By the middle of my first week at the hostel, which would have been my third week in Chicago, I'd settled into a nice little routine. I went to class, came back to the hostel, dropped my bag, grabbed my wallet and a book, went to dinner, came back, read, and went to sleep. It was pretty basic, no bells or whistles. Some days, when it was really nice outside, I would take a walk 4 blocks east to the beach---yes, Chicago has a beach, on the shores of Lake Michigan. It wasn't Ocean City, but it worked for me. But in between this seemingly mundane schedule, I was making phone calls to the office of Lucifer himself. The Section 8 office.
Now for those of you who may be reading this post who are unaware of how Section 8 works, here is a quick and dirty rundown of the process. You decide to move into your own house/apartment/condo/cardboard box/etc, and to do so, you require a bit of help. Maybe you have 2 small children, and are unable to pay for daycare in addition to rent (we ALL know how expensive daycare can be) or maybe you were like me---at 20-something college student who wanted to strike out on her own and build a life. Seeing as how you have the desire to live on your own, but not the funds, you catch wind of the Section 8 program. According to Wikipedia (my go-to place for all my hard facts) Section 8 "authorizes the payment of rental housing assistance to private landlords on behalf of approximately 3.1 million low-income households. It operates through several programs, the largest of which, the Housing Choice Voucher program, pays a large portion of the rents and utilities of about 2.1 million households. The US Department of Housing and Urban Development manages the Section 8 programs". The idea is that NO ONE should ever pay more than 30% of their gross monthly income on housing. Section 8 works with the family to prorate the rent, and make it affordable. So if you only make $600 a month, and you attempt to rent an apartment that costs $300 a month, a Section 8 voucher may bring the rent of the unit down to $75 a month (other factors go into the decision---how many children you have, how old you are and if you are eligible to work, etc.). The government will then pay the landlord the remainder $225 to pay the rent in full---you can see how nice this makes things for the landlords. As I heard one man say: "Who WOULDN'T want guranteed money?"
Ideally, a head of household fills out the application, provides all necessary information, criminal backround checks are done, and family is either accepted into the program or rejected. A meeting is held, and the family is given a voucher. What is a voucher? Think, "The Golden Ticket" in Willy Wonka, or The Second Amendment for gun nuts----the Voucher opens up your chances to find independent housing. So you take your voucher, find a place, a landlord rents you the home, and all is well in the world. Sounds good right? Not so fast.
There are PLENTY of glitches that can happen along the way. Please, DO NOT count this as a comprehensive list, but in my experience, these are the most commonly occurring problems:
1. Lost paperwork. I can't tell you how many copies of my birth certificate are probably floating around Chicago even today in the Section 8 office because my worker constantly lost my paperwork. If you have even one SHRED of paperwork missing, your case can be delayed for months.
2. The dreaded Waiting List. No one wants to hear they have been wait-listed. I've known people who have been on "The List" for months---even years. This can happen because of an influx of applications, or a lack of funding.
3. Prejudicial landlords. There are some landlords who will flat out refuse to rent to Section 8 voucher holders, often because of past experiences. One landlord told me, "Filth. All it was was filth."
3a. Landlord reluctance to bring their unit up to "inspection code." Okay, Section 8 has a laundry list of expectations a unit must meet before any cash is doled out. If in any way the unit you have chosen does NOT pass inspection, you are prohibited from renting that unit with your voucher, and have 60 days to find a new unit that WILL pass. The problem is, many landlords feel that the repairs that must be made (smoke detectors in every room, screens in every window, railings for every set of stairs, etc.) are not worth their effort or money.
4. The headache. Dealing with Section 8, much like any other social service office is just one huge freaking HEADACHE. The people are rude, unhelpful, and often you will find yourself spending the entire day in the Section 8 office only to be told when you finally get to the front of the line that you have forgotten to dot an 'i' or cross a 't', and therefore, your voucher will be delayed for another 3 months.
Needless to say, dealing with Section 8 was not on my list of favorite things to do. I'd been in regular contact with them, and although I seemed to be going through more headache than I did in Pittsburgh, I was getting closer to my own place---which was a good thing since I only had a few more days left at the hostel at this point. I'd already been looking into apartments, and I'd even went around to see a few, but to no avail (see #3 and 3A). I was scheduled to go to a meeting to complete the final paperwork and recieve my voucher the next morning.
Not only is the physical Section 8 office in Chicago depressing, getting there is an excercise in self-flagellation----one of the worst rides in my life on public transportation was the ride to the Section 8 office. I felt like I was beating myself up every step of the way: on the train (punch to the gut), finding a seat (jab to the jaw), walk in the office (pile-driver on the head). I want people who have never had to go the route of public assistance to understand this: the process can be dehumanizing. You are often treated less than human, and looked down upon, as if you are not as worthy as time, space, and oxygen because you are poor. It's a horrible feeling.
After getting to the office, sitting in a room with 4 other women in various stages in their lives, and being given a 2-hour lecture on the importance of transferring our vouchers, we were sent to our new workers. My worker was a youngish woman in her mid to late 30s, who had had too many young, uneducated mothers on her caseload. Conversation:
Me (smiling): Hello, I'm Gene----
Worker (without eye contact): I need all yo' information: pay stubs, phone bills, bank account statements, social security cards, birth certificates, an' anything else pertainin' to yo' account (Chicagoans have DEEP midwest accents).
Me (stunned---even the workers in the Pittsburgh office looked at you): Um, okay, here's all of my stuff. (I hand her a neatly paperclipped bundle of papers).
Worker (studying my bank account statements): You got Nextel?
Me (looking down at my cell phone): Yes. I've had it since I was in Pittsburgh and----
Worker (without eye contact): You order from Amazon?
Me (confused): Yeah, I go to school and I needed my books, and since we don't have a bookstore----
Worker (in the same monotone): Where you work at?
Me (getting ticked): I DON'T. (She finally looks up at me with a 'don't-try-to-get-smart-I-will-send-yo-ass-to-the-back-of-the-line' look)
Worker (without breaking eye contact): Then HOW you essplain' a deposit for $4000?
Me: Easy---I go to school, and I get a loan check twice a year. Whatever doesn't pay for school pays for expenses. Since I don't work, right now, I make about $8000 per year which is WELL below your cut off point.
Worker (brightening): Oh you go school? Dat's reeeeel niiiiiice. I go to school to fo' social work. Whatchu go fo'?
Me (not believing that people actually talked like that): Forensic psychology.
Worker: Oh that soun' INTRESTIN'. You like it?
Me: Yes, I do actually.
Worker (still giving me the Steppin' Fetchit smile): That's reeeel good. Okay, look, dis is what's gonna happen. You don't work, right?
Me: No.
Worker: You got no other income?
Me (sighing): No.
Worker: Well how you buy yo' kids they shoes and pampers?
(And HERE is where we come to one of the most frustrating parts of recieving any type of government benefits---the assumption that the recipient has a bucket-load of children they are unable (or unwilling) to care for. NEWS FLASH: Not everyone who recieves assistance has children. Some people are hard on their luck, some people (like myself) were students, and some people----and the more I see this the more I cry----just miss the I.Q. cut off for mental retardation and are ineligible for adult assistive services. Therefore, they obtain a menial job, and apply for Section 8 in the hopes that their paycheck will be enough to give them some independence).
