At Ace of Spades HQ, Monty returns from a mundane-world-induced hiatus:
Articles like this make me wonder if the bien pensant journalist-and-pundit class knows any actual poor people. I was born poor, grew up poor, and spent a good chunk of my 20′s poor. Not genteel poor, either — I mean hard, stony-bottom, empty-pocket poor. I come from poor people.
Poor people don’t think about money in the same way that more well-off people do. When you’re poor, money — and the lack thereof — informs your every moment, waking and sleeping. You know exactly, at any given moment, how much money you have, down to the penny. How much in the bank, how much in your jeans, how much in the coffee can on the counter at home. Every purchase is a choice — if I buy this six-pack now, that means hot dogs instead of hamburger for dinner tomorrow; if I pay my cable bill, that means that instead of dinner and a movie my best girl and I get to spend a night at home watching the TV. You triage your bills — rent comes first, then heat. Then … you decide: cable or cellphone? Who can you put off the longest? How long can you float things?
You start with the credit cards because you figure you have the right to treat yourself once in a while. If you have to sit at home instead of going out, what’s wrong with having a nice flat-screen TV to watch? And then the car went south, and that blew a $500 dollar hole in your budget, so you had put your groceries and gas on the credit card that week just to make ends meet. The kids needed new clothes and shoes and supplies for school. You’ve got to pay the minimums on the card just to keep things going, and the balance just creeps higher and higher until you’re butting up against the limit. Then you get another card, and maybe the old lady gets one too. And pretty soon … well. You wake up at night in a cold sweat because you know that bankruptcy and ruin are only a breath away. It’s not just a question of if you lose your job or get sick and can’t work; it’s a question of losing the overtime hours you’ve become accustomed to, or if the wife goes back to part-time instead of full time. You realize you’re barely treading water as it is; it would only take a small wave to drown you.
Not being able to afford the small luxuries isn’t poverty. Poverty is being constantly worried that you can’t afford the necessities of life. Waking up in a cold sweat because you’re not sure you can make the rent payment … again. It’s a constant nagging worry that saps your energy and keeps your stomach churning.