Some time today, or maybe tomorrow, I imagine a black Chevy suburban will pull up to my one bedroom apartment here at the Capri Lodge, and a man dressed in black will knock on my door.
“Sheriff’s department,” he will say. And then he will serve me papers from Capital One.
I’m not sure right now if I will open the door. If I’m home I guess I will. I mean, isn’t it a crime to not answer the door when the police come calling? I’ve committed no crimes up to this point [ed.-Being poor, young, and stupid it not a crime—yet.], I don’t want my natural anxiety and paranoia to get me in even more trouble than I am already in. It’s time for me to open the door, and face my fears.
“Hello, Officer. What seems to be the problem?” I might say, acting innocent. I’m tipped off to this encounter with the Coralville Police Department by my mother, who called me Sunday morning at nine am to tell me the Sheriff’s Department in Dubuque had already visited. Her first call, and her second and third, I ignored and continued to sleep—I had a full forty minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off to wake me for work. But by the forth call, I knew my mom was more serious than usual. I could tell by the ring that somebody had died.
But they hadn’t. Everything was fine. “Hello…Are you ok, Jonathan?,” my mom asked me, as I rubbed my eyes and tried to acclimate them to the light. “Uhh…yeah, I’m fine….,” I said. “Were you sleeping? Oh, sorry to wake you. But you know what, the Sheriff’s Department was just here looking for you…” She paused to gauge my reaction and to anticipate a last-minute confession. “No, Mom, the gun wasn’t mine! I didn’t sell that coke to that kid! I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no dead prostitute!” my sleep-addled mind wrestled with what crime had been discovered for which I had been accused. I received a call from my sister Holly a few days earlier telling me that she was accused of a hit-and-run in a blue Chevy pickup in Decorah, Iowa on the fifteenth. Despite the fact that Holly neither lives in Decorah, nor owns a blue Chevy pickup, and her timecard from Ripples Diner in Riverside states that she was clocked in at the time of the alleged accident, the police persisted because “Holly Kelly” looks so much like “Holly Kelley.” No one had bothered to double check the names. It was a simple case of mistaken identity.
It’s a shame I can’t use that excuse with my Capital One debt. I know and they know I owe them thirteen-hundred dollars. I planned on paying it back, but it’s been almost ten years now, I figured I could wait a little longer. I barely have money for rent and I can’t afford a car so I take the bus. My credit is terrible. My student loans are in default and my wages are going to be garnished soon. So Capital One serving me papers is the least of my worries here at the Capri Lodge.
“Make sure you go to court, Jonathan. If you don’t, the judge is just going to think you’re another one of those kids who doesn’t care—” “—I don’t care,” I interrupt. “I know, but if you don’t go to court and they default the judgment, you’re probably going to have to pay a fine, or interest, or something,” she reminds me. “What are a couple more hundred bucks? I don’t plan on buying a car or a house any time soon, so what do I care?” I say.
Right now I just want to get it over with. I hate waiting here for the Sheriff or whoever to serve me papers. I just want to make it quick. Open the door. Take the papers. Sign whatever I have to. 'Good day, sir or madam.' And then I can drink. It’s my day off, for chrissakes. It’s almost six in the evening, and I have tomorrow off too. I should be drunk by now. God, I hate my life sometimes.
Life sucks. Work sucks. This past weekend we broke a new Red Lobster record for most guests served. Eleven-hundred and thirty-some odd people came in to the Coralville Red Lobster and I fed them all from eleven-thirty in the morning to eleven at night without a break. When the restaurant is busy, everyone who comes in gets to eat, but those who work there don’t. These are the sacrifices that come with the immense responsibility of pushing buttons on a microwave and putting plates in the window to feed starving guests. You have to put aside your needs for the greater good; you have to go hours with a full bladder and an empty stomach. All for the fantastic rate of nine dollars an hour, thirty or so odd hours a week. The hours vary day by day, depending on how busy we are. Last Saturday I worked almost twelve hours straight, but the Saturday before that we experienced a February blizzard that caused the restaurant to close three hours early. I think I got a full eight hours that day because I volunteered to stay on until close. But most weekdays I come in at five and leave a little after eight with everyone else on the line. With two weekdays off each week (it’s nearly impossible unless you request time off to not work a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday) I average a little less than thirty hours a week. At nine dollars an hour, after taxes that adds up to less than a thousand dollars a month. I live paycheck to paycheck—I can’t afford to pay Capital One over one month’s pay.
I’m open with my financial situation because I really don’t care anymore. I don’t care who knows I’m in debt. Maybe I’ll be in debt the rest of my life, maybe I won’t. I recently read an MSN Money article on ‘being poor and loving it’ while checking my Hotmail account, and it said you have to live life to the fullest while living within your means. The article stated, in my own words, I should cherish that six pack in my quaint apartment, because I can’t afford to go out and have fun with friends from work. Saturday I made probably eighty bucks after taxes, and Joe, one of the servers walked out with over three hundred in his pocket. God, I should be a server. Damn my social anxiety…
I’ll probably never get a car or a house, and I’ll probably never get out of debt. Or my writing will finally take off, and with my first big book deal I’ll pay off my debtors. I’m going all-or-none in this thing I like to call life. I like to think it makes me daring, but I’m only playing Russian roulette with blanks. I like to think at my ripe old age of twenty seven that I know more than my mom. ‘I’ve seen things that would make her head spin working at Red Lobster, she doesn’t know what trouble I’ve seen, she’s not me, she hasn’t lived my life, I’m going to be famous someday, then she’ll see you can follow your dreams and don’t have to get stuck working at a bank the rest of your life!’ and more clichéd tripe [ed.—Clichéd tripe, sounds like a new species of fish at Red Lobster… “Tonight’s fresh fish are tilapia, salmon, rainbow trout, and clichéd tripe…” the servers will tell our guests next month in order to make that essential guest connection to keep our customers coming back in record numbers…God I need a better life. February has sucked balls.] I tell myself when I listen to her nag at me on the phone. But what come out when I get my chance to speak are monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgement. “You’re going to answer the door when the police come knocking, Jonathan, aren’t you,” my mom says. “Ugh...” I say uncommitted. “Come on, Jonathan, you HAVE to appear in court. Maybe you can work something out…” “Mehsh…” I say. And ‘buh’ I say to Capital One. Hrmpf to my debt. I don’t even care enough to use words or complete sentences anymore. Life has beaten me down. Ok, fine: Mom, the Po-Po, Capital One, you’ve all won! I surrender. Let’s get this thing over with so I can go back to drinking. I have to work a double tomorrow. Gotta go make that money for the man. [ed.-Maybe I won’t answer the door. I haven’t eaten all day so I’m going to walk down to Hardee's and get myself a thickburger combo. They’ll probably just send the papers in the mail like they do with my student loan crap…]
THE END
Disclaimer: It appears to me I might appear to be a typical tortured alcoholic writer. That is because I am. I’m a booze-addled man-child trying to speak out for my generation. And my generation likes Jager. I’m just the vehicle for the collective subconscious, and booze is my muse’s fuel. I can’t help it. I have a disease. A DISEASE. Yes, I am told, alcoholism is a disease. Like AIDS or something, only cooler. You don’t die as fast and you get to have fun drinking. There, are you confused yet? Am I an alcoholic writer or just a drunken deadbeat who needs to grow up? You decide, America. You decide. I’ve given up trying to decide who I want to be. The scary thing is I wrote this whole thing completely sober.
Yeah, I know. I’m surprised too.
Mmmm...that burger was good. I feel better now.
Peace, Capital One.
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