Me: I don't have children. I'm just a graduate student who needs some help for 2 years until I complete my degree. That's all I want---2 years. That was how I got through college---I worked all night, went to school all day, and Section 8 kept my rent low enough to survive.
Worker: Okay, I understan' but they not gonna like seein' yo' bank statments. You got regular deposits every two weeks from...PNC Bank?
Me (closing my eyes): Yes, because I was EMPLOYED. I was in PITTSBURGH and EMPLOYED. The Pittsburgh office is well aware of that, and----
Worker: But then tha' mean you got employment so----
Me (losing all decorum): HOW CAN I BE EMPLOYED IN A CITY THAT'S 600 MILES FROM HERE????
Worker (looking down at the papers with her mouth hanging WIDE open): Oh.....
Me (sarcastically): Yeeeeeaaaaaahh. See what I mean now? You want 6 months of bank statements, and 6 months ago I WAS employed. I WAS working. But I'm NOT anymore because I now live in CHICAGO.
Worker: Okay, well, I see whatchu mean now. Okay, well when you need soap an' stuff, how you get it?
Me (in full stroke mode): I have STUDENT LOAN REFUND I use. I make it last ALL YEAR.
Worker: Well, they not gonna see it like dat. I mean, you can tell them that, but then they gonna say you need to come down here ev'ry 6 monts wit reeee-ciets and show how you gettin' yo' basic need stuff.
Me (sighing in frustration and exasperation and on the edge of giggles because of the ridiculousness of the conversation): You really expect me to miss a day of class every 6 months to sit in this place all day to show you reeee-ciets of how I buy my pads?
Worker: That's how they's do it. It cut down on fraud. (leaning in) Is you able to buy your books and stuff for school?
Me: Yeah. Well, kind of.
Worker (concerned): Youse go to half.com and they help you get yo' books okay? That's where I go, and they have reeeeal nice books that's reeeeel cheap.
Me (confused): Thanks (?)
Worker (gathering my papers): This what Im'ma do for you. Im'ma talk to my boss and say, youse a nice girl, and go to school, and new in tha city and don't have no job yet. They can put some special papers through for you.
Me (relieved I wasn't losing my voucher): Thank you! Should I come back tommorrow? Will it be done then? (It was already Wednesday----my room at the hostel was only paid up until Saturday. If this office got off their asses, I could find a place, get inspected, and move in by Sunday)
Worker (laughing at my obvious stupidity): Oh no honey! See, youse got to be reviewed. That can take a lil' while.
Me (in another cold sweat that had come to define my time in Chicago thus far): How long?
Worker: Not long at all! About three or fo' weeks. Youse stay righ' here, Im'ma talk to my boss!
As the woman clicked away on heels that were much too high for a social service job, I almost passed out. Three to four WEEKS??? That meant I would have to pay to stay in the hostel for at least another month. That meant a HUGE dent would be put in my cash that I set aside to pay for a truck to drive my stuff from Pittsburgh to Chicago, pay my security deposit and first months' rent, pay for my daily expenses, my fare cards, and---most importantly---it would mean a dent in the money I was saving to fly home for Thanksgiving. I swallowed. There was no spit to swallow.
"Don't panic. Do not panic." I told myself. "You've come too far already to fold. Just power through it."
My worker clicked back to me beaming from ear-to-ear. "She said yes, we gonna review it! The date fo' the review is....2 weeks from tommorrow. We gots a lot of people in your shoes that need reviews," she said nodding her head in earnest.
"Okay, so for now I can just...."
"Keeps doing whatchu doing, and we gonna call in 2 weeks for the review!" she said excitedly.
"Alright, thank you for your help," I said standing up and grabbing my bag. That meant I actually had to pay for a total of 6 weeks at the hostel. 6 weeks.
"You welcome. See you then," she said ushering me out of the office.
As I rode back to town ("punch", "kick", "pile drive") I made myself a promise. I was going to stick through this, no matter how hard it was going to be. I made a decision, and The Windy City wasn't going to blow me away.
How could I have known what was coming down the pipe?
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
North, South, East and West----Never Eat Shredded Wheat/Library State of Mind
crunch, crunch, crunch....
*boom*
crunch crunch....
*rumble*
crunch....
CRASH...
"Aw shit." I groaned under my breath while munching on a bagel. Just what I needed, an early morning thunderstorm to walk through to get to the train. And my umbrella sittin' pretty in Pittsburgh.
I sighed, drank the rest of my orange juice, and flipped the bookmark into my place in "Wicked". Just then the waitress came over.
"All finished now?" the lady asked me. She was an Asian woman in her 50's, very prim, proper, and to the point. Since finding this cozy little diner around the corner from the hostel, I'd been in for 6 meals over the last 2 days. I had my usual booth---in the front, right next to a window----where I could see out onto the street while enjoying my meal.
"Yes ma'am I am. Thank you so much for everything," she smiled at me, and wished me a good day. I paid my $6 bill, and left a tip for her. Grabbing my schoolbag, I took a breath and stepped out into the pouring rain.
I'd been at the hostel at this point for about 2 days, and while I wasn't super familiar with the area, I knew where to get food, and where the train platform was---thankfully these two places were within a half block of each other. I raced into the train station, dropped in my fare card, went through the turnstyle, and up the stairs to catch the train to class.
Funny thing about Chicago. The trains are basically set up going north to south, with various buses going east to west. Theoretically, you can ride a train as far north or as far south as you needed to, get off, and catch a bus home. The trains all run on color---red, blue, orange, yellow, brown, green, and the (elusive) purple line---and each has specific stops. With the exception of the purple and yellow lines, all run through downtown Chicago. When you learn how the trains run, you can get anywhere in Chicago--that is, if you know your cardinal directions. The first time I asked how to get somewhere this was the conversation:
Me: "Excuse me sir. I'm trying to get to the section 8 office on Halstead. Do you think you can help me?"
Older black man: "Yeah, swee'haaart. You jes' go two block east, turn souf, take tha orange line souf to the Halstead stop. Get off, turn North, walk two block west and youse there...."
Me (giving him a blank stare): "Okay. Thank you."
The problem? I grew up in PITTSBURGH. If you tell someone to go two blocks north, then four blocks west one of two things will happen: 1. They will come to a dead end street. 2. They will walk into a river.
Needless to say, it took me quite a bit to get used to the landscape, and to be honest, even after three weeks of being in the city, I had little experience to go on. The key is to remember that no matter where you are in Chicago, Lake Michigan is always EAST. If you can keep that in mind, you're good to go. Figure out where you are in relation to the lake, and you can get anywhere.
So as I stood on the platform, dabbing the toe of my black K Swiss in a puddle, I contemplated a trip. I was told coming into the hostel that on Saturdays and Sundays, everyone had to leave for a period of about 3 hours so cleaning could be done. Well, that's all fine and good for someone who is passing through Chicago to visit and sightsee, but seeing as how I was LIVING at the hostel, it made things a bit more diffcult. I decided on the train ride into school that I would ride the trains on the weekends to see where I ended up.
