance to my left. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be so terrified, but this woman took the only open space in the lot and now she’s just sitting there, texting or scrolling through Twitter or reading an in-depth article about the Russia probe, and I know she is going to freak out if I graze her door with mine while she’s sitting there, so what do I do? I have things to do after this errand, but it’s already been twenty minutes, so should I forget the laundry detergent altogether and just wear dirty clothes until I can get a prescription for this shit or should I just wait here until I die from smiling politely during this self-imposed hostage standoff?
Hello, 911? My doctor asked me to list my symptoms. What if I’m lying without meaning to? What if I forget something? Is my itchy toe worth mentioning? My head hurts, so I either have a brain tumor or I haven’t had enough caffeine today. How important is it to tell her how many Advil I actually take? Why is she reading my chart so quietly? Was that diarrhea? Is she over there planning an intervention becau
se I went through the Ativan she prescribed me in less than a week? Is she going to watch me climb onto the table, and if so, is there a way I could just die right now instead? Oh mannnn, these are my most dingy underpants. I didn’t really think they were going to make me put the gown on! When was my last period? Do I still take—what the fuck did she just say—fluticasone …? That’s the green stuff, right? No, wait, it’s the spray. I’m here for a sinus infection, but it sounds like she thinks I’m here for obesity? Honestly, why did I even come in? I’m fine.
Hello, 911? Is that Channel 3 News hurricane correspondent safe?
Hello, 911? I have a confirmation e-mail from a hotel in my inbox right now. How come I don’t have my room key yet? Is the card I reserved it on expired? Did someone warn them ahead of time that all I’m going to do is drink vending-machine Cokes and mainline whatever marathon the USA network has chosen for me today? I enjoy Mark Harmon! How come the woman at reception isn’t talking to me? Is the computer system running slow? Did I accidentally reserve a broom closet? Is it 2:57 p.m. and they’re really going to make me wait until the official check-in time of three before they let me spread myself diagonally across a king-size bed hundreds of other people have had sex on? Okay, so my card was definitely declined. Or worse, the card of the person who booked this hotel for me was fucking declined. I knew the universe would never allow me to actually be fancy! Is it my responsibility to pay for this now? If it were up to me, I’d be at a sixty-two-dollar Comfort Inn next to the highway, not this tony boutique shit. A cheeseburger on the room service menu costs twenty-seven dollars. Bitch, I could franchise my own McDonald’s for less than that. Maybe I’m in the wrong hotel. Could I be at the wrong hotel? Dude next to me got his room key thirty seconds after he told them his name! Is this punishment for booking a room on discounthotelsforcheap dot net? Did I accidentally ask her to get me approved for a car loan? Seriously, what is the delay? THEY TYPE SO MUCH. SO MANY THINGS COULD BE WRONG.
Hello, 911? Did I already take my pills?
Hello, 911? How do I step onto the moving walkway? It moves! It’s better than a regular floor! But why do I feel like I’m about to try gymnastics for the first time every time I try to place myself and my suitcase on one? Did all these other people effortlessly gliding through the terminal somehow get lessons on how to step on it without their entire bodies spasming as they try to remain upright?
Hello, 911? It’s 11:30 at night and I’ve got an important meeting (LOL) tomorrow morning at nine thirty. I set my alarm for eight. That should give me plenty of time, right? Google Maps says it’s probably going to take seventeen minutes to get there from my hotel barring any major traffic, but what if the Lyft driver is late? Alternately, what if the doorman can’t find a cab? I’m planning to go down at nine. Does that leave enough time for me to get eggs from room service? But they run late sometimes, right? Should I risk it? It’s midnight now and I think I’ll be hungry in the morning, but what if I’m not? Then I’m stuck waiting for eggs I don’t want. Maybe I should set my alarm for eight thirty. I definitely want to sleep off this Xanax, but does that give me enough time to take an actual crevice-cleaning, hair-washing shower? Should I be honest about who I really am as a person and factor in twenty minutes of bedside-sitting-and-staring-into-space time? It’s 12:30, but to be safe I’m going to set the alarm for seven thirty. Should I attempt to impress these people with eye makeup or do they not care because they are serious businesspersons? Let me just go ahead and set my phone for 6:55, so I have plenty of time to contour and blend (i.e., totally fuck it up and wipe it all off while crying). Since I’m up, it wouldn’t hurt to iron my pants, just in case I can’t hide my legs under a table. Why does everyone want to “meet” on couches these days? An electric chair would be more relaxing. Wait a minute, it’s already 1:00?!
Hello, 911? This takeout spot doesn’t have online ordering.
Hello, 911? So I texted this dude and he texted me back, then I texted him back, then he texted me back, then I sent two heart emojis and a cheeseburger, and now those three little “I’m writing something pithy and hilarious, just wait for it” dots are dancing on the left side of my screen, but they disappeared kinda quickly and now no message popped up? Should I just wait five minutes then start obsessively calling him, or just find some train tracks to lie down on?
