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High
Pains Drifter
by Will Leitch
Printer Friendly Version
Life As a Loser
Will Leitch
Arriviste Press, 2004
Pick this up!
Almost two years ago, I was interviewed by The Village Voice. The
story was about dotcom kids—who had become accustomed to ludicrous
salaries and affluent lifestyles—being thrown onto the street with
little to show for their efforts when their respective dotcoms crashed.
The VV story, like just about everything written about the dotcom era,
is hilariously dated, full of angst-filled twenty-somethings fretting
about how they can't believe their new offices don't have private masseuses.
But there's a little quote at the end that continues to resonate.
"I really don't know where I'll go," Leitch said. "I
might stay here with some friends in the city. I have uncles in Philadelphia,
so I might head there."
According to Webster's, a drifter is defined as: "One who drifts,
especially a person who moves aimlessly from place to place or from job
to job."
Well, for a substantial number of months, friends, I was a full-fledged
drifter. I don't mean someone who moved around a lot on some sort of voyage
of self-discovery. I mean someone who had no money, no place to go, nothing
to do, absolutely zero worldly possessions. I'll put it this way: You're
reading a former homeless guy.
I had nothing to my name but two suitcases full of clothes and books,
and a cat carrier. Let's track those months.
October 2000 - Months behind on rent, I cry mercy and take a two-month
sojourn to my cousin Denny's home in Mattoon, Illinois. There, I eat his
food, drink his beer, tie up his phone line, and sleep in his guest bed.
I contribute nothing but tens of thousands of words for a book that will
likely never be finished. Income during this period: $0.
December 2000 - Fearing that if I do not head back to New York when
I had initially intended, I never would, I spend my last $65 to hop a
Greyhound bus from Effingham, Illinois, to the Port Authority in New York
City. It is a 25-hour trip, with stops in Cincinnati, Cleveland, Pittsburgh,
and some other condemned properties I mercifully slept through. I do this
even though I'm fully aware that when I get to the city, I have no money,
no job, and nowhere to live. Income during this period: $0.
January 2001 - Out of options only a week after arriving, I finagle
my way into my girlfriend's apartment in Brooklyn. Even though we hadn't
been dating long and didn't know each other well enough to survive a drive
uptown together, let alone sharing quarters, we convince ourselves it
will work out because, heck, she can't just kick me to the street, can
she? There, I eat her food, drink her beer, tie up her phone line, and
sleep in her bed—-well, for a week anyway, when I am then kicked
to the couch, justifiably. Income during this period: $0.
Early February 2001 - She kicks me to the street, because, yes, she
can. Scrambling, I plan to stay on a friend's couch for two weeks. I last
a week, because "it's getting crowded in here. You understand, Will,
right?" Before I leave, I swipe some stray beer and food. Income
during this period: $35, thanks to a used bookstore.
Mid February 2001 - A friend is invited to stay in a SoHo loft for two
weeks that is manned with 36 cameras sending a live feed to a Website.
(Will people in 10 years really believe what it was like here during the
dotcom craze? It's hard for me to fathom, and I was here.) This is a fascinating
sociological experiment, worth documenting for the raw audacity of it,
but this is lost on me. I'm just ecstatic that it has a full bar, a shower,
and, most joyous, a washing machine. I contact my uncles in Philadelphia
and tell them I have nowhere to go and that I may need to move in with
them for a while. An hour later, I am interviewed by The Village Voice.
I then speak to a friend in New Jersey about staying with him for a week
before heading to Philadelphia, and he agrees. Months later, I will borrow
a sizable amount of money from him, which, to this day, I have not paid
back. Income during this period: $5, in change, swiped from the Webcam
house owner's dresser. I make a mental note to pay him back. I have not.
Late February 2001 - The day before I am to leave for New Jersey,
fate intervenes. Not only do I learn I have been offered a job, but, upon
a visit to a friend's house, I learn a neighbor has a spare room for a
month that I can rent, and she doesn't even want the money upfront. I
call off my friend in New Jersey and my uncles in Philadelphia, gleefully
plop my suitcase and cat carrier on her couch, and declare myself home.
April 2001 - I find an apartment on the Upper East Side. A week after
I move in, I am laid off. At my housewarming party, a friend points out
that when she went through her datebook, she found four different addresses
and three different phone numbers for me. Various temp jobs bring me to
a new apartment, which brings me to my new job, which brings me to now.
I have lived in Inwood, a nifty residential neighborhood at the northwestern-most
tip of Manhattan, for two months now. I have a stable home, awesome roommates,
a bed, a desk, a computer (which doesn't work, but no matter), and even
a litter box. I am as stable as I have been since I moved to New York
in January 2000. But I'm still finding it difficult to shake the habits
of a drifter.
To wit:
Over the last two months, I have slept in my office four times. This is
not because I have been working all that diligently; I just wanted the
air conditioning. I lay my head on my briefcase and crawl under my desk.
My daily meal typically consists of the complimentary cereal my employers
graciously provide.
My room has no decorations on the wall. My books are stacked on top of
one another against the bed, as are my CDs. The room's only light is a
desk lamp borrowed from my roommates. I have a closet, but the majority
of my clothes are folded neatly in a suitcase. If I feel a night has gone
too late and I don't feel like catching the long subway ride home, I simply
pass out on a friend's floor.
Recently, I had a busy day. I had work until 2 p.m., a job interview at
three, and a softball game at six. This required three different sets
of clothes. Rather than plan accordingly, perhaps making sure the outfits
were where I needed them ahead of time, I simply folded a suit jacket,
tie, pants, dress shoes, a T-shirt, sweatpants, and cap into a suitcase.
I then dragged it across the city from point to point. This led to the
inevitable moment when I had to explain to the woman I was trying to convince
to give me a job why, exactly, I had brought carry-on luggage into her
office.
This is being written at work, simply because it's where I happened to
be when I came up with this idea. The last six pieces I wrote have been
written on my roommate's computer, a friend's computer, a Kinko's, a hotel's
"Business Center," here at work, and on a notepad. That one
was then read over the phone to a loyal friend, who graciously typed it
for me. It is logical for a writer to, lo, have a ready-made area where
he produces his work, but a drifter has neither the time nor the resources
for logic.
In this economy, one never knows how long any job can last or when we'll
be tossed out with no severance and no parachute. I cannot say that financially
I have prepared myself for this possibility … but I assure you, I
know that I can handle it. I am quite resourceful. That's one way to look
at it, I guess.
Hey… that's a nice couch you have there.
Life As a Loser
Will Leitch
Arriviste Press, 2004
Pick this up!
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