"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
I’m really not pleased with the way things are going right now. Tomorrow I get to head out to the furthest reaches of Queens to request a court date as a way of avoiding eviction for another ten days or so. There really isn’t anything I can do about it. I’m guilty. Try as I might, I am four months behind on my rent and the owner of the building has every right to want me out. I don’t have a defense other than to ask them to wait two weeks and maybe I will be able to get caught up. Other than that, as I said, I’m guilty. When you’re guilty then you have to pay. And paying is something I haven’t been doing much of lately.
Billing When I was in high school I had a friend named Bill (no codename this time, since it would ruin the irony of his name). He was two years younger than the rest of my friends and made for a pretty good lackey. It was me, the wiseass, my friend Oscar (that is a codename), the bizarre one, and Bill, the loser who latched onto us. He didn’t offer much beyond making us look a little better by having a follower, which is usually the role cronies fill. And we were fine with that, for a while. Eventually, however, the pendulum swung the other way and he stopped being just a sidekick and became more or a leech.
Senior year we would end pretty much every school day with a trip out to the McDonald’s on the other end of town. This was before the days of Super Sizing, but still, a Quarter Pounder with cheese Value Meal everyday…no wonder I ballooned up my last year of school. Oscar and I had shitty retail jobs, I as a cashier at the Newsstand and he as a bagger at the supermarket. We both had cars and would take turns with driving duties. The point is, we had the financial responsibility of cars, car insurance, and gas but we had the jobs to take care of it all. And we still had enough to be able to afford a daily Value Meal and maybe a trip to the movies once a week. Compared to most teenagers in our town we were pretty responsible people. We weren’t completely reliant on the handouts of others to get by. Bill, on the other hand, was another story.
Bill had a maneuver that he developed sometime during the year and change that we hung around with him. We simply called the trick ‘Billing It’. The move evolved slowly. At first it didn’t seem so bad. At the end of the day Oscar and I would be hanging out at our lockers on the first floor, about to depart for our trek to the golden arches, when Bill would come along and hear our plan. He’d ask to come along and, because he was one of the few friends we had, we’d take him. In the beginning he didn’t do it everyday, but every once in a while we’d get there and, upon arrival, he’d mention he had no money. Oscar, more than myself, would end up offering him enough to get some fries. Over time, what started as maybe a once a week thing slowly turned into a three or four day a week thing. And it just got worse from there.
Our first year of college, Oscar and I both commuted into Boston. We got higher paying jobs and ditched McDonald’s in favor of nights at TGIFriday’s or the Ground Round. Bill was still in high school and had taken over my job at the Newsstand, so one would assume he had money. One would assume wrong. And ‘Billing It’ took on a new twist.
Saturday would roll around and Oscar and I would get a group together for some lame ass activity, starting the evening with dinner at some local restaurant. We’d invite Bill because, again, he was our friend. The first few times, he would get there and announce that he had no money. At that point somebody would usually offer to pick up his part of the tab as a favor. But eventually he stopped announcing his status and the true nature of ‘Billing It’ took shape. We’d go out to eat, he’d order whatever he wanted off the menu, eat, and when the bill came and we were splitting it up he would pat his pockets, the sign that he was without funds. When he started doing that our patience was wearing thin. When he stopped even bothering to pat his pockets and pretend like he forgot to bring money we knew we were being scammed.
Ever since then, to a small group of people, most of whom I don’t even hang around with anymore, ‘Billing It’ was the equivalent of being the leech of the group. Soon after we stopped hanging around with him. Oscar and I each got girlfriends because they’d dated him, found out how much of a loser he was, dumped him and hooked up with his much cooler friends. Last I heard he was still living at home, with no money, smoking his life away with the Mary Jane. He’d be about 24 now.
Sugar Momma The reason I’ve been thinking about ‘Billing It’ lately is because I feel like that’s what I’ve been doing to Watts. We’re almost to our one-year anniversary and for most of that year it seems like she’s been supporting my ass. She claims that she doesn’t have a problem with it, but then, I used to be friends with Bill…
Since the beginning it was clear that she had more money than I did. It’s not that I have a problem with that. She’s six years older than me, has worked her way up in her job and owns a couple houses in New Jersey. Me, I’ve stagnated in the suburbs and drifted from temp job to short stints in book publishing, basically treading water through my twenties. So it would make sense that my financial standing wouldn’t be on par with hers. And I don’t have a macho attitude that the man should be paying for everything all the time. It’s just that once in a while might be nice. I’ve always prided myself on my independence and the idea of needing someone to take care of me doesn’t play well with the other thoughts in my head.
It all kind of started the night I celebrated finishing my first book. I decided I needed a fancy night out and so we went to the revolving lounge at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. My credit cards were still active at that point, but I hadn’t worked in a month and Watts offered to pick up the tab. And a hefty tab it was, by my standards anyway. She made it seem like nothing, and maybe to her it was, but for me it set an unsettling precedent.
That was the end of October. Since then, pretty much any time we go out she picks up the full tab. Whether it’s a cheap night at an East Village dive bar or a fancy meal at the bistro around the corner from my apartment, she is the one who covers the bill and I’m left sitting there, thinking I should be patting my pockets to at least keep up the artifice. Even on Valentine’s Day I didn’t have any money to buy a simple flower or box of chocolates. She drops two hundred dollars on dinner at an expensive restaurant and I can’t even toss her a long stem and a heart-shaped box of Whitman’s.
The thing is, the more Bill did his little trick the more comfortable he became with it. Looking back, it’s actually more likely that he was fine with being a parasite from the beginning and just grew bolder as time went on. But for me the reverse is happening. Every time Friday rolls around I’m faced with this double-edged sword. My week has been spent avoiding phone calls, looking for a job, proofreading shitty fantasy novels, and moping about my current situation. For five days I’m a miserable hermit locked away in my apartment. When Friday hits I know I’m spending the next couple days in Brooklyn with Watts and my mood takes a complete 360. I can’t wait to see her. At the same time, though, there’s this nagging feeling of self-loathing because I know that everyday I see her I end up taking more money out of her pocket. And I hate that feeling.
It’s not like we haven’t discussed this at length already. She plays it off like it doesn’t bother her. Apparently several boyfriends in the past have been freeloaders, some worse than me. She says that the main reasons why she doesn’t care about the money is because a) she doesn’t want my financial status to prohibit us from having a good time and b) she loves me and wants to see me happy. And I think knowing about ‘b’ makes me feel even worse. It’s just a big vicious circle.
So I don’t know. I feel terrible about being a parasite but, at the same time, if it weren’t for her mothering instinct I probably wouldn’t be able to eat on the weekends (yes, it’s gotten that bad). I keep hoping that something changes soon. I’ve already told her that, if I ever sell my damn book, I plan to set aside a good chunk of cash just to spend on her, and I then will be picking up the tabs for a change. But who knows if that’s ever going to happen. The more time that passes the more I think I might just end up poor for the rest of my life. I know one thing, though; this ‘starving artist’ bullshit really sucks.
From The Monkey House a/k/a Simon Brother, can you spare ten grand?
The Random: RIP Mr. Rogers. I always wished you’d take down those cool ass models from atop your fridge more often to make the transition to the Land of Make Believe instead of always going with the trolley. Still, at least your Neighborhood never sold out and allowed an infestation of oh-so-adorable, verbally retarded, ready for the toy shelf red jackasses. Right now, Fred Rogers has arrived in the afterlife and is delivering a status report to Jim Henson on the current state of children’s television. Jim Henson’s response: "What the fuck is an Elmo?"