That evening, after eating at my favorite haunt (the diner of course), I found myself back at the hostel with little to do. My roommates were out, and with good reason, it was only about 7:30. This was kind of what sucked about this period in Chicago---the lonliness. I didn't know anybody, and because of my lack of knowledge in how to get around, I had nowhere to go. By this time, my schoolbooks had been delivered (one of my professors was nice enough to allow me to have them delivered to his office since I had no permanent address) and I spent a good deal of my time studying. I invested in one of those little book lights, so that even after my roommates were fast asleep, I was able to read into the wee hours of the morning.
The next day was a Saturday, and I was up early. I showered (wearing some $1 shower shoes I'd purchased at a dollar store-type deal down the street) grabbed my stuff and left. I rode the red line into downtown Chicago, and began to walk down South State street. I stopped dead in my tracks, and glanced up at the most magnificent site I'd ever seen.
Now anyone who knows me knows I love two things: Libraries and books. Period. I personally feel that there is no greater art than the written word. I'm from Pittsburgh damn it, Andrew Carnegie left us great libraries. But even Mr. Carnegie himself would have to bow and scrape in front of the Harold Washington Public Library in downtown Chicago. I walked inside in a daze, as if I was entering the gates of paradise. I walked down a black marble hallway adorned with caricatures of Kurt Vonnegant, Toni Morrison, and Maya Angelou which ended in an atrium with a high ceiling, and a a beautiful crystal fountain that merrily spouted water. Taking the escalator up to the main floor, I tried to drink in all of the gloroiusness.
It was eight floors stacked floor to ceiling with books, magazines, newspapers, microfiche, CDs, albums, computers, tapes and every other bell, whistle, dog and cat you can imagine.
"Wow," was all I could whisper. Why was I just now finding out about this place? What the hell? I walked over to the main desk, and politely asked what the hours were, and how I could go about procuring a library card.
"We are open Monday to Thursday 9 AM to 9 PM, Fridays 9 AM to 5 PM, Saturdays 9 AM to 5 PM, and Sundays 1 PM to 5 PM," she answered politely, giving me a pamphlet about upcoming events.
"And where can I sign up for a card?" I asked just as politely. I was ready to get my meaty hands on some of those books. My mouth was watering just thinking of all of the literary goodness I was about to have access to.
"Right here! We only ask for a permanent address, and a bill with said address on it." My heart fell. I mumbled a quick, "Thank you" and walked away.
And here we come to one of the most DEPRESSING aspects of this story, and really of this entire blog. Not having an address SUCKS. I mean, not just because you don't have somewhere to really lay your head and call home, but because things that people take for granted---like library cards, which have always been a HUGE part of my life----are out of your reach. Something that basic, that would bring me that much joy and happiness in this whole crazy move, was unattainable to me.
At least I could come in and study, I wasn't confined to my room at the hostel, or the tiny cramped computer lab at school. I actually had somewhere to BE. I spent the entire day in that library, browsing, and carousing, looking at brand new books with unbroken spines, and books that were 75+ years old. On the third floor, there was a restricted section---yeah, you read that right---restricted. But not in the dime store ponographic magazine kind of way. Behind those doors were books that had no business ever being published---books like Mein Kampf, Helter Skelter (with original pictures), books detailing child abuse cases, and even a copy of the Anarchrist Cookbook. How could I NOT love this place???
So every Saturday, I made a beeline to the library as soon as it opened. And on Sundays, when it didn't open until 1, and I had to be out of the hostel by 10, I rode the trains and read the Sunday paper until 1. I actually enjoyed it---no one bothered me, it was quiet, and the trains were very soothing. But as we will see as the story progresses, the trains in Chicago became a source of fear, terror, and eventually----mental anguish.
*boom*
crunch crunch....
*rumble*
crunch....
CRASH...
"Aw shit." I groaned under my breath while munching on a bagel. Just what I needed, an early morning thunderstorm to walk through to get to the train. And my umbrella sittin' pretty in Pittsburgh.
I sighed, drank the rest of my orange juice, and flipped the bookmark into my place in "Wicked". Just then the waitress came over.
"All finished now?" the lady asked me. She was an Asian woman in her 50's, very prim, proper, and to the point. Since finding this cozy little diner around the corner from the hostel, I'd been in for 6 meals over the last 2 days. I had my usual booth---in the front, right next to a window----where I could see out onto the street while enjoying my meal.
"Yes ma'am I am. Thank you so much for everything," she smiled at me, and wished me a good day. I paid my $6 bill, and left a tip for her. Grabbing my schoolbag, I took a breath and stepped out into the pouring rain.
I'd been at the hostel at this point for about 2 days, and while I wasn't super familiar with the area, I knew where to get food, and where the train platform was---thankfully these two places were within a half block of each other. I raced into the train station, dropped in my fare card, went through the turnstyle, and up the stairs to catch the train to class.
Funny thing about Chicago. The trains are basically set up going north to south, with various buses going east to west. Theoretically, you can ride a train as far north or as far south as you needed to, get off, and catch a bus home. The trains all run on color---red, blue, orange, yellow, brown, green, and the (elusive) purple line---and each has specific stops. With the exception of the purple and yellow lines, all run through downtown Chicago. When you learn how the trains run, you can get anywhere in Chicago--that is, if you know your cardinal directions. The first time I asked how to get somewhere this was the conversation:
Me: "Excuse me sir. I'm trying to get to the section 8 office on Halstead. Do you think you can help me?"
Older black man: "Yeah, swee'haaart. You jes' go two block east, turn souf, take tha orange line souf to the Halstead stop. Get off, turn North, walk two block west and youse there...."
Me (giving him a blank stare): "Okay. Thank you."
The problem? I grew up in PITTSBURGH. If you tell someone to go two blocks north, then four blocks west one of two things will happen: 1. They will come to a dead end street. 2. They will walk into a river.
Needless to say, it took me quite a bit to get used to the landscape, and to be honest, even after three weeks of being in the city, I had little experience to go on. The key is to remember that no matter where you are in Chicago, Lake Michigan is always EAST. If you can keep that in mind, you're good to go. Figure out where you are in relation to the lake, and you can get anywhere.
So as I stood on the platform, dabbing the toe of my black K Swiss in a puddle, I contemplated a trip. I was told coming into the hostel that on Saturdays and Sundays, everyone had to leave for a period of about 3 hours so cleaning could be done. Well, that's all fine and good for someone who is passing through Chicago to visit and sightsee, but seeing as how I was LIVING at the hostel, it made things a bit more diffcult. I decided on the train ride into school that I would ride the trains on the weekends to see where I ended up.
That evening, after eating at my favorite haunt (the diner of course), I found myself back at the hostel with little to do. My roommates were out, and with good reason, it was only about 7:30. This was kind of what sucked about this period in Chicago---the lonliness. I didn't know anybody, and because of my lack of knowledge in how to get around, I had nowhere to go. By this time, my schoolbooks had been delivered (one of my professors was nice enough to allow me to have them delivered to his office since I had no permanent address) and I spent a good deal of my time studying. I invested in one of those little book lights, so that even after my roommates were fast asleep, I was able to read into the wee hours of the morning.
