A Day in the Life of Nailah Brown
The whistle of the tea kettle floated over the rumble of the subway trains speeding under my Aunt Camilla’s house. The paintings on the living room wall jiggled into offset positions.
My slender brown hand righted their positions as my left lifted a cup of hot ambrosia to my dry lips. After a pleasant inhale of the infusion of leaves floating at the bottom of my cup, I sighed.
How could all my carefully constructed plans go so wrong? I thought. I am at twenty-nine, single, unemployed and apparently unemployable, living with my Aunt in her prewar family house in a forgotten part of a major metropolis. I got up off the couch and walked over to the old fashion phone affixed to the wall. I stared at it. I had to make a call I had been hesitating to make for two weeks. I dreaded this necessary task because its completion would make my inadequacies more real and so far I had been able to avoid my numerous limitations with the help of my close friends: avoidance and denial.
At the moment, these fickle companions had left me to deal with harsh reality as my final due notice came yesterday in the mail. Might as well get this over with: I dialed the number and navigated through the maze of disembodied voice options until I finally reached a human male voice, "Good Morning, Becky Sue Services. My name is Adam. Please note this call may be recorded for quality purposes." He spoke standard mid western American English with a slight Punjab accent, which I noticed because of my West Indian heritage.
“Good Morning. My account number is 0111222346-Z. I’m calling about my account. I received a past due notice after I had requested forbearance.” I revealed. I hear the muffled sound of plastic keystrokes. “Yes, Ms. Brown. Your account is currently past due. I can assist you if you like to arrange a payment now.” Adam suggested.
“That’s why I’m calling. I had submitted a form for forbearance.”
“Yes, that is on record. However, you’ve exceeded the number of times this account can be placed in forbearance.” Adam revealed.
“I didn’t know there was a limit on forbearance requests due to unemployment.”
“If you wish to bring your account up-to-date I can assist you.” Friendly, helpful Adam offered.
“That will be difficult as I am still unemployed and still currently looking for work.” I revealed.
“Hmmm, well I can assist you in submitting a three month continuance on your student loans. Okay once we receive the $375 processing fee I can fast track the continuance.” He suggested.
“My monthly loan payment is $72 and I can’t pay that!”
“Hmmm, your loans have been on forbearance for over 24 months and we’d like to assist you to start repayments again. I can suggest a select payment plan which you pay a lower amount but you’ll be locked in for ten years. The amount would be half the current monthly payment.”
“Ten years?” “Would you like me to mail or fax you the form to get this process started? Do we have your e-mail address on file?” He asked.
“It’s brown.nailah@fakemail.com.” “I’ll send that out right away. Is there anything else I can assist you with?” Helpful Adam asked.
“I think that about covers it.”
“Have a nice day.”
Click, a hum: I sat there letting my worry and annoyance dance to the dial tone. I hung up mostly annoyed at myself for not asking if there were any other options. I walked back into the kitchen with my cup in hand. I looked out the kitchen window to the street outside.
I watched cars drive by as people walked all bundled up against the cold wind. Dark barren trees lined the street. In the pantry, I took the clothes out the dryer. Folded them up and put them away in various drawers and on closet shelves.
Of course, I didn’t immediately power up the computer to retrieve that little form. I am the goddess of procrastination. I may be having a financially unlucky patch right now but I wasn’t stupid. Those lower payments for ten years would be interest only with no dent in the principal at all. I’d be paying almost 300% over the cost of those stupid student loans when I original took them out. As I drained my lukewarm tea cup, I constructed a daydream of empowerment, an action packed inner movie with dialogue:
Nailah’s Day Dreaming
Night.
A camera surveyed the Becky Sue industrial complex. Security guards made their rounds. None of them noticed a dark shadow that sailed across the night sky along a zip line. A sexier, cooler version of myself, dressed head to toe in black, landed on a shallow stone sill approximately ten stories above ground level.
