All that trickles is not gold

Dew, like diamonds, sparkles on the lawn of contentment … June-green grass vibrates against the bluest dawn. The rising sun plays peek-a-boo with bouquets of clouds. Flowers bend under the weight of their blooms as I inhale my immaculate yard from the hammock of my hard work.

Oh to be Middle Class - where girls and boys dance without exchanging body fluids and there’s never a hair in the bathroom sink. The food is delicious, attractive and healthy, served on several layers of plates placed perfectly on gleaming tables. Plentiful leftovers are stored in the latest food-saving technology from Tupperware. The refrigerator is so clean you can’t help but stand with the door open, staring. It seems to stock itself!

Bacteria doesn’t stand a chance against such perfect organization. Such calm acceptability and abundance. Grout grows no mildew and carpeting won’t accept stains. Freshly Febrezed furniture and Swiffered floors. Ah …

You never run out of anything – there’s a can of cleanser for the bathroom and one for the kitchen. There’s plenty of paper towels and toilet paper and endless detergents and stain sticks.

And all of your coat hangers match!

You sure do have to bathe a lot but it’s not so bad with a huge-arse Cascadia shower head that sounds like spring rain, and of course you need shower rings with ball-bearings that elicit the zippy sound of success when stepping from the shower with a plush towel – white and warm – into a fog of accomplishment.

(Drum roll) … after 12 years of scraping the bottom of the social bucket (welfare mother) (I’LL NEVER SHUT UP ABOUT IT AND I’LL NEVER APOLOGIZE) - after 12 years of being the Rich Man’s scapegoat and the Common Man’s whipping post, I’m living the good life. YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK!

Now I can be a dick like the rest of ya.

Priceless

Supermarket cashiers would get all indignant when I accidentally put more stuff in my cart than I could afford. They’d be all pissed for having to do a little extra work for the lazy welfare mother. OH THE HUMANITY. And there was the Giant Eagle cashier in Brentwood who asked for my welfare ID every time I got in her line. Just because she could. Because she hated her job. Because she was spent enough to think it was my fault she wasn’t making shit for money.

In the late seventies, I had a friend who was a union cashier at the Giant Eagle and was making something like $9 an hour back when the minimum wage was $2.65. Giant Eagle briefly closed their doors to put an end to that, but go ahead and blame your paltry paycheck on women who wouldn’t need welfare if they where making union wages.

I used to fantasize about getting even with every cashier and customer support person who felt entitled to treat me like trash when I was poor. Part of their job is taking it from customers, too, eh? I imagined throwing fits about how they bagged the bread with the milk. Call the manager if they give me any attitude. NOT SO SMUG NOW, EH?

I finally get my big chance to be bitchy but feel so guilty about my good fortune that I can’t even look cashiers in the eye. I’m just another docile tax-payer who turned a whiter shade of pale for a paycheck.

I was at Foodland and saw this old biker dude I used to know, still wearing a Harley headband and the whole uniform. I wanted to walk right up to him and go, “Hey Mr. Harley Man, I’m still cool but have kids to take care of so don’t even look at me like some citizen, ya bastard!” I was a biker legend and made it into Easy Rider magazine on several occasions.

Now I’m so boring you could stick pins in my eyeballs and I wouldn’t notice. The only time I don’t feel completely dead is when I listen to the Tragically Hip in the car or my cube. (Gordon Downie wears a shirt we sent him from the South Side Goodwill in the “My Music @ Work” video – I shit you not). Rock and Roll never lets me forget there’s more to me than a debit card and student loans.

Yet a personality is a small sacrifice to enable me to pay my son’s fraternity dues and make sure he has the hippest cell phone and mall clothes. He’ll never have to feel as small as I have. And yes, Dear God, I am more grateful for that than anything.

The days of checks and food stamps

Knowing my life has improved while others’ have gotten worse doesn’t feel worth celebrating.Hey I’m doing great – sorry about the rest of yinz who had work limits imposed on you while the country lost over a million jobs! I can’t believe what the government has taken in just twenty years. What will be left after in another twenty? Social Security?

I made my comeback before the $85 monthly bus pass. Before Columbia Gas could shut off your heat in the middle of winter. Before limits that would have not given me enough time to recover from my addiction and go on to develop my talents. I mean that is the hope of America, right? Free to go as far as your dreams will take you, RIGHT? Well unless you have mouths to feed and no husband to help or fucked-up young. Or both.

I graduated from CMU before we passed laws to destroy addicts’ access to education by
denying them financial aid for drug convictions – I mean think about it – what kind of addict is trying to go to school? One in recovery who knows only an education will provide the golden rope to escape the despondent existence of the chemically tainted. And how can this law provide a deterrent when hardcore addicts don’t know about it or consider any future beyond the next hit?

Most American families have at least one addict and/or welfare recipient to liven up holiday conversation. But you’d rather see your cousin or grandmother get screwed by welfare or Medicaid just to punish the archetypal welfare mother in a Cadillac. You ignore the women with kids you see at rainy bus stops. You believe what you want. What’s easiest. And it’s easiest not to care. But newsflash: It doesn’t make you superior. Just a dick.

You never think about the archetypal welfare child who grows up to cost you tons more money in prison. You turn your back on innocent children and the result of your neglect costs far more than welfare and yet you think you’re morally and fiscally responsible? ARE YOU F’N KIDDING ME?

Oh, and I didn’t get my IT job because of my QPA at CMU. I Never could understand why
parents were willing to spend so much money to send their kids to that school. Until I started looking for a job.

I thought putting my CMU dual-degrees at the top of my resume would separate me from other applicants. But it had no impact. It was only through my friend, Madge, that I was able to get my job. She knew someone who knew someone etc. Now I know what your tuition buys you – connections.

Fairytales Ending

Thomas Jefferson said, “There is no law that can save a man from himself.” But there used to be laws that still regarded all people – even the fallen – with dignity. America used to be cool. Now we’re just scared stupid.

It’s hard to be grateful for the help I received knowing most of the country would prefer to see me in some low wage job for the rest of my life – regardless of the consequences to my son. It’s hard to be grateful and still remember how much boot-licking I had to do. It’s hard to be grateful when I feel guilty for merely being born when this country still gave you a second chance. No one gets through life without ever needing help or making a mistake. Let those without sin blow me.

But I’m so lucky! I have drawers stuffed with clean socks and underthings – an entire collection of bras and a washer and dryer that don’t require quarters or travel. There’s my Denon home theater system and Digital cable. And why pay 90 bucks a month for all those programs if you don’t get Tivo to record them and never have to be insulted by another commercial?

Ah … being Middle Class. Everything looks better. Smells better. You even dream better from Egyptian cotton sheets and down pillows. Such softness. Such absence of discomfort and temptation. What more could you want?

Well … I guess we never run out of things to want.

Or hate.

Fuck it. I gotta work.