The next day was a Saturday, and I was up early. I showered (wearing some $1 shower shoes I'd purchased at a dollar store-type deal down the street) grabbed my stuff and left. I rode the red line into downtown Chicago, and began to walk down South State street. I stopped dead in my tracks, and glanced up at the most magnificent site I'd ever seen.
Now anyone who knows me knows I love two things: Libraries and books. Period. I personally feel that there is no greater art than the written word. I'm from Pittsburgh damn it, Andrew Carnegie left us great libraries. But even Mr. Carnegie himself would have to bow and scrape in front of the Harold Washington Public Library in downtown Chicago. I walked inside in a daze, as if I was entering the gates of paradise. I walked down a black marble hallway adorned with caricatures of Kurt Vonnegant, Toni Morrison, and Maya Angelou which ended in an atrium with a high ceiling, and a a beautiful crystal fountain that merrily spouted water. Taking the escalator up to the main floor, I tried to drink in all of the gloroiusness.
It was eight floors stacked floor to ceiling with books, magazines, newspapers, microfiche, CDs, albums, computers, tapes and every other bell, whistle, dog and cat you can imagine.
"Wow," was all I could whisper. Why was I just now finding out about this place? What the hell? I walked over to the main desk, and politely asked what the hours were, and how I could go about procuring a library card.
"We are open Monday to Thursday 9 AM to 9 PM, Fridays 9 AM to 5 PM, Saturdays 9 AM to 5 PM, and Sundays 1 PM to 5 PM," she answered politely, giving me a pamphlet about upcoming events.
"And where can I sign up for a card?" I asked just as politely. I was ready to get my meaty hands on some of those books. My mouth was watering just thinking of all of the literary goodness I was about to have access to.
"Right here! We only ask for a permanent address, and a bill with said address on it." My heart fell. I mumbled a quick, "Thank you" and walked away.
And here we come to one of the most DEPRESSING aspects of this story, and really of this entire blog. Not having an address SUCKS. I mean, not just because you don't have somewhere to really lay your head and call home, but because things that people take for granted---like library cards, which have always been a HUGE part of my life----are out of your reach. Something that basic, that would bring me that much joy and happiness in this whole crazy move, was unattainable to me.
At least I could come in and study, I wasn't confined to my room at the hostel, or the tiny cramped computer lab at school. I actually had somewhere to BE. I spent the entire day in that library, browsing, and carousing, looking at brand new books with unbroken spines, and books that were 75+ years old. On the third floor, there was a restricted section---yeah, you read that right---restricted. But not in the dime store ponographic magazine kind of way. Behind those doors were books that had no business ever being published---books like Mein Kampf, Helter Skelter (with original pictures), books detailing child abuse cases, and even a copy of the Anarchrist Cookbook. How could I NOT love this place???
So every Saturday, I made a beeline to the library as soon as it opened. And on Sundays, when it didn't open until 1, and I had to be out of the hostel by 10, I rode the trains and read the Sunday paper until 1. I actually enjoyed it---no one bothered me, it was quiet, and the trains were very soothing. But as we will see as the story progresses, the trains in Chicago became a source of fear, terror, and eventually----mental anguish.
For the love of money.....
Now you know how people say "Money is the root of all evil"? I mentioned that in passing to my mother (the minister) one day when I was a kid.
"The Bible doesn't say 'Money is the root of all evil'. It says 'The LOVE of money is the root of all evil'." I digested that. I made a decision that I would NEVER 'love' money. In my mind, that meant that a person was so desparate for material possessions, they would go to any lengths to obtain them. I wasn't that desparate for inadmant objects. That was until Chicago.
Because after my entire student loan fiasco, I must have been one of the biggest sinners around. It was in Chicago that I first began to LOVE money.
The first day I LOVED money was when I called my bank account and my over $4000 balance popped up. By the time this happened, it had started to get cold in Chicago, and the light denim jacket I had wasn't much use against the biting morning winds. "Geez," I thought as I walked quickly to class one morning, "at least in Pittsburgh you get a bit of a reprieve with the cold. Some times it will hold out, but here it hits the middle of September and you can forget the goddamned number." I made a mental note to slip on one of hoodies I'd packed in my suitcase.
That afternoon, I walked to the National City Bank that was on the way 'home' (remember that at this point I was staying with Ms. 'Liv' and her scary wig) and pulled some money out of the ATM. Although class had been in session for over 2 weeks by this time, I didn't have the cash to purchase my schoolbooks. If you've never had this problem, think of trying to have surgery without a scalpel. Yeah. Not working. I tried to explain my dilemma to Ms. Liv and her wig, and this was the conversation:
"I need some money. You don't understand, my electric bill is overdue, and I have to pay for it. I lost my job. I really need some money from you."
"Okay, Ms. Liv I hear you, but I don't have any money right now, and I've been in class for a week and a half with no books. I can't even study. I'm trying my best to help you here, please be patient."
And again she says: "I need some money. You don't understand, my electric bill is overdue, and I have to pay for it. I lost my job. I really need some money from you." She wasn't hearing me.
I walked home with $100 in my pocket, and $300 for the two weeks I'd been staying at Ms. Liv's. Living on Michigan Avenue in the area of Chicago known as "The Gold Coast", her rent was extrodinarily high----four figures per month for a studio apartment. When she began to bark about money, she wanted $300 every two weeks----$600 bucks a month for an air mattress, and a shower I had to travel to the upstairs pool to use. I walked in, and placed the money squarely in her hand.
Ms. Liv's face lit up. "Oh, you really WERE going to give me money! Oh wow! That is so great! Thank you so much!" I also tossed her a box of Crispy Creme doughnuts I'd picked up at the local Jewel-Osco (kind of like a high-priced Giant Eagle).
The skin on her face stretched tighter still: "My favorite! How did you know?!"
I leaned on the wall and slid to the floor to sit (she had no furniture), "You told me, Ms. Liv." I closed my eyes. For some reason, I knew what was coming. And I'd already made up my mind.
"I'm glad you're here," she began, gingerly placing the doughnut box on the table. Here it comes. "It's been hard having you here. I thought it would only be a few days, but it's turned into 2 weeks. I have been trying to help you as much as I can, looking for jobs, and supporting you (she took me into a restaurant one time. I had just come from class, and being me, I was wearing jeans and a Speed Racer t-shirt. She ran me out the door so quick I didn't realize we were on a job hunt until we were on the bus. At the restaurant, I tried to focus on the on-the-spot interview but the owner's eyes kept straying to Speed Racer giving that stupid thumbs up sign standing in front of his Mach 5. At the end of the interview he says: "Nice shirt." I was mortified), and it's really taking a lot out of me. I have a boyfriend, and he can't even come to visit me because we have no privacy." I opened my eyes, and slowly turned my head to her. I love money right now, I thought. It's gonna get me out of this situation. I calmly looked through her synthetic wig, and into her eyes. "Don't worry Ms. Liv," I said to her. "I'll be out of here in the morning. The only thing I ask is that you let me keep my suitcase here tommorrow during class, and later on, I'll come and pick it up and leave," I said calmly. My face never broke, in fact I smiled. I got money goddamn it.