I pressed the entire length of my lanky body against the wall and shuffled along the sill until I reached a vent. With adroit application of spy-like tech toys, the vent covering is breached and I entered the building undetected.
I skipped to an electronic music sound track as I busily planted incendiary devices throughout the complex. The security guards chased a phantom their electronic devices detected but they couldn’t physically see nor hear: as they entrapped each other in the process.
Cut to me, still looking incredible, sans the secret agent disguise, I sat at a bar sipping a Brandy Alexander. It’s a disgustingly sweet concoction but I love asking for it, feeling faux sophisticated! I watched the news on the TV monitor above the bar about the recent terrorist act on the nation’s largest student loan agency.
The news reporter with flaxen hair, blue eyes and the corporate smile detailed the evenings events, stressing the billions lost as all national loan debt records (digital and paper backup) are destroyed in the massive fire of the financial complex. Activists on the scene cheered in the background. The reporter credited an unknown anarchist behind the attack.
I overheard the comments of nearby bar patrons: “Serves ‘em right! Now people can now start off with a clean break.” Complained a customer at the bar.
“They’ll only get back in debt again.” Offered another customer.
I grumbled inaudibly, over my drink, “At least they could have mentioned no lives were lost. That took a lot of skill with those yokels running around all over the place.”
Meeting a Meetup
I looked at the clock on the dresser and noted I have just enough time to meet with the writing group at the local community college library. As I put on my scarf, hat, coat and gloves I recalled reading on the website: MEetingWcreativeU.com, about a free film and writing group starting up at the community college nearby.
I was tired of hiding away from life in my Auntie’s home and I considered myself a writer even though I had not written anything down significant since I worked at a small law firm as a clerk, over five years ago.
Honestly, I wrote to hold off the abyss of boredom into which my job constantly threatened to propel me. So I e-mailed the organizer of the group AKlerk and arranged to meet and join this group.
Perhaps through networking with these people a job might be forthcoming, I thought. I had exhausted the research company/send out customized resumes/volunteer my precious time (a peculiar form of slavery called interning) route without any success. I locked the front door locks to the house in sequence from top to bottom. I turned into the wind and walked toward the community college, seven blocks away.
I wondered what sort of people I would meet. I arrived twenty minutes early: which allowed me some time to indulge in my favorite past time for a few minutes.
Nailah Day Dreaming
Tick tock. Tick tock.
My amazing self races against time as I death defyingly drive my car, a multicolored hatchback, at 120 mph along five lane wide highway avoiding those evil doers driving monstrous black SUVs beyond their physical specs to catch me. I am weaving through traffic trying to avoid being run off the road and avoiding causing an accident.
The evil doers chasing me have no such scruples. They have caused a tractor trailer to jack knife and smash into a box truck spilling boxes across the highway behind me. This causes a chain reaction crash–taking out ten cars, as I check out the wreckage in my rear view mirror.
Chronic Lateness is a Psychotic Disorder
I have been standing here in front of the entrance to the college library for exactly forty minutes. I have daydreamed three ego inflating scenarios of my absolute amazingness; struck up various conversations about the vulgarities of city life with smokers from all lifestyle choices and I have given directions to numerous lost people who have stopped their travels and asked me for directions.
I have also bought, drained dry and properly discarded a bottle of water before I have decided to go back inside the library to see if the writing group has impossibly shown up before I arrived.
I walked past the security guard, exchanged pleasantries with him, again. I then walked up to the main reserve desk and inquired about the writing group scheduled to meet here today.
The elderly woman who staffed the desk repeated the same statement she told me forty minutes earlier: the group scheduled to meet hasn’t started yet. So much for the popularity of meeting people other than pedophiles, serial killers and identity thieves online.
A bit disappointed, I walked back outside and no one is out here waiting, either. In the distance, a tall, dark mass wearing a gray fluffy hat rushed towards me. The person was clearly a woman. She wore expensive looking sunglasses and a long black wool coat with blue jeans and gray sneakers that peeked out below the bottom hem of the coat. She walked towards me from the train station.
