I am very upset.
I have this jar. It's a beautiful jar. My mom bought it for me at Goddess before the Goddess people started being bitches. It says "Coffee" on it, and she gave it to me for my birthday. I never used it for anything, just kept it on my shelf.
A couple of months ago, I decided it was too pretty to be a jar that just sat there. So I put two things in it: a little white business card with an important phone number scrawled on the back, and five dollars in change. And every day since then, I've put half of my tips from Java Joe's into that jar. Half of my tips, and half of the money I get from returning bottles around the house.
I told maybe three people about that jar. I told my mom first: "If there's ever an emergency, if I ever just go AWOL and nobody knows where I am, check this jar. There's a phone number in here. That's where I am." My mom used to tell me if she ever went AWOL, she'd be in Lancaster, PA, or San Francisco. I figured I owed it to her to tell her my secret runaway plan, not that I'm planning on running away, but it's nice to have a place you'd go to if you DID run away.
"...Oh, and there's money in here, too... I'm saving it up... It's for a car... A car, and going back to college, and someday maybe running away..."
I showed the jar to Aaron. I showed the jar to Nathan. I trusted them. I didn't show the jar to anyone else. I don't think anybody else knew about it, unless they'd seen me drop quarters into it. Anybody could have seen me drop quarters into it, if they happened to be in my house.
Once, I took money out of it. Just once. I took seven dollars out. I owed Nathan a couple of dollars, and didn't have it on me. The next day, I went to put seven dollars back into the jar. And I noticed that a ten-dollar-bill was missing. Well, that was just fucking weird, because I'd only taken out seven.
I figured maybe I'd gone nuts. I figured instead of taking out two ones and a five, I'd taken two ones and a ten. Although it was beyond me why Nathan would take twelve dollars from me without mentioning I only owed him seven.
It started bothering me... Ten dollars missing. What had I DONE with it? Was I seriously losing my mind?
I started writing down the money I put in that jar. I'm honestly not greedy; I'm honestly not obsessive; I'm HONESTLY not going to grow up like my dad and know where every cent is at all times. It's just... I wanted to know I wasn't crazy. I also wanted to know just how, exactly, ten dollars had gone AWOL. Ten dollars is a LOT to me. Ten dollars is two and a half hours of work. Ten dollars is eight-hours' worth of nice lawyers tipping me. Ten dollars is 200 bottles brought back for redemption. Ten dollars is dinner for two nights if I'm doing cheap dinner.
I forgot to write things down for a couple of days. But I thought maybe I was missing a couple more dollars. I wasn't sure. Neurotically, I moved the jar. I moved it to my supersecret trunk where I keep all my Lynchfilms. There's a lock on that trunk. I didn't lock it. I just closed it and slung the lock through the lock-thingy. And I began writing down the amount of money I had stashed away.
Five dollars missing.
Someone went into my room while I wasn't home, went over to my Lynchtrunk, tried the lock, found it open, opened the trunk, found the jar, and took five dollars out.
Five dollars. Five dollars is ten candy bars. Five dollars is one-tenth of my monthly phone bill. Five dollars is a pack of cigarettes, a sandwich at Subway, a fifth or a sixth of a pair of new jeans. Five dollars is four sodas. Five dollars is a drop in the bucket if you look at my stupid GYN-medical bills. But it's still fucking five dollars. Five dollars is a beginning. Five dollars might someday mean the difference between me buying a car and not buying a car. Five dollars might someday mean the difference between getting my grades, and having them withheld.
Now, five dollars is hardly that big of a deal. If someone came up to me on the street and said, "Look, I'm trying to catch a bus and I need five bucks, can you PLEASE help me out," I'd probably do it. If a friend came to me and said, "I'm hungry, buy me dinner," I'd do it. If a friend said, "look, I have no money and I'm feeling poor," I'd probably give them five dollars.
Five dollars is a DAMNED big deal when someone came into my room and STOLE it from me.
I WORKED for that money, god-dammit.
And the thief took away an hour's worth of work in the time it took to open the Lynchtrunk.
And since the Lynchtrunk is IN my room, I assume the thief is probably somebody I know. Probably somebody I trust. Probably somebody I trusted enough to tell when I moved the jar.
Probably somebody I would have GIVEN five dollars to anyway, if they'd asked.
How could you? How could you steal from me? How could you make me believe I'm crazy? How could you take five dollars away from my HARD-FUCKING-EARNED car/college/escape fund? You probably used it for soda or movies or dinner with friends. You probably never even thought that it might mean something more significant than junk.
Did you ever stop to think that maybe I don't work two jobs in order to support everybody ELSE'S needs? Did you ever stop to think about the past year of my life? How I've worked my way up from absolutely NOTHING with as little help as possible, and now you expect me to support your little whims? What did you spend it on? Dinner with your friends? That's one fucking dinner *I* don't get to have now.
Maybe you think I'm just fucking loaded. Maybe you think I have all the money in the world and I'm just sitting on it, hoarding it. Maybe it's because I suspect you're one of the only few people who knew about the two-hundred I'd saved up to do somebody a favor. Maybe you think I can do anybody a favor any time. Maybe you don't understand that for nearly eight months, I've been paying for my own apartment, my own phone bills, and my own utilities ALONE, with minimal assistance from housemates. Maybe you don't understand that one year ago, I was essentially homeless and was eating a slice of pizza every day to keep myself alive. Maybe you don't understand that in one year, it's NOT like one can become independently wealthy. CERTAINLY not wealthy enough to support YOU.
Aaron and I were discussing welfare and public assistance the other night, before our escapade in Wal-mart with the Great Blue West Nile Heron. I told him I'd successfully avoided it for this long. I told him I KNOW I can work. I told him I am proud to be working for my living, even though I could get a LOT more money if I pleaded poverty and got a check in the mail every month. I told him I am PROUD to be earning my way back to college, that I am a proud member of a free-market economy in which I damn well DESERVE what I get, and I have time cards and pay-stubs and co-workers -- and customers -- who love me, to prove it.
I deserve what I earn. And I do NOT deserve to be STOLEN from.
And you do not deserve one damn thing from me.
Fuck you.
~Helena*
"SHOW ME THE MONEY!" --Peter, when asked for a quote relevant to this entry.