Ms. Liv looked at me and she smiled broadly. "Oh Gene, it's been nice, and I was so willing to help, but I can't anymore." I stood up and grabbed my cell phone, leaving the apartment. I rode the elevator to the top floor and got off. I called my friend and mentor, Kat Carrick.
"Hello?" I heard on the other end of the phone. It was the most soothing sound I'd heard all day. And I burst into tears. "There's a hotel room waiting for you out by O'Hare airport. Get there tommorrow evening, stay for the night, and get your head together. After that, get back into town, and we will figure it out from there."
I cried harder. "Thank.....you." I managed to choke out before hanging up the phone. I sat on the rooftop balacony and cried to the bright lights and sites of Chicago. After a bit, I went back downstairs. Ms. Liv was sitting on her twin matress, some of the only furniture in the room. I took off my shoes, and she said to me: "I'm never going to see you again, am I?" She actually sounded sad.
I glanced over at her. "Of course you will. We're still going to be in the same city, just not in the same house," I replied. Lady, if I never see you again I'll be happy as a clam.
I woke up the next morning, got dressed, and went to class. I ordered my books online (and thought about how much I was in LOVE with money the entire time) and headed back to Ms. Liv's apartment to grab my suitcases. Out on her own job search, I knew that I would never again have to see that awful wig.
I hailed a cab, and I was off to O'Hare airport. Still beaming over the money in my bank account, I paid my driver, gave him a tip, and wheeled my suitcases in front of the Comfort Inn. Kat had paid for one night in the hotel (with her clairvoyance she KNEW what was happening) and I was going to take advantage of it. I showered as long as I wanted, read up on my school work, and slept soundly for the first time in 2 weeks on hotel-grade cotton sheets, and down comforters. Talk about refreshing your soul. The next morning, I woke up and giggled. It hit me. I was effectively homeless. After I walked out of the doors of Liv's house, I had nowhere to go. I called Kat, and she picked up the phone.
"How did you sleep dear one?" To this day, she uses this endearment, and it always makes me feel so cared for and loved.
"Like a rock. I can't thank you enough. I won't even ask you how you knew," I said to her.
"I planned for it Gene," she said soberly. "Listen, take down this address," I grabbed a pen and pad from the bedside table, and scribbled down an address that was on the North side of Chicago. "It's a hostel. Go there, I paid for a week in advance."
I scrunched my brow in confusion. "A hostel? What is that?" I asked. "Sounds like a cross between a house and a hotel."
"That's exactly what it is," Kat told me. "I have a feeling, it's something you are going to need."
"Well, seeing as how I'm homeless right now, yeah, anywhere is great. Thank you," I said to her.
"No problem. Call me when you get settled in," and she hung up.
I sat up in bed contemplating. I knew Kat. I knew that she never just did things for ONE reason. There was something behind the whole hostel thing, and I wondered what it was. I wondered as I showered, and packed my things, and I wondered as I called a cab, and rode out there. When I got to the front of the building. I finally figured it out.
Imagine walking into a box of crayons. That was the OUTSIDE of the building. It was decorated with plants, trees, grass, and splattered with brightly colored paint. People wearing birkenstock sandals and smelling of patcholi walked in and out of the door, and I'm quite sure I spied an "herb garden" in the grass. My cabbie left my suitcases on the curb, and drove away. I began to struggle up the steps with my massive bags, and a man immediately came out.
"Here Miss, wait. Let me grab that, it's okay," he said in response to my look of protest, "I can bring this one in. You grab your smaller one." I did as he said, and dragged my smaller suitcase up the steps and into the door. I was smacked in the face with rainbow paint, dust, and the faint smell of wheat germ. The gentleman left my bags at the desk, and I waited patiently for the lady working to get off of the phone.
"Can I help you dear?" she asked me kindly.
"Yes, my name is Gene-Leigh Wheeler, and my friend, Kat Carrick told me to come here, there was a room available for me?"
She smiled, "Yes, Ms. Carrick called earlier, and reserved a bed for a week for you."
I did a double take. "A BED?" I asked a bit confused. What, am I going to be sleeping in a hallway, I thought.
"Yes, right now you are sharing a room with 2 other young girls from Australia. They are very sweet." I nodded and followed her upstairs. She opened a door to a huge room that held 4 beds positioned against different walls, one over head light, a lamp, and varoius drawers to hold belongings. The entire room was painted in seafoam green. She then showed me to the communal bathroom and showers. "Make yourself at home, and feel free to roam around and explore. We're so HAPPY you are here!" she exclaimed. I wondered secretly if something from the "herb" garden wasn't making her happy. I looked around the room again, and chose an empty bed by the door. I touched the twin matress that was sitting on a type of wooden platform. I sat down on it and sighed, closing my eyes. "Kat, you have a hell of a sense of humor," I thought to myself. I still couldn't figure out what her reasoning was behind this particular hostel, but I had a feeling I would soon find out. "I love money," I sighed, unzipping my suitcase and taking out a set of bedsheets.
"The Bible doesn't say 'Money is the root of all evil'. It says 'The LOVE of money is the root of all evil'." I digested that. I made a decision that I would NEVER 'love' money. In my mind, that meant that a person was so desparate for material possessions, they would go to any lengths to obtain them. I wasn't that desparate for inadmant objects. That was until Chicago.
Because after my entire student loan fiasco, I must have been one of the biggest sinners around. It was in Chicago that I first began to LOVE money.
The first day I LOVED money was when I called my bank account and my over $4000 balance popped up. By the time this happened, it had started to get cold in Chicago, and the light denim jacket I had wasn't much use against the biting morning winds. "Geez," I thought as I walked quickly to class one morning, "at least in Pittsburgh you get a bit of a reprieve with the cold. Some times it will hold out, but here it hits the middle of September and you can forget the goddamned number." I made a mental note to slip on one of hoodies I'd packed in my suitcase.
That afternoon, I walked to the National City Bank that was on the way 'home' (remember that at this point I was staying with Ms. 'Liv' and her scary wig) and pulled some money out of the ATM. Although class had been in session for over 2 weeks by this time, I didn't have the cash to purchase my schoolbooks. If you've never had this problem, think of trying to have surgery without a scalpel. Yeah. Not working. I tried to explain my dilemma to Ms. Liv and her wig, and this was the conversation:
"I need some money. You don't understand, my electric bill is overdue, and I have to pay for it. I lost my job. I really need some money from you."
"Okay, Ms. Liv I hear you, but I don't have any money right now, and I've been in class for a week and a half with no books. I can't even study. I'm trying my best to help you here, please be patient."
And again she says: "I need some money. You don't understand, my electric bill is overdue, and I have to pay for it. I lost my job. I really need some money from you." She wasn't hearing me.
I walked home with $100 in my pocket, and $300 for the two weeks I'd been staying at Ms. Liv's. Living on Michigan Avenue in the area of Chicago known as "The Gold Coast", her rent was extrodinarily high----four figures per month for a studio apartment. When she began to bark about money, she wanted $300 every two weeks----$600 bucks a month for an air mattress, and a shower I had to travel to the upstairs pool to use. I walked in, and placed the money squarely in her hand.
Ms. Liv's face lit up. "Oh, you really WERE going to give me money! Oh wow! That is so great! Thank you so much!" I also tossed her a box of Crispy Creme doughnuts I'd picked up at the local Jewel-Osco (kind of like a high-priced Giant Eagle).
The skin on her face stretched tighter still: "My favorite! How did you know?!"
I leaned on the wall and slid to the floor to sit (she had no furniture), "You told me, Ms. Liv." I closed my eyes. For some reason, I knew what was coming. And I'd already made up my mind.
"I'm glad you're here," she began, gingerly placing the doughnut box on the table. Here it comes. "It's been hard having you here. I thought it would only be a few days, but it's turned into 2 weeks. I have been trying to help you as much as I can, looking for jobs, and supporting you (she took me into a restaurant one time. I had just come from class, and being me, I was wearing jeans and a Speed Racer t-shirt. She ran me out the door so quick I didn't realize we were on a job hunt until we were on the bus. At the restaurant, I tried to focus on the on-the-spot interview but the owner's eyes kept straying to Speed Racer giving that stupid thumbs up sign standing in front of his Mach 5. At the end of the interview he says: "Nice shirt." I was mortified), and it's really taking a lot out of me. I have a boyfriend, and he can't even come to visit me because we have no privacy." I opened my eyes, and slowly turned my head to her. I love money right now, I thought. It's gonna get me out of this situation. I calmly looked through her synthetic wig, and into her eyes. "Don't worry Ms. Liv," I said to her. "I'll be out of here in the morning. The only thing I ask is that you let me keep my suitcase here tommorrow during class, and later on, I'll come and pick it up and leave," I said calmly. My face never broke, in fact I smiled. I got money goddamn it.
Ms. Liv looked at me and she smiled broadly. "Oh Gene, it's been nice, and I was so willing to help, but I can't anymore." I stood up and grabbed my cell phone, leaving the apartment. I rode the elevator to the top floor and got off. I called my friend and mentor, Kat Carrick.
"Hello?" I heard on the other end of the phone. It was the most soothing sound I'd heard all day. And I burst into tears. "There's a hotel room waiting for you out by O'Hare airport. Get there tommorrow evening, stay for the night, and get your head together. After that, get back into town, and we will figure it out from there."
I cried harder. "Thank.....you." I managed to choke out before hanging up the phone. I sat on the rooftop balacony and cried to the bright lights and sites of Chicago. After a bit, I went back downstairs. Ms. Liv was sitting on her twin matress, some of the only furniture in the room. I took off my shoes, and she said to me: "I'm never going to see you again, am I?" She actually sounded sad.
I glanced over at her. "Of course you will. We're still going to be in the same city, just not in the same house," I replied. Lady, if I never see you again I'll be happy as a clam.
I woke up the next morning, got dressed, and went to class. I ordered my books online (and thought about how much I was in LOVE with money the entire time) and headed back to Ms. Liv's apartment to grab my suitcases. Out on her own job search, I knew that I would never again have to see that awful wig.
I hailed a cab, and I was off to O'Hare airport. Still beaming over the money in my bank account, I paid my driver, gave him a tip, and wheeled my suitcases in front of the Comfort Inn. Kat had paid for one night in the hotel (with her clairvoyance she KNEW what was happening) and I was going to take advantage of it. I showered as long as I wanted, read up on my school work, and slept soundly for the first time in 2 weeks on hotel-grade cotton sheets, and down comforters. Talk about refreshing your soul. The next morning, I woke up and giggled. It hit me. I was effectively homeless. After I walked out of the doors of Liv's house, I had nowhere to go. I called Kat, and she picked up the phone.
"How did you sleep dear one?" To this day, she uses this endearment, and it always makes me feel so cared for and loved.
"Like a rock. I can't thank you enough. I won't even ask you how you knew," I said to her.
"I planned for it Gene," she said soberly. "Listen, take down this address," I grabbed a pen and pad from the bedside table, and scribbled down an address that was on the North side of Chicago. "It's a hostel. Go there, I paid for a week in advance."
I scrunched my brow in confusion. "A hostel? What is that?" I asked. "Sounds like a cross between a house and a hotel."
"That's exactly what it is," Kat told me. "I have a feeling, it's something you are going to need."
"Well, seeing as how I'm homeless right now, yeah, anywhere is great. Thank you," I said to her.
"No problem. Call me when you get settled in," and she hung up.
I sat up in bed contemplating. I knew Kat. I knew that she never just did things for ONE reason. There was something behind the whole hostel thing, and I wondered what it was. I wondered as I showered, and packed my things, and I wondered as I called a cab, and rode out there. When I got to the front of the building. I finally figured it out.
Imagine walking into a box of crayons. That was the OUTSIDE of the building. It was decorated with plants, trees, grass, and splattered with brightly colored paint. People wearing birkenstock sandals and smelling of patcholi walked in and out of the door, and I'm quite sure I spied an "herb garden" in the grass. My cabbie left my suitcases on the curb, and drove away. I began to struggle up the steps with my massive bags, and a man immediately came out.
"Here Miss, wait. Let me grab that, it's okay," he said in response to my look of protest, "I can bring this one in. You grab your smaller one." I did as he said, and dragged my smaller suitcase up the steps and into the door. I was smacked in the face with rainbow paint, dust, and the faint smell of wheat germ. The gentleman left my bags at the desk, and I waited patiently for the lady working to get off of the phone.
"Can I help you dear?" she asked me kindly.
"Yes, my name is Gene-Leigh Wheeler, and my friend, Kat Carrick told me to come here, there was a room available for me?"
She smiled, "Yes, Ms. Carrick called earlier, and reserved a bed for a week for you."
I did a double take. "A BED?" I asked a bit confused. What, am I going to be sleeping in a hallway, I thought.
"Yes, right now you are sharing a room with 2 other young girls from Australia. They are very sweet." I nodded and followed her upstairs. She opened a door to a huge room that held 4 beds positioned against different walls, one over head light, a lamp, and varoius drawers to hold belongings. The entire room was painted in seafoam green. She then showed me to the communal bathroom and showers. "Make yourself at home, and feel free to roam around and explore. We're so HAPPY you are here!" she exclaimed. I wondered secretly if something from the "herb" garden wasn't making her happy. I looked around the room again, and chose an empty bed by the door. I touched the twin matress that was sitting on a type of wooden platform. I sat down on it and sighed, closing my eyes. "Kat, you have a hell of a sense of humor," I thought to myself. I still couldn't figure out what her reasoning was behind this particular hostel, but I had a feeling I would soon find out. "I love money," I sighed, unzipping my suitcase and taking out a set of bedsheets.
The move that wasn't.....
I realized talking to a friend of mine that very few of my friends know my entire Chicago experience. I have my reasons----it's very difficult to talk about, and its an area of my life I'd like to forget sometimes. But I also know that it is part of my life, and it belongs to me. Like that nasty burn scar on my left leg that refuses to fade. The story isn't "ME" but it is a part of "ME". In a series of notes, I'm going to detail what happened from the moment I stepped off the plane in Chicago, to the moment when I returned to Pittsburgh, bruised, battered, depressed, and suicidal. As a therapist, I feel that the stigma of mental illness has us in a chokehold, and only by speaking our truths will the hold be broken. Here is the first of....many notes that detail my experience as both a budding practioner and recipient of mental health services. Here's my truth.
In May of 2005, I graduated from Chatham College (now University). Needless to say, I was thrilled. I FINALLY had a B.A. in Psychology, and I was ready to tackle the world.
"I'm gonna do great things! People are gonna be HEALED!" I thought to myself as I framed and admired my degree. "Awesome, I'm gonna make money." If I only knew....
I started my first real job search. I looked everywhere and had interviews. I talked to people, got phone numbers, got contacts, and just KNEW my life was going to change.
"Yes, gonna make a change. And money."
What I failed to realize was that with a simple B.A. in Psychology, at most I was able to get beat up and cursed out in group homes. Well, for me, this was a step in the right direction. But then I bumped up into the ugly truth: The REAL money comes with a Master's degree or higher.
"Well damn," I said, "I guess I have to go to graduate school." Okay. So I began to look into programs. I found one program in Chicago that specialized in Forensic Psychology. Being very interested in the field, I decided to apply. In the midst of this, I ended up finding a job at a group home in Wilkinsburg, and applied. I got the phone call that I was accepted into grad school on Tuesday, and got my new job on Wednesday.
After 3 months, it was time to move.
"Yeah! Grad school! Chicago!" I was PUMPED. Until I got there and saw what I was up against.
I have to stop here for a second to explain my situation a bit. See, there were a total of 6 things that had to take place in order for this move to be successful.
1. I needed a job. This was just how it was. With experience in check processing, I knew this would be a breeze. Who doesn't love a check processor? How hard can it be to find a job doing that?
2. I had to move my crap. Keep in mind that I'd already been living on my own for 3 years by this time, and in the words of George Carlin, I had a lot of crap. No problem, I thought. I can just get a truck and drive it all up there. A breeze.
3. My section 8 housing had to be successfully transferred within a certain 2-week period. This is a little known fact about yours truly. While in Chatham, I worked at night, went to school during the day, and slept never. The Section 8 voucher kept my rent low enough so I could work part time, and keep my mind on school work. Section 8 is transferable anywhere in the country. How hard could it be to transfer my housing?
4. I needed a place to live. This was directly influenced by #3.
5. I needed my student loan checks to come ON TIME. I worked out that for the first 2 or so months, I would have to live on the checks. So then needed to come on time, no excuses.
6. I had to have a phone. There was no other way to keep in contact with my family and friends to let them know how I was. I HAD to have my cell phone, on and working at ALL times.
Six little requirements. That's all I needed. And it's not like they were HARD, they were easy. This wasn't psychobiology, I could do this. So I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when classes started on August 28th instead of September 3rd like I originally thought. "Shit!" I thought to myself. "My lease isn't up until August 31st. What the hell am I going to do?" I made a drastic decision: I would go up to Chicago, stay for the first few days of classes, come back to Pittsburgh, close off my apartment, get my security deposit, and beat a path back to Chi-town. Should be easy, right? After all I'd done the hard part: Putting in a transfer of my Section 8 voucher. A little glitch, but this should be gravy after this. My first two weeks in Chicago I stayed with a friend, of a friend, of a friend of my mom's. "It's all good!" I thought. "She DID say I would have the guest room." The guest room turned out to be an air matress. In her studio apartment. Oy. Okay, let's digest this. No privacy, and no personal space for EITHER of us. No biggie. I told Ms. "Liv" that I would be at her house for 2 weeks, tops. By then the voucher for section 8 would have been successfully transfered, and I'd be able to find a nice place to live in. Just 2 short weeks. What can possibly go wrong in 2 weeks?
I did live close to school, and walked every morning. My first day of classes I wore my Chatham College t-shirt and my brand new Gap jeans from my grandma, and happily marched the 10 blocks to school (Chicago is all flat. It ain't like Pittsburgh hills. A Pittsburgher can walk 5 miles in Chicago and never feel it.) My classes were AWESOME and I learned so much. I was a forensic psychology SPONGE. I loved the city, and would entertain myself for hours riding the L-trains in the city to learn my way around. Across the street from my school, there was a building called The Merchandise Mart that had a number of great places to eat. I had my first chicken gyro, KICK-ASS Italian pizza, and the best burger I'd ever eaten from that place that was parodied on SNL in the 70s. You know, the "Cheeburga, cheeburga" guys? Yeah, there. And it's true---They only sell cheeseburgers, chips and Pepsi. I also became fast friends with the eldery man who managed the Mrs. Fields on the second floor. I was doing well that first week. I'd gotten to my classes, was able to get back to Pittsburgh to pack up my apartment, and was living off of my meager security deposit. My Aunt Megan was an ABSOLUTE GEM and paid for my big furniture to stay in a storage unit in Pittsburgh until I found a place in Chicago. I took the essentials with me to Chicago, and left everything else here. I put extra money down on my phone bill, and squirrled away some cash for my new place that had yet to materialize.
At home, things weren't going as well. Ms "Liv" began to make noise: "I need money for rent. You cost money. Where is some money?" Knowing that my refund check was due, I was able to hold her off for a short period of time. I couldn't figure out why the check hadn't come in. It had been about two weeks since school started, and I was guranteed the check on one week. I visited the finance office to figure it out. Conversation went a bit like this:
Me:"Hi, I haven't recieved my refund check yet. I filled out the direct deposit forms, but I haven't gotten anything in my account."
Man behind the desk: "Well, it says here it went out 3 days ago. Are you sure you filled out the forms correctly?"
Me (In a cold sweat): "Yes, I triple checked everything to make sure it went through. Do you mean my money is lost?"
Man behind the desk: "Don't worry, give it until tommorrow. It will be there."
It wasn't there tomorrow, or the day after that. I started to panic. How was I going to pay for an apartment with no money? How was I gonna wake up and face Ms. "Liv"? I broke out in a cold sweat every morning for 2 weeks when I called the bank, only to hear: "Your balance is $5.14." Then I had to face Ms. "Liv" again, telling her that the money still hadn't come.
I called my mother one day, practically in tears: "Mom, I don't have any money, and I don't know where my check is. I'm cold, and I'm hungry, and Ms. Liv wears this really scary wig...."
"Calm down," my mother told me kindly. "Give me the number, I will call him and figure out what is going on."
I hung up, and went back to the office. I called the bank again (it had become a ritual by now) allowing myself to get my hopes up.
"Your balance is $5.14."
I ran out of the building and across the street. I called my mom again.
"Mommy help. The money isn't there. I'm scared." She hung up the phone, and about 5 minutes later, the man from the finance office came across the street to get me. "We're going to work it out, don't worry," he said patting my arm.