Hello, 911? I barricaded myself in the bedroom because the cleaning service came before I could think of a reason I needed to leave the house for an hour and forty-five minutes, and, sure, they are very nice and consummate professionals, but it’s still weird that I’m here, don’t you think? I left the money on the table, including a gigantic tip, but I don’t know how to make non-painful small talk with a very cheerful person who is patiently vacuuming the thousands of dead skin cells I’ve shed all over the couch. And I’m sure they’d prefer that I just stay up here with my phone on vibrate pretending I’m not standing in my dirty shoes on the floor they’re trying to clean, but what if they know I’m here and think I’m a rude asshole rather than assuming I just don’t want to put on a bra before the sun is even up? Is there any way you can send an officer to make sure that people I know in my rational mind are totally unconcerned with the breakdown I am having over their assumed perceptions of my coarse behavior aren’t secretly mad?
Hello, 911? My friend just left me a voice mail.
Hello, 911? I’m watching a live basketball game on television, and I don’t really know a lot about audio things, but every time the announcers pause, you can hear individual voices in the crowd, and it is causing me actual physical pain to sit at the edge of the couch with my finger hovering over the mute button in case someone says “FUCK” super loud on national TV and then the commentator has to awkwardly try to joke it off, and is there such a thing as extreme empathy that causes you to literally have a panic attack on behalf of a college sports announcer who may or may not have to cover for athletes yelling, “BULLSHIT, MAN,” at the ref, because if that’s a real disease, I definitely have it.
Hello, 911? I’ve been lying awake for an hour each night, reliving a two-second awkward experience I had in front of a casual acquaintance three years ago, for eight months.
Hello, 911? Who decided to get tostadas for this work lunch? I eat like a child, and I don’t know what manners class I missed on how not to eat a tostada like a barn animal, but the whole fucking thing collapses in on itself after the first bite, and how is it possible to conduct business this way? Who decided this? Even if I forcibly removed all my teeth, the second I breathe on it, this pile of cabbage and meat on a fragile corn plate would shatter into a dozen pieces, nine of which would end up down the front of this white shirt. Or directly into the perfect U-shaped basin created by this low-cut T-shirt I shouldn’t even be wearing. If I don’t eat, people will ask why I’m not eating. If I do eat, people will know that I’m actually a giant dog dressed in a human skin suit. Why did I even leave my house this morning?
Hello, 911? I HAVE TO MERGE.
Hello, 911? Why did this woman choose the middle stall in this three-stall public bathroom? I like to give people the benefit of the doubt and maybe both stalls were occupied when she came in, but unless these two phantom poopers evaporated without a trace in the time it took me to walk over here, I think I am dealing with a real live Person Who Intentionally Chooses the Middle Toilet. I’m not sure I’ve ever been that relaxed and/or confident a day in my life. What must that feel like? I’m the kind of person who has to physically restrain myself from offering a heartfelt apology to everyone in the airport bathroom for farting after a five-hour flight. I cannot imagine having the nerve to force someone to sit next to me while I flush half a dozen times to disguise a totally natural bodily function that no human is exempt from yet somehow fills me with deep, unrelenting shame.
Hello, 911? I am unwittingly at the mall with my skinny rich friend and she insists that I follow her into Anthropologie, a place I can neither responsibly afford nor comfortably browse because everything
is doll-size and expensive, and no one here actually cares about anything I’m doing probably because they can tell by my shoes that I am poor, but I know that if I pull something called a “cropped draped anorak” (color: warm buttermilk; cost: approximately $1,726) off the fucking rack, everyone in here is going to immediately stop whatever it is they’re doing (ogling overpriced throw blankets knit from angels’ delicate wings, or mentally justifying the purchase of yet another set of whimsical teacups) and their heads will swivel in unison to behold whichever form my shame is going to take today: Will my cheeks blush burning scarlet as I attempt to wedge my human-size arm into the infant-size sleeve only to have it get irreversibly stuck? Or will I ignore all evidence that nothing here is made for my body and confidently stride to the register carrying a breezy wrap skirt that costs roughly the same as my rent past their chiseled, gawking faces, only to have my credit card be declined in a spectacular display of computer-generated shrieks and ominous beeps?! Find out on next week’s episode of the endless drama This Is Why I Rarely Go Outside.
Hello, 911? BRB, I’m starring in a horror movie called Crossing the Street at a Stop Sign with an Approaching Car That May or May Not Force Me to Do the “No, You Go First!” Tango.
Hello, 911? Tell me why I agreed to a conference call at 11:00 a.m. knowing full well that (1) I hate talking on the phone under 99 percent of circumstances, and (2) that it’s going to take me half an hour of giving myself a pep talk just to get out of bed and then another fifteen minutes to four hours to coax myself into the shower to try to find the part of my personality that is charming on the phone, and the reason why I didn’t just fake laryngitis or possibly my own death when I had the chance?
Wow, No Thank You. Page 23