New York is loud and bright, an anonymous sea of faces I’ve learned to blend in with. The sound of traffic fills my ears, a cacophony of rumbling engines, distant sirens, and insistent honking. The streets are crowded, not just with passersby going about their business, but with massive piles of black garbage bags awaiting collection on the curbs. It’s a sweltering day in mid-July, the heat of the sun exacerbated by the mirror-like windows of the towering skyscrapers all around us. I’m greatly looking forward to the cooler, crisper months of fall.
I take the subway and walk the rest of the way home, taking in the colors of the city as I go. The streets are yellow with a seemingly endless stream of cabs. The sides of buildings are a beautiful mosaic of graffiti. The people I pass are colorful, too, the stories of their lives reflected in the clothes they choose to wear.
Marnie was right. I make just enough to cover my bills from month to month. The money Granny Ruth left me went to finance my education. Do I wish I made a little more? Obviously. But I have to remind myself that I’m doing fine. I’m making it on my own, and I’m immensely proud of that fact.
I’m just about to climb the stairs to my apartment on the third floor when Mrs. Jones hobbles up the front steps of the building, a small grocery bag in hand. She’s got an entire stack of coupons in the other, several of them already clipped out.
“Arin!” she greets. “How are you doing today? Did your meeting at the bank go well?”
I smile stiffly. “They’re going to… get back to me.”
“Ah. Not so well, then?”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out. Can I help you carry up your groceries?”
“That’s quite alright, my dear.” She hands me her stack of coupons. “I dog-eared a few pages for you. Saw some things you and your little one might like.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. That’s really sweet of you.”
She reaches into her pocket next and pulls out a business card. “Andthisis just in case the bank doesn’t get back to you.”
“What is it?”
“The number of a private lender.”
I turn the card over, reading the golden embossed lettering.Lorenzo Marroni.“Private lender,” I repeat. “You mean a loan shark? I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”
“I know, I know,” Mrs. Jones said, a flash of something sad misting her eyes. “His interest rates are through the roof, but if it’s money you need, they rarely say no to anyone. Plus, there’s a really nice young man working there right now. He helped give me an extension—”
“You made a deal with a loan shark?” I gasp. “I’m sorry. That sounded really judgmental.”
“These are desperate times, my dear. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.” Mrs. Jones gives my hand a gentle pat. “You’re under no obligation to call. I just thought it could be helpful.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’ll… keep it in mind.”
“See you later, dear. You’re coming to the block party next week, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
I take the stairs two at a time and reach the door at the very end of the hall. On the other side, I hear the familiar sounds of “Paw Patrol” playing on the TV. I enter quietly, all my troubles forgotten the moment I see my daughter. Felicia sits on Lana’s lap, watching with focus as the characters get up to their usual shenanigans. She immediately loses interest when she spots me out of the corner of her eye.
“Mommy!” she cheers, hopping up to rush over to me.
I drop everything on the small hallway table and pick my four-year old up, kissing her cute little cheeks. “There’s my favorite girl in the whole world!”
Lana, my roommate, laughs. “I thoughtIwas your favorite girl in the whole world.”
I roll my eyes, hugging my daughter close. “Believe me, you’re in close second. If anything changes, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
The three of us share a two-bedroom apartment in the Downtown Eastside. The building’s one of the older ones, pushing seventy-five with questionable dingy carpet. The once dark green wallpaper has faded with years of sun exposure, there’s an ever-present musty smell in the hallway, and the kitchen is cramped as all hell. Still, it’s home. With the rent split between Lana and me, it’s honestly not the worst place to live.
Our furniture is a mishmash of different pieces, nothing belonging to its original set. Our dining table and rickety wooden chairs were picked up off the curb, the couch we got from a neighbor moving out almost a year ago, and many of our mismatched cutlery and plates we scored at the local flea market. It’s messy and a bit chaotic, and I definitely yearn for a bit more space, but at least it’s mine.
“How’d it go?” Lana asks me, brushing off the back of her jeans.
My silent head shake is enough of an answer.
Lana shrugs. “Tillman-Hopkins is shit anyway.”