Your Money is My Life

My name is Merissa and I live above the poverty level, just above the poverty level. I get close yet somehow every month I manage to stay afloat. My money is my own. I have not been the beneficiary of life insurance policies from lost grandparents or trust funds set up by affluent parents to ease my road. I work two jobs, six days a week, and have little time for myself and my life. I say my life because I do not include either job as an activity I would engage in if I were not making a living. I take what jobs I can get without crossing into dangerous territories. The lowest I have ever sunk was to the rank of bartender which is one of my current jobs.

Making less than three dollars and hour I live on tips. I rely on the kindness of strangers to pay my bills. I watch guys pull out a wad thick with hundreds and leave me a buck. Although I am grateful for what I get, this routine is demoralizing. I recognize you have money and congratulate you immensely, but must you subject me to your crass display of wealth? And then stiff me?! This character is one of many infuriating examples of humanity that I will encounter on any given night. I have a “gentleman” hounding me for the quarter back on the ten for his nine seventy-five drink. Then there is the woman who has ordered and not tipped on four rounds of drinks and wonders why I am ignoring her request for round five. And to think, I am just at hour two of ten of my shift. This is my life.

I try to be happy, but under these circumstances, how could I be? Many customers at my bar ask why I am not in a better mood or stroking their egos accordingly. I shrug and tell them straight, “You don’t pay me enough to care.”