She’s also wore matching gray gloves and scarf. They were a nice shade of gray and I’d like a sweater in that color for myself. Her head was down braced against the wind. I wondered if she saw me standing there–
–Damn she nearly knocked me over!
It suddenly dawned on me this piece of work could be a member of the writing group. I hesitated. If she was part of the group… did I really want to add her chaos to the spice of my day so far? Another consideration: should I allow someone I don’t know, dictate the possibilities of my future?
I reentered the library building a third time, greeted the security guard again who had a funny look on his face.
He said, “Some people just weren’t raised with any manners.” I guessed that he was talking about the female linebacker that almost clocked me to get inside!
“She probably has a life and death mission to borrow a book.” I joked.
He smiled as he rubbed some discomfort from his arm.
I wondered: did she plow through him as well? I observed from a safe distance as the woman gestured about with her expensive sunglasses in one hand, while she spoke with the elderly woman at the main reserve desk.
The linebacker woman’s voice raised to unacceptable decibels for a library: everyone turned towards her. The elderly woman responded and pointed in my direction. I turned around to see what was behind me of interest. I didn’t find anything captivating, other than the main doors to the library and the large bulletin board with numerous flyers and ads tacked all over it. There wasn’t a blank space up there in that cacophony of color.
When I turned back toward the main desk, the linebacker woman was standing directly in front of me! She towered over me. My head was almost against her breasts that’s how close she was! First, she almost blasted right through me and now she invaded my zone of comfort!
I stepped back away from her. I noticed she’s about six inches taller than my five foot two inches.
“Sorry to have startled you.” She said.
“You didn’t.” I replied.
“You just stepped away.” She observed.
“You were standing too close.” I clarified.
She narrowed her eyes at me.
I turned away to leave when she called out to me, “Aren’t you here for the writing group?” She clarified, “The woman at the information desk said you asked about the group twice.”
“Don’t tell me you’re in the group!”
“I created it.” She spoke around a broad smile, with teeth showing.
“You’re late. Forty-two minutes to be exact. I’ve decided not to participate in your group.”
“Oh come on the group isn’t dependent on when it starts, only that it does start. You are the first one with promise who has answered this time around.” She replied.
“What do you mean… this time around?” I ask.
“I started this group months ago and all the wrong sort of people showed up. People more interested in meeting at bars to drink and talk about writing and movies rather than writing and creating movies. That’s what I want for this group. It seems to me if you came all this way–” she rambled on before I interrupted her.
“I live seven blocks away and walked here–”
“And waiting all that time, you must be a writer.” She interrupted me: Rude!
“The latest thing I’ve written was a food shopping list.” I joked.
“There’s a story on it somewhere. Perhaps in discussion… we can tease the story out.” She said.
“Look you have some worthwhile goals but I don’t think they meet my expectations. Besides, you were almost an hour late!” I reminded her.
“Yes, we’ve established my tardiness but not what it is you are looking for.”
Hmmm…she wasn’t put off by my race: staring at me like a color-blind utopian. Sometimes when you hope to exploit people’s prejudices for your own purposes they fail to rise to the expectation. Damn!
She blinked rapidly as she looked at me as I hesitated to respond.
Perhaps she would shun me if I revealed my current lack of employment, I considered an alternative exit strategy.
Even the most liberal minded experienced feelings of being ill at ease in the presence of nameless others in economic distress as though poverty is a life threatening contagion. Bonus points: we haven’t exchanged names.
“I expected more people.” I argued.
“A good group can begin with just two people.” She countered.
Must work in the legal profession, I surmised. “I expected to meet a few people who might be working writers so I can learn what is currently in demand–since I am currently looking for work.” I said. I anticipated her to look at me with derision so I could take my leave but her eyes lit up ghoulishly as though a monster of an idea had embraced her neurons in a bear hug.
“I can help you to find writing work.” She replied.
“You’re a writer?” I asked.
“No.”
“You’re an editor?” I probed further.
