Deb and I have known each other for many years, going back to high school days. We graduated in the same class, after passing each other in the halls for four years and once in a blue moon, saying Hello. Our antisocial history had nothing to do with personality. It was based on parishes. I belonged to a parish on one side of the city and Deb belonged to a parish on the other side of the city. In Catholic culture, this is the kind of thing that creates elite hierarchies. So it was surprising when I ran into her after graduation at a community college campus and she stopped to say Hello. I was using the 2-year route into University, the safe and less expensive entry. The word was Deb had gone directly into FSU. The word was wrong.
I didn’t see her again for decades. Not until a cheery morning when I gathered my garbage cans from the curb and saw her doing the same. She was the new neighbor, living directly across the street from me. I knew who she was immediately. And I greeted her, using her full name. She looked at me very quizzically, had no idea who I was and said as much. We have been sporadic in our friendliness ever since. I cannot get a handle on her, which means we don’t really jive. Most of the time she has a strange look on her face when she sees me, as if she can’t get a handle on me. She is periodically bossy, sweet, critical, rude, regretful. Deb is my go-to phone call when I need someone to pull me up from the floor or the front yard. We both enjoy our intoxicants. She is much more alcohol-based and I am the pothead. She is also one of the most creative people I’ve known in a long time. And I love that part of her.
Deb and I did everything right. We completed our Catholic high school. We completed our four year degrees and to some extent we were both in professional positions when the day came for retirement. Neither of us left our professions willingly. And neither of us ever married. Although I would say my 9-year monogamous relationship with a woman that included buying a house and raising a young boy was pretty close to a heterosexual marriage.
Deb and I have been talking a lot lately. She revealed that she’s having problems financially. She may have to move in with her sister. She’s $600 short on her monthly needs.
Deb lives in a lovely brick bungalow and the Amazon truck visits her on a regular basis. She has gifted me with brand name shoes, water fountains, potted flowers and ornamentals. But now the Amazon truck has stopped coming by Deb’s front door.
I love to problem solve, especially other people’s problems. We sat in my back room the other day and I talked with her about side hustles. She gave me that quizzical look. But I kept on. She has a huge garage in her back yard and I think she could make a good $400 to $500 a month renting it out as storage space. And she has a long long driveway, enough concrete to fit at least one additional car. She could make money storing someone’s car. She has questions, Deb is not committed to this. I talk with her about pet sitting or pet walking. She’s a dog lover and this seems natural. Deb won’t bite. She says she’s applied for part-time positions at Lowe’s and Target. I did that kind of work when I was a kid and standing on cement all day at a cash register is not for weaklings. I talk about refinancing her mortgage. She talks about the complexity of applying for food stamps. She has a friend named John who has lots of money. Maybe he can help. Then there’s her sister, who was somehow involved in her finances but has now withdrawn her support.
Deb is trying. I know that she has Social Security and I’ve got that plus a pension. But my brother tells me that I am the poorest person he knows. That really hurt. That bit. He never attended college; he is a union guy. He owns acreage and a big truck and a Jeep and a golf cart. And here I am with my master’s degree living in what amounts to poverty with a nonfunctional Honda. (Thus the car photo and this GoFundMe link) He tells me I’m a survivor. I probably gave him a look. I don’t want to be a survivor. And that’s the thing.
Deb and I are trying to survive and there is something seriously indecent about that kind of status. We have two other female neighbors and both are in elevated situations in contrast. One lives with her son. She’s 85 and is a retired equestrian cop from New York City. Her spouse is reportedly happy in his dementia, residing in one of those homes. And Linda came into the neighborhood well situated. Last year she divorced her abusive husband and she seems the happiest of us all.
So much irony. My friend Jayne says that being old isn’t for sissies. Once you reach this road, you know it. My DNA says I’m genetically predisposed to live until I’m 100. This is irony with a loud guffaw and a slap on the thigh. Holy moly! That’s a lot of survival ahead.
GO BLINDLY 