ONCE– and that’s important — when I was 28 years old, I forgot to submit my biweekly time sheet on time. The university’s HR guy told me plainly that I would be paid two weeks late– a date that was well past my rent deadline. My boss, Teresa, tried and failed to persuade the temp services office that had placed me in her office to make an exception, explaining that I was otherwise always diligent to file on time. To no avail.
I had secured the temp job about a month after moving across the country to California with little more than a rent payment and $500 available credit on my Capital One credit card. I felt fortunate to be working in a long-term assignment that didn’t involve a hairnet or name tag, knowing all too well the physical exhaustion that came from being on your feet all day. The last job I’d held before finding the temp gig was at the New York State Fair, selling Italian sausages, pasta bowls, and fries for minimum wage and tips.
In the first weeks and months of working for Teresa, I kept my head down and powered through the same three or four daily tasks: opening mail, entering invoices into the computer, running intraoffice mail, and occasionally retrieving microfiche records from the storeroom. I stayed busy for eight hours a day thanks to the volume of medical center invoices that all went through our office. The logos of the medical supply companies that sold us tons of tubes, bandages, and hospital beds still catch my eye when I see them on trucks on the highway or in the news.
In our building of about 75 people, I worked in an isolated, windowless room alongside four accountants. They would chit-chat with each other, collegial relationships firmly established, mostly discussing their houses and family gatherings. Even if I had felt comfortable to chime in, I didn’t have much to contribute to those conversations. I didn’t stay long at office birthday parties or linger to chat at the end of the workday. I was there for a paycheck and whatever stability that this job would allow while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
As I remember her, Joy was fond of bright colors, gold jewelry, and professional manicures. She wore her curly blonde hair swept up into a French twist, artfully tucked so you couldn’t see the pins or clips she must have used to hold it there. In my experience, someone who took that much interest in her appearance didn’t care about the things that mattered to me – politics, theater, books. Once, she gently pointed out to me that the black pants I wore almost every day had a fallen hem. Our colleague, Marsha, turned around and mentioned a product (“stitch witchery”) I could buy to fix it without sewing, and I fixed it. I was a little embarrassed, but mostly grateful because I couldn’t afford to have them professionally fixed and hemming pants was definitely beyond my limited sewing skills.
When Joy heard, along with the others in our small office, about my delayed paycheck, she offered to loan me money.
“Would a thousand dollars be enough?”
I had been researching laws about paychecks and learned that employers were required to pay terminated or separated employees within 24 hours of them leaving a job, and I’m not sure if I was truly considering this when Joy made her incredible offer. I hesitated to accept. I was nervous about what this would mean for our relationship- would she try to use this favor to manipulate me, the way I knew some people did? But I was too desperate. (And, it’s worth noting, I would probably never have asked my parents for the money. I was too determined to make it “on my own” and overcoming my Dad’s deep reluctance at my moving across the country.)
The day our paychecks were supposed to arrive, Joy handed me a personal check for $1,000. I promised to pay her back on the next payday. I drove to the bank to deposit it, relieved when I saw the numbers on my deposit receipt that would allow me to write that $625 rent check in just a couple days. It was only that afternoon that she came over to me holding an oversized pink post-it and hesitantly asked if I would write my phone number and address down for her “just in case.” I could tell she was nervous that I’d be insulted at the implication, but I was glad to demonstrate in this one small way that I intended to hold up my end of the bargain.
I don’t remember paying her back, but I know I did, and I hope it was accompanied by a thank you card. I was much better at writing them back then. Our relationship didn’t change after that, though. We were friendly when gathered with the rest of the team around a retirement cake but never what I would call “friends.”
I’m embarrassed to admit that years went by when I forgot about this incident in my life. Something prompted the memory a few years ago, and my appreciation for it deepened with the knowledge that comes with another decade of life. These days I think about it a lot, about how expensive it is to be broke right now. If you’ve waited months to receive unemployment payments, the way many people in my city have, your creditors still charge penalties and interest. Your landlord still wants rent and expects late fees. Groceries, school fees, cars, health care costs. On and on. A lifeline from a stranger, acquaintance, friend, family member? It’s not a solution, but it’s a buffer. It is a respite from the struggle. I am grateful to have the financial security I do now and try to remember how easy it can be – with thanks to Joy – to be a lifeline to someone who needs it.
Clementine 