“I have resources.” She added.
I looked over at Amanda as she droned on about her ideas on writing effective stories. We had finally exchanged names so escape had been postponed.
Tea and French Fries with Hot Sauce
We ended up in the cafeteria of the community college. I reflected over my surreal day so far, I sipped some lukewarm and rather weak orange pekoe from a paper cup. Tea should never be served in a paper cup and there was not enough honey in existence to give the anemic brew flavor.
“You don’t agree, studying movies can assist in concise story telling?” Amanda asked.
“No I don’t.” I replied.
Amanda had a hurt look on her face like I insulted her intelligence.
I couldn’t fathom why I explained myself further to erase the look on her face. Insulting people is a time tested tool to get people to leave you alone. I am a bleeding heart wuzz, seriously. “Movies paint with pictures and a conservative economy of words, while novels, short stories and even poems, paint with words splatter. The more words the better.” I explained.
“I hadn’t considered it that way.” She remarked.
“What is it that you do?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“You know, where do you go each weekday and spend eight hours of your life, each of those days?” I clarified.
“I go where ever I please and do whatever I want when I get there.” She replied, vaguely. I pointed at her–a stare of disbelief. One I liked to label: number disbelief forty-two. I have sixty-two facial expressions of disbelief. What can I say? One boring weekend, I catalogued each and every one of them in my bedroom mirror.
“You’re unemployed too? If you have contacts to help me find writing work why haven’t you used them to find yourself a job?” I wondered.
I waited for an explanation from Amanda but she took her sweet time answering as she ate some of her French fries.
Those fried golden sticks of potato were swimming in a red sea of ketchup and hot sauce. She licked her fingers and downed some diet coke.
I couldn’t believe with all the conspiracy theories we have about artificial sweeteners in diet drinks she chose one as her drink.
“I don’t need one.” She finally replied.
“The job. I don’t need one.” She clarified.
“Oh your husband works and you enjoy your free time.” I guessed.
“I’m not married! I’m not getting married: at least, not anytime soon.” She argued.
“Oh...you’re rich.” I deduced.
“I didn’t judge you, how dare you judge me!” She spat out.
“I’m not judging you.”
“You have been forming erroneous opinions about me the entire time. I can see your mind working behind those pretty brown eyes.” She replied.
Did she just flirt with me? This woman must be a rich mindless flirt. This is just play time for her financially fortunate self, a mild diversion to while away time. I began to get salty.
I admit it. I don’t trust rich people. They devalue, defraud, misuse, misinform, erase the freedom of choice as they screw the rest of us, without lube. Isn’t that how they become rich?
“This isn’t a hobby for me, this is my life.”
“I can help. I have contacts.” She offered.
“Why would you want to help me? You’ve just met me today. You don’t know anything about me.”
“You are in a great position to write compelling stories about being homeless and unemployed. You could get a great writing deal once you finish a story about your experiences.” She gushed.
“Who is making false assumptions now? I am not homeless just unemployed.” I corrected.
“If your unemployed, how can you afford rent? Do you own a house? If so, how can you afford the mortgage? The property tax?” She asked.
“Not that its any of your business, but I live with a generous family member.”
“Do you pay your family rent?” She asked.
“No.” I mumbled.
“So you just happen to live with relatives but technically you don’t assist financially with maintaining the abode? You’re homeless.” She concluded.
You know I totally understand how people can snap and become violent because I wanted to break this rich woman’s neck. I really didn’t want to acknowledge that little morsel of truth about my situation.
Homeless.
Joy and salutations another uplifting adjective to add to my self description. I looked up from my disgusting paper cup of tea to her face. My eyes narrowed and I could really relate to the immediacy of violence.
I’m too much of a coward to use it but I understand its potency.
“I need work but I refuse to accept being belittled to get one.” I said as I got up to leave.
“Don’t be so sensitive about the truth.” She advised.
“You’re a fanatic about truth? Try this on for size, if you don’t stop swilling diet sodas and fried foods you’ll gain an additional twenty pounds on top of the extra ten you’re carrying.” I taunted.
“You’re being mean when all I was trying to do is help.” She pouted.
“Help how? Exactly what is your plan? Within what period did you expect to assist me in being gainfully employed?” I demanded to know.
She hesitated.
“Trust me, I know I’d have to have a completely written work to shop around if I wanted to get a book deal. But maybe I just wanna write articles and reports for magazines. You know how I can break into that field even though I don’t have a journalism degree? You don’t even know anything about my background besides the fact the I’m unemployed.” I said.
“I’m not a complete airhead. I can see you have some level of college education by how you speak. You are particular and neat about your person in how you dress. You are a recent convert to healthy living by your elitist attitude about what I’m eating and you’re a tea snob by how you grimace over your tea. I mean what did you expect to find in a community college cafeteria? Gourmet tea?” She asked.
“I really don’t want to write about my real experiences, I intend to write fiction.” I revealed.
“Write the first chapter and when you’re finished e-mail it to me. I know someone looking for new, original work. I’ll help you polish it up before we send it off for consideration.”
I was dumbfounded she still wanted to assist me. Not to look down at an opportunity I halfheartedly committed to this enterprise with her.
“I began a story five years ago but I stopped. I had planned to use this group to help me complete it. The first chapter is completed. I want it to be a novella.” I revealed. Amanda licked her ketchup and hot sauce fried potato fingers, then commanded
“Send me the first chapter.”
“I am not comfortable with that arrangement.” I said in a mood of non compliance.
“You think I am going to steal your story?” She deduced.
“That’s how rich people get richer.” I answered. Everyone knows this to be true why was she in denial about it?
“You’re something else. I don’t know what that is but if it could be defined your picture would be next to the description.” She replied.
“It’s called being cautious.” I clarified.
“Okay Ms. Cautious Author. I’ll have my lawyer draw up an agreement of trust between us. You will allow me to read your story, copyright pending until its completion and I’ll promise not to steal your work for my own purposes. We’ll have it notarized and send you a copy then you can send me chapter one. Are we good now?” She asked.
We exchanged personal contact info before going our separate ways. I walked home somewhat optimistic about my future.
Week 5: Monday
It’s been five weeks since I met with Amanda at the college cafeteria. I haven’t received the contract from her lawyer yet. I’ve written three chapters so far but I am filled with dread this is a phantom opportunity—I’m wasting my time cleaning up my novella.At least it gives me a daily purpose, which I sorely need to keep laziness at bay. To stall rushing through writing the complete novella, I began editing the first chapter.
I just reread my edits, not certain that it is complete. I intentionally leave information dangling which might alienate the reader. I was about to write more but I know the tone I was working towards would be lost if I worked on it some more so I decide to leave it as is for now until I get some feed back from Amanda and her contact.
I wonder who she plans to show my work to. I should have pressed for more details. Maybe its better I don’t know who will see my work because I may be intimidated into not sharing it and that will get me no where with my writing. I let my Auntie read chapter one and her only comment was it is was nice. She didn’t understand why I needed a bit more feed back than, nice.
Week 10: Thursday
Everyday I get up and write more of my story. The journey of my characters crystallize for me as I weave chapter after chapter. Chapter one is waiting to be read while I’ve moved on to Chapter six.
I spend eight hours a day writing. Auntie is pleased to see my burst of creative productivity. When she is home she hums along to the tapping of my typing on a six year old laptop keyboard. When she comes home from a day of shopping or socializing I stop to help her with packages then resume writing into the quiet of the night.
She is happy I have found purpose. What she doesn’t know is I write to live. There is no purpose to being awake if I don’t write. This is strange for me—a previous procrastination goddess. I started writing fiction six years ago then, I abruptly stopped and was never motivated to continue until I read about that group on MEetingWcreativeU.com.
I am trying hard not to be melodramatic but this empty act of writing a book no one may read is my only lifeline to the world. I secretly think this novella is becoming a novel because I sense its denouement means my own demise.
In the Event of a Water Landing...
It has been two months since I spoke with that rude, strange rich woman in the community college cafeteria.
I now realize that the disaster called my life was her entertainment. I sold my soul and forgot to get the money straight up like a proper whore. I have taken a break from writing. As I walk along the subterranean concourse of a grand subway station, the people mill about in flashes of colors. I had taken a day away from writing as I grew wary of the interrupting calls from my school loan providers. I’ve run a foul of being in default. I explained numerous times I was still seeking work and my inability to pay was beyond my capabilities at this moment.
I owned no property which could be seized nor any pay that could be garnished. They would get theirs after I get mine. Their response was a resoundingly violent: your credit is screwed, you won’t be able to obtain a loan to buy a house, buy a car or get further financial aid to go to school. My response:
I should get upset that I can’t get into further debt? I’m ecstatic about it! Getting loans to pay for something I can’t pay out right for has put me in this stupid situation. I definitely don’t want to get further in the hole of more debt.
As for a car, I had one that I fully paid for when I was in graduate school and my only financial concerns for it were to keep it filled with gas, low cost liability insurance and minor maintenance. It was fun zipping around in my car. It gave me a sense of unfettered freedom. After the fun and joy of car ownership, I donated it to a neighborhood church.
On many occasions I see the deacons driving it supposedly on God’s work, but that’s another story.
I don’t need a car anymore since I have a bicycle to commute on during warmer days and the underground iron horse when it is cold. As for more schooling what the hell is more schooling gonna do for me at the ripe old age of twenty-nine? Even if I was stupid enough to think further higher education could solve my employment issue, which discipline do I focus on?
Most of the jobs of the future are either going to lower paid workers overseas or eventually under the management of AI systems which will never require retirement and health care benefits. Even though I subversively don’t want a one way ticket onto the USS Middle Class, I feel responsible to pay my debts. I am clueless how to do it without a job.
I could work at any fast food joint for minimum wage. It wouldn’t put a dent in the $60,000 I owe in student loans. I’d have nothing left over to repay Aunt Camilla or to put some away for retirement. I’d have to work until I die.
This revelation disturbingly parallels my darkest thoughts as they pertain to the completion of my novella. I recall having recently retrieved the mail at home and discovered Auntie had a life insurance policy on me to the tune of $50,000.
Standing still in the midst of the crowds of people underground, I am enlightened: I was worth more dead than alive. With six months to go until I’m thirty, I realized the indignities of living in this youth obsessed society would get worse not better for me. I don’t have health insurance. A necessity as I grow older. I’ve begun exercising more, but a healthy lifestyle can’t prevent unforeseen accidents and mishaps.
The fact health care primarily consists of medicinals to mask unpleasant symptoms is the only thing that consoles me as I am excluded from that service. I’d rather my symptoms be addressed and the maladies that cause them cured not become addicted to dulling their sensations—the luxury of a false sense of health and well being is something I can happily exist without.
Obtaining healthy food and necessary toiletries have costs rising so high I soon won’t be able to afford such necessities to take care of myself. To ask for help beyond Auntie’s generosity would be an exercise in thoughtlessness. As for my inherent value, I really hadn’t produced much in my life beyond a few chapters of an unfinished book.
I have a ridiculously large global family but I’m closest to Auntie. I have friends who have needed me often but they have become too busy to reconnect with me when my life took its recent turns. I hold no grudges for I am an intensely private person and would not have volunteered any of the gruesome details of my troubles to them anyway.
With these few thoughts, I take stock in my life, reviewed its balance ledger and I have a sense of peace: I choose to take my leave on my terms. I am not depressed nor angry. I don’t feel any shame, just a calm peace. It doesn’t matter anymore if I finish the book. In one masterful step I can kill two birds with one stone, pun intended. I just have to figure out how to make it look like an accident so the insurance company pays out to Auntie, without any hiccups.