Three dollars in the gas tank, forty-nine cent burrito, a paper cup of water from the bathroom sink; I sit on the curb, eating my breakfast, and listening to Javier, sing. Every so often a car pulls up; Javier dips his brush in a bucket of suds and then scrubs gluey insects off the windshield before directing the driver’s tires onto the tracks of the auto-wash.

“You should try out for one of those singing shows,” I tell him, swaying to his melodic crooning.   

Without looking up from his sweeping, Javier shakes his head, and snorts; “Who’d vote for an ol’ man, eh?” He yanks a hand-towel from his back pocket and coughs hard into it. His somber brown eyes meet mine for a moment. He quickly breaks the exchange. “Fix your car, yet?” He asks brusquely, clearing his graveled throat.   

“Nuh-uh,” I answer, scraping the last shrivels of burrito cheese melted in the wrapper’s foil crevices. “It’s making a stinky smell, now.”

“Aye Chica, its leaking coolant. You can’t keep driving on a blown head gasket.”

“Fix the car or pay rent,” I shrug. “I like my car but I don’t wanna sleep in it.” I wad up the foil, and stand. “It’s almost eight. Catch ya later.”  

“Good luck today, Mija,” Javier calls after me. “I’ll put water in er’ while you’re gone.” I shoot a dirty look to my bucket of bolts parked at the service station; then smile and wave goodbye to Javier.

My hair slaps my face as I walk two miles east towards the library. The wind is freezing, but at least the burrito has minimized the empty, dizzy feeling. I think about Javier, his cough. He's worked at the gas station for fifteen years. Last month the company decided to cut his hours. Part-time means he's no longer benefits elibible. I lower my head to pull my hoodie up over my hair when I spot a nickel sparkling in the street. I stoop down and fish it from the gutter slime. There’d been a time when I would’ve scoffed about weighted coins dragging on the bottom of my designer purse. But on this day, nine more nickels will score me another burrito.

They did this. Greed did this. I did this.

When I arrive at the library, there’s already a small crowd waiting for the doors to open: school kids with backpacks and cellphones; homeless with shopping carts; and others like me who are searching for work. When they let us all inside, I make copies of my résumé-five cents each, check my email inbox- empty; and scour the internet for job postings that look legitimate. On my way out, I sign up for another promising job fair-my third in four weeks. I borrow a pen from Kristen, a pretty blonde; who confides in me she’s a medical biller; who can’t find work because of a six year old alcohol related charge that hasn’t dropped from her record. On the walk back to the service station, the wind tears like sandpaper against my cheeks and lips; and creates dog-eared corners on my freshly copied résumé pages. I cross the street, walking pass the consignment store where I sold my designer purse for money to buy groceries. “2^nd chance for your stuff,” reads the sign above the door. I think of Kristin from the library. What a world, where shoes and sunglasses get 2^nd chances but human beings don’t.

I’m the face of the recession.  

 In the gas station bathroom; I change into my suit, transform my hair and makeup, and try to look professional and confident as possible. Today will be different, I promise my reflection. I climb into my hatchback and pull onto the street. Obsessively checking the car’s thermometer; hoping the water Javier put in will help me get to the other side of town without overheating. I pass through the most expensive neighborhoods in my city; gawking at the beautiful houses. They are all breathtakingly lovely. But like a room packed with gorgeous people or a bouquet of fresh flowers, there’s always one that stands out, catches your eye, makes you believe it was crafted from heaven just for you. It’s a two-story Victorian: ivy snaking over granite stone exterior. I love creating stories about a family living there. What it would be like to brush my teeth in the gilded sink, or slide on my belly down the massive staircase. But I’ve learned to separate reality from fiction and material from spirit. The simple fact is: whoever lives in the home might not be any luckier, happier, or less stressed than me. Still, sitting there in the broken car staring up at the mansion with my stomach growling; it’s difficult not to imagine they could afford another burrito.

The news said it was the country, the world. Sometimes it felt like just me.  

I park the car and walk for miles submitting my info to stores, offices, and restaurants- anybody who’ll take it. I spend all day saturating the area. This is how it goes….

“Can I fill out an application?” I ask.

“Don’t have any more,” employee answers. “Apply online or leave a résumé.”

I’ve already applied online. Still, I pass my stats sheet to employee hoping a more personal effort will earn me points. It gets tossed below a counter without a glance. I just wasted my nickel, I think to myself on the way out.

            The sun is setting, I’ve put water in the car three times, eaten only the small burrito this morning; and have blisters burning my feet. But at least it’s supper time. The diner is packed with people. Stephanie spies me from her place behind the counter. She dashes over and nervously whispers in my ear that her district manager is in the kitchen. I apologize and make for the door. But she stops me. Biting her fingernails and looking over her shoulder she instructs me to wait in the parking lot and she’ll be out in five minutes. I walk back to the car; pop open the trunk; and pull out the bag with the spoon and Styrofoam cup. Minutes later Stephanie saunters across the parking lot carrying two steaming cups.

 “Thanks Steph,” I say.

“Aww ..Girl, don’t even sweat it,” she says; dismissing my gratitude with a wave. “Makin’ a fresh pot, they throwing that out anyhow. You know I got you.”

“You’re my angel,” I tell her taking a sip of the coffee. Eagerly I rip the paper lid off my styro-cup, and pour hot water over the dry noodles inside. She looks away blushing, I realize, too late, that I’ve said or done something that makes her uncomfortable. “Want some?” I offer, quickly trying to erase the tension. She shakes her head no. I lean on the car slurping my soup and sipping coffee while Steph lights a smoke. We talk about our hopes for the future.

            “Not like it used to be,” exhales Stephanie. “When our parents was coming up, you stayed loyal, worked hard- you kept moving higher. But nowadays, people working places ten, maybe twenty years, then corporate goes and hires some kid with a fresh degree on his wall to manage a whole district, when he ain’t even got experience in the field." I nod showing Stephanie I'm listening even though juicy noodles are dangling from my lips. She continues, "Then, when corporate laying people off who they let go? Not the manager; Naw-uh. Folks who do the hard work; ones who trained the manager on what he knows; that’s who gets dropped. That’s why I work as many hours as I can, plus go to school fulltime. It’s tough, with my Pell grant and working everyday here, I barely make enough to cover my books and tuition.  But it’s the only way to get ahead. Mmhmm…trying to get done soon too. Cause dang if the government ain’t cutting all kinds of education programs real fast.” She snuffs her cigarette. “Better get back in there,” she sighs. “Need anything else?”

            I assure her I’m good, thank her again for the coffee, water, and company. As I watch my friend Stephanie hurry back towards the restaurant, I know her life will be ok. But, I wonder how much truth is in what she believes. Is hard work and loyalty really not enough to make it anymore? She must be wrong, I reason. This is America.

As the weeks turn into months, I slowly begin to lose hope in finding another job. I give in to recession-depression and stop searching so eagerly. I’ve applied everywhere and there’s nothing left to do but wait for a road out.

 *A few months later I’ll find a road, and take off on it.  But I still thank God every night for my dear friends. I try to convince myself tomorrow will be better for all of us. That life is fair and good souls eventually win. I pray for the hard-hearted among us, those who lack compassion, who feels the downtrodden earn their fates; that everybody gets exactly what they deserve- for their sake I hope that’s not true.