I get an operator and ask for the managing editor, a woman named Zoey Cruella. I’m put through to her assistant, Thomas, a polite guy who seems a few years younger than me. I tell Thomas my sad story, starting with my single-mother rearing and ending with Mom’s untimely death, at 38, of pancreatic cancer.
“I was thinking of my mom today and I figured, why not try to get Gertrude’s address? I thought you guys might have it. She’s on the magazine’s board, isn’t she?”
Thomas confirms that indeed she is, but he says he can’t just hand it out.
“So there’s nothing you can do for me?”
“Just a moment.”
He returns and says, “I think my boss has found a solution. I’m going to quiz you.”
“Okay.” I chew my lip. “I’ll do my best.”
“What was your mother’s full name?”
“Georgia Anna Deckert.”
“And your full name?”
“Sarah Lynn Ryder.”
“Okay. You’re in business. Please don’t share this, though. It’s only a mailing address—not physical—but Ms. O’Malley values her privacy.”
An hour later, I’m walking to the mailbox with a good ole fashioned hand-written letter. My hungry stomach hurts with nervousness. Things are feeling more real now that I’ve got less than two weeks with a roof over my head. What if she never replies? What if she does, and she invites me to come see her? What if she could help me get a job?
I forfeit my pride and call Thomas back, asking if there are any openings at Strike.
“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 apply 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.”
I roll my eyes. “K, you’re totally over-reacting.”
She’s not.
My latest plan involves buying a bus ticket to Florida, where it’s always warm and I can sleep under a dock. I’ll use the free WiFi at coffee shops to apply for jobs. Maybe the Peace Corps.
So I’m surprised when I blurt out, “I’m going to see my grandmother.”
“Gertrude?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
This will be the easiest way to disappear. So Katie won’t worry. I’ll find a job in Florida, find a fresh start.
Over the next few hours, I convince Katie this is true. We read Gertrude’s poems aloud, and Katie orders Chinese food, which I devour so quickly I puke it all back up once Katie leaves.
Late that night, I’m curled up on a blanket in my empty bedroom, wearing the pink iPhone ear buds I used to wear when I wrote at work. I’m lying on my back, my face striped by the streetlight streaming through my blinds. I’m listening to Lana Del Ray, surfing the internet for what will be one of the last times ever on my phone; I’ve just sold it on Craig’s List for $90.
My leg itches and I reach down to scratch it. One of my nails is jagged. I scrape my calf just a little, and it stings.
I start to sob. I tug at my hair.
“How did this happen? What the fuck is wrong with everything?”
I rip the ear buds from my ears and toss my phone down. I jump up and tug my sneakers on without socks. I stab my arms into my coat and run toward Beacon Hill, where the bar crowd’s out in full force and creepers stand in alleys with their heads lowered. The air is so cold it feels like a corporeal thing.
I continue toward Boston Commons, and when I reach the pond, I spend five bucks on skates, because why the fuck not? I skate furiously in circles, until the dim stars that wink through spindly tree branches are nothing but a blur, and the faces passing by and the strings of lights and crying of a child and icy wind that slaps my cheeks seem like slivers of some dream.
This is not my life. It cannot be my life.
I skate until my feet are numb, and by the time I make it home, my hands are so frostbitten they burn terribly.
I take a hot shower and bundle up in my blankets. I check my Facebook, my e-mail, and feel the morbid compulsion to check my bank account. I do this fanatically now, sometimes like every five minutes. I’m not sure if I’m trying to motivate or torture or…holy shit.
The page has loaded. I blink. And blink. And wipe my eyes and blink.
My heart is pounding hard. Blood roars inside my ears. This can’t be right. It just…can’t be. But there it is. In simple, sans serif font, black on a white screen underneath my bank’s emblem: