In the restaurant industry, “I’m so broke,” was a constant server/bartender lament. Frequently, I good-naturedly nodded my head in agreement. “I know,” I said, pretending to be worried about making rent or having enough money to fly home for the holidays. “Me too.”
If you had asked me in the summer of 2011 where I thought I’d be in a year, I would have said living a queer artist’s life in San Francisco, “writing” my dissertation. Instead, I spent the summer of 2012 moving my parents out of their retirement property in South Florida -- think Boca but not nearly as bougie -- and bringing them back to New York, where my brother and I had grown up.
With your sleeping bag, travel-sized pillow and airplane blankets, you now have a bedroom that can be assembled in less than five minutes and stored away in your bottom desk drawer.
I hated my father’s stinginess. I had everything I needed, but my wants were always a problem. Then, when I was in my mid-twenties, things changed. By that point, I was financially independent and hadn’t asked for mall money in quite some time. But I was going to grad school, and suddenly my father was offering. “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.” That’s what he said about anything I needed. No, not needed. Wanted. No strings. No questions asked. I knew something was terribly wrong.