Turns out another student got her check AND mine. She was quite pleased when she had a refund of $8000.
"Okay, we got to the bottom of this. It's okay, today is Wednesday, money will be there by Friday at the latest." And, sure enough, when I called Thursday morning: "Your account balance is $4005.14." Crisis aborted.
In May of 2005, I graduated from Chatham College (now University). Needless to say, I was thrilled. I FINALLY had a B.A. in Psychology, and I was ready to tackle the world.
"I'm gonna do great things! People are gonna be HEALED!" I thought to myself as I framed and admired my degree. "Awesome, I'm gonna make money." If I only knew....
I started my first real job search. I looked everywhere and had interviews. I talked to people, got phone numbers, got contacts, and just KNEW my life was going to change.
"Yes, gonna make a change. And money."
What I failed to realize was that with a simple B.A. in Psychology, at most I was able to get beat up and cursed out in group homes. Well, for me, this was a step in the right direction. But then I bumped up into the ugly truth: The REAL money comes with a Master's degree or higher.
"Well damn," I said, "I guess I have to go to graduate school." Okay. So I began to look into programs. I found one program in Chicago that specialized in Forensic Psychology. Being very interested in the field, I decided to apply. In the midst of this, I ended up finding a job at a group home in Wilkinsburg, and applied. I got the phone call that I was accepted into grad school on Tuesday, and got my new job on Wednesday.
After 3 months, it was time to move.
"Yeah! Grad school! Chicago!" I was PUMPED. Until I got there and saw what I was up against.
I have to stop here for a second to explain my situation a bit. See, there were a total of 6 things that had to take place in order for this move to be successful.
1. I needed a job. This was just how it was. With experience in check processing, I knew this would be a breeze. Who doesn't love a check processor? How hard can it be to find a job doing that?
2. I had to move my crap. Keep in mind that I'd already been living on my own for 3 years by this time, and in the words of George Carlin, I had a lot of crap. No problem, I thought. I can just get a truck and drive it all up there. A breeze.
3. My section 8 housing had to be successfully transferred within a certain 2-week period. This is a little known fact about yours truly. While in Chatham, I worked at night, went to school during the day, and slept never. The Section 8 voucher kept my rent low enough so I could work part time, and keep my mind on school work. Section 8 is transferable anywhere in the country. How hard could it be to transfer my housing?
4. I needed a place to live. This was directly influenced by #3.
5. I needed my student loan checks to come ON TIME. I worked out that for the first 2 or so months, I would have to live on the checks. So then needed to come on time, no excuses.
6. I had to have a phone. There was no other way to keep in contact with my family and friends to let them know how I was. I HAD to have my cell phone, on and working at ALL times.
Six little requirements. That's all I needed. And it's not like they were HARD, they were easy. This wasn't psychobiology, I could do this. So I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when classes started on August 28th instead of September 3rd like I originally thought. "Shit!" I thought to myself. "My lease isn't up until August 31st. What the hell am I going to do?" I made a drastic decision: I would go up to Chicago, stay for the first few days of classes, come back to Pittsburgh, close off my apartment, get my security deposit, and beat a path back to Chi-town. Should be easy, right? After all I'd done the hard part: Putting in a transfer of my Section 8 voucher. A little glitch, but this should be gravy after this. My first two weeks in Chicago I stayed with a friend, of a friend, of a friend of my mom's. "It's all good!" I thought. "She DID say I would have the guest room." The guest room turned out to be an air matress. In her studio apartment. Oy. Okay, let's digest this. No privacy, and no personal space for EITHER of us. No biggie. I told Ms. "Liv" that I would be at her house for 2 weeks, tops. By then the voucher for section 8 would have been successfully transfered, and I'd be able to find a nice place to live in. Just 2 short weeks. What can possibly go wrong in 2 weeks?
I did live close to school, and walked every morning. My first day of classes I wore my Chatham College t-shirt and my brand new Gap jeans from my grandma, and happily marched the 10 blocks to school (Chicago is all flat. It ain't like Pittsburgh hills. A Pittsburgher can walk 5 miles in Chicago and never feel it.) My classes were AWESOME and I learned so much. I was a forensic psychology SPONGE. I loved the city, and would entertain myself for hours riding the L-trains in the city to learn my way around. Across the street from my school, there was a building called The Merchandise Mart that had a number of great places to eat. I had my first chicken gyro, KICK-ASS Italian pizza, and the best burger I'd ever eaten from that place that was parodied on SNL in the 70s. You know, the "Cheeburga, cheeburga" guys? Yeah, there. And it's true---They only sell cheeseburgers, chips and Pepsi. I also became fast friends with the eldery man who managed the Mrs. Fields on the second floor. I was doing well that first week. I'd gotten to my classes, was able to get back to Pittsburgh to pack up my apartment, and was living off of my meager security deposit. My Aunt Megan was an ABSOLUTE GEM and paid for my big furniture to stay in a storage unit in Pittsburgh until I found a place in Chicago. I took the essentials with me to Chicago, and left everything else here. I put extra money down on my phone bill, and squirrled away some cash for my new place that had yet to materialize.
At home, things weren't going as well. Ms "Liv" began to make noise: "I need money for rent. You cost money. Where is some money?" Knowing that my refund check was due, I was able to hold her off for a short period of time. I couldn't figure out why the check hadn't come in. It had been about two weeks since school started, and I was guranteed the check on one week. I visited the finance office to figure it out. Conversation went a bit like this:
Me:"Hi, I haven't recieved my refund check yet. I filled out the direct deposit forms, but I haven't gotten anything in my account."
Man behind the desk: "Well, it says here it went out 3 days ago. Are you sure you filled out the forms correctly?"
Me (In a cold sweat): "Yes, I triple checked everything to make sure it went through. Do you mean my money is lost?"
Man behind the desk: "Don't worry, give it until tommorrow. It will be there."
It wasn't there tomorrow, or the day after that. I started to panic. How was I going to pay for an apartment with no money? How was I gonna wake up and face Ms. "Liv"? I broke out in a cold sweat every morning for 2 weeks when I called the bank, only to hear: "Your balance is $5.14." Then I had to face Ms. "Liv" again, telling her that the money still hadn't come.
I called my mother one day, practically in tears: "Mom, I don't have any money, and I don't know where my check is. I'm cold, and I'm hungry, and Ms. Liv wears this really scary wig...."
"Calm down," my mother told me kindly. "Give me the number, I will call him and figure out what is going on."
I hung up, and went back to the office. I called the bank again (it had become a ritual by now) allowing myself to get my hopes up.
"Your balance is $5.14."
I ran out of the building and across the street. I called my mom again.
"Mommy help. The money isn't there. I'm scared." She hung up the phone, and about 5 minutes later, the man from the finance office came across the street to get me. "We're going to work it out, don't worry," he said patting my arm.
Turns out another student got her check AND mine. She was quite pleased when she had a refund of $8000.
"Okay, we got to the bottom of this. It's okay, today is Wednesday, money will be there by Friday at the latest." And, sure enough, when I called Thursday morning: "Your account balance is $4005.14." Crisis aborted.
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