the door even as I’m talking, and less than an hour later I see her dragging a suitcase down our stoop along with her little white fluff dog in a carrying case.
* * *
Because I still have Landlord Bob’s rent money to fetch, I’m left with Plan C: Get a loan.
I dig out a legal pad and make a list of the possible candidates. Let’s see.
There’s Steph. She’s broke, like me. And I suspect, like me, she has limits on the cash advances on her MasterCard.
Ron. Also broke.
Todd. Out of the question. If I asked him for a loan, I would be handing over a “Lord This Over My Head for Eternity” card. When I was twelve, I borrowed twenty bucks from him to buy New Kids on the Block tickets, and he’s never let me live it down. For years afterward, he’d introduce me as his “little sister who borrowed money to go to New Kids” even when I was sixteen and listened only to The Smiths and The Cure.
Kyle. Even worse than Todd because technically he’s not a blood relative, but because he’s Todd’s best friend he’d feel the need to tell Todd, who would naturally lord it over my head anyway, even though he didn’t actually loan me the money.
That leaves my parents.
My parents lead simple lives, a rare thing on the North Shore in Evanston. My dad works in insurance, and my mother is a housewife. They are both industrious people who cling to the outdated dream that working hard will actually get you somewhere. Dad spent a lot of time grooming Todd for a career and Todd is now an actuary at an insurance company with nice offices downtown, but Dad didn’t spend a lot of time on me. He just assumed Mom would teach me how to bake and I’d go off to college and find a nice husband, and my husband and Todd and Dad could stand around the barbecue pit in July and complain about the humidity and the Cubs. This is the life Dad envisioned for me. The worst contingency he ever foresaw was me marrying a White Sox fan, and even under those circumstances, Dad had planned to be open-minded and magnanimous.
I disappointed him by not meeting Mr. Accountant in college and by dating boys with no ambition and no money and odd piercings. And then I graduated college with an art degree (something Todd was forbidden to do, but was all right for me since Dad never planned on seeing me single at twenty-eight and really just humored me while I was studying at college). I found a job, only to be laid off six months later. I’ve never moved back home with my parents, so maybe that will win me good favor and the $2,000 I need.
Plus, I have something even better than the I’m-Your-Daughter-Please-Help-Me card to play. Tomorrow is my twenty-ninth birthday.
“Happy Birthday!” cries Steph into my phone line the next day. She’s bubbly and happy as is only possible when it isn’t your birthday and when you have a job. She’s calling from an office supply convention in New York, where her boss has sent her to stay until Friday.
“As soon as I get back, we’re going out, understand?”
“Sure,” I say.
“You want me to come back early, I’ll be on the next plane. Just say the word.”
“No, no,” I say. “I promised Mom I’d come home for dinner tonight.”
“OK, but Friday, we’re tying one on, OK?”
I suspect by then, when I’m evicted, I’ll be in dire need of a drink.
I barely hang up before Todd calls.
“First, Happy Birthday. Second — interviews? Resumes? What’s the score?” If Todd wasn’t a well-meaning relative, he might just fall into the category of stalker. “Have you written to any of the people you met at the career fair like I told you to?”
“Todd, it’s my birthday. I am not sending out resumes on my birthday.”
“Jane!” he scolds. He’s more stressed about me being out of work than I am.
“Todd,” I scold back.
“You can’t just sit back in this economy and think employers are going to come court you,” he says.
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “You have to
* * *
Because I still have Landlord Bob’s rent money to fetch, I’m left with Plan C: Get a loan.
I dig out a legal pad and make a list of the possible candidates. Let’s see.
There’s Steph. She’s broke, like me. And I suspect, like me, she has limits on the cash advances on her MasterCard.
Ron. Also broke.
Todd. Out of the question. If I asked him for a loan, I would be handing over a “Lord This Over My Head for Eternity” card. When I was twelve, I borrowed twenty bucks from him to buy New Kids on the Block tickets, and he’s never let me live it down. For years afterward, he’d introduce me as his “little sister who borrowed money to go to New Kids” even when I was sixteen and listened only to The Smiths and The Cure.
Kyle. Even worse than Todd because technically he’s not a blood relative, but because he’s Todd’s best friend he’d feel the need to tell Todd, who would naturally lord it over my head anyway, even though he didn’t actually loan me the money.
That leaves my parents.
My parents lead simple lives, a rare thing on the North Shore in Evanston. My dad works in insurance, and my mother is a housewife. They are both industrious people who cling to the outdated dream that working hard will actually get you somewhere. Dad spent a lot of time grooming Todd for a career and Todd is now an actuary at an insurance company with nice offices downtown, but Dad didn’t spend a lot of time on me. He just assumed Mom would teach me how to bake and I’d go off to college and find a nice husband, and my husband and Todd and Dad could stand around the barbecue pit in July and complain about the humidity and the Cubs. This is the life Dad envisioned for me. The worst contingency he ever foresaw was me marrying a White Sox fan, and even under those circumstances, Dad had planned to be open-minded and magnanimous.
I disappointed him by not meeting Mr. Accountant in college and by dating boys with no ambition and no money and odd piercings. And then I graduated college with an art degree (something Todd was forbidden to do, but was all right for me since Dad never planned on seeing me single at twenty-eight and really just humored me while I was studying at college). I found a job, only to be laid off six months later. I’ve never moved back home with my parents, so maybe that will win me good favor and the $2,000 I need.
Plus, I have something even better than the I’m-Your-Daughter-Please-Help-Me card to play. Tomorrow is my twenty-ninth birthday.
“Happy Birthday!” cries Steph into my phone line the next day. She’s bubbly and happy as is only possible when it isn’t your birthday and when you have a job. She’s calling from an office supply convention in New York, where her boss has sent her to stay until Friday.
“As soon as I get back, we’re going out, understand?”
“Sure,” I say.
“You want me to come back early, I’ll be on the next plane. Just say the word.”
“No, no,” I say. “I promised Mom I’d come home for dinner tonight.”
“OK, but Friday, we’re tying one on, OK?”
I suspect by then, when I’m evicted, I’ll be in dire need of a drink.
I barely hang up before Todd calls.
“First, Happy Birthday. Second — interviews? Resumes? What’s the score?” If Todd wasn’t a well-meaning relative, he might just fall into the category of stalker. “Have you written to any of the people you met at the career fair like I told you to?”
“Todd, it’s my birthday. I am not sending out resumes on my birthday.”
“Jane!” he scolds. He’s more stressed about me being out of work than I am.
“Todd,” I scold back.
“You can’t just sit back in this economy and think employers are going to come court you,” he says.
When I don’t say anything, he adds, “You have to
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