Read Online Working Stiff by Grant Stoddard - Free Book Online Page B

at The Orchard in the hope of being paid and living off of bagels that sandwich franchise threw out at the end of the day. They were hardly stale, and if you froze them immediately a bag might last you ten days or more. Occasionally I could stop being angry at what had become of my existence long enough to revel in my penny-pinching ingenuity. I often felt a very real sense of pride as I marched cheerfully across the Williamsburg Bridge with yet another week’s starchy sustenance slung over my shoulder. Being incredibly thrifty was a game I was getting better at and even enjoyed at times. I began to amass a catalog of money-saving techniques that I’d either invent or adapt to suit my own situation. The leanest times gave me some surprising perspective on how I could make do with so little. I let this thinking inform my lifestyle further.
    I always carried an empty to-go cup. I’d spot friends brunching at a diner and siphon off a cup of their bottomless coffee. I’d bring a mason jar to house parties and pilfer a few fingers of gin, then dump in the remainder of an abandoned screwdriver or rusty nail. I’d go home and put the jar in the freezer, then take it out to the next night’s party and repeat the process. Some combinations were vile, but in general the resulting mixture was not unlike a Long Island Iced Tea and improved by the mouthful. I scaled back this practice after nearly choking to death on a rogue cigarette butt at a friend of a friend’s movie screening.
    If the universe was offering something, I’d gladly accept and decide whether or not I could use it later. One weekend’s bumper harvest included a copy of the previous week’s New Yorker , a shoe box full of well-thumbed paperbacks in Spanish, twenty-five square feet of plastic grass, a superficially damaged lawn chair, a cup of Baskin-Robbins’s Rum Raisin, a ratty-looking videotape of Moonstruck (with the last third taped over with music videos), over a dozen assorted gourmet olives, a three-foot-tall Frosty the Snowman lawn ornament, several bite-sized panini samples, a comped entry to a local band’s “showcase” gig, and a floor lamp.
    Luckily, the lean times coincided with the summer months. When the weather was nice I stayed outside as much as possible. The sunshine was a great leveler and made me feel human again. I borrowed one of Lizzy’s books and sat in McCarran Park or strolled around the East Village for hours on end. Three dollars would get me to the beach at Coney Island and back. On more unpleasant days, I trained myself in the art of appreciating vegetating under the covers. Many of my contemporaries had a reverence for sleep, but I had only known it as a necessity. I would while away hours listening to Lizzy’s Stereolab albums and drift in and out of consciousness, willing myself back into beautiful dreams.
    Lizzy and our other roommate, Albert, eventually confronted me with regards to my being habitually late with rent money and the cold cuts I’d taken from the fridge without asking. It took several minutes for me to realize they were actually asking me to leave. I was being evicted.
    â€œYou’re chucking me out?” I said upon the realization.
    â€œWell, we can’t afford to cover your end anymore,” said Albert. “Plus, you’re sort of a thief.”
    Silently, Lizzy looked at the floor.
    â€œIt was a few slices of cheese!” I pleaded.
    â€œLook, someone else has offered me a lot more for the space than you’re paying and things aren’t working out with us, so here’s your two weeks’ notice.”
    â€œWhere am I going to go?” I said.
    â€œSorry, dude,” said Albert.
    The phone call home had practically become assured in an instant. I ran out of the house in a vain attempt to get some sort of grip on the situation. Aside from the beautiful people languidly crisscrossing it, Bedford