Making it through: Surviving the Great Recession on opioids and vodka

March 28, 2017May 19, 2017 Joseph Lyttleton

Chapter IV

[Note: The names, they are a-changin’.]

The most scenic route to San Francisco from Orange County is the 101: long stretches of coastal views and cool, dry air whipping through your windows. For our cross state move, Selene and I drove the 5 through the desert.

The trip started with a fight over a flimsy IKEA mattress that refused to stay strapped to the roof of her Jeep. Selene argued for dumping the thing, but I was determined to get that slab of hay to our new home even if I had to ride on top of it. Ultimately, we dumped it by a gas station dumpster just outside L.A.

So began Year 4.

This would be Selene’s first time living away from her parents.

Relocating every year bred routine: rent an apartment, explore the neighborhood, find a job. For Selene, though – joining me despite the vehement objections of her father (strangely immune to my charms) – this relocation upended her entire existence. In addition to her family, she was leaving behind a job, college, and her college boyfriend – her entire life up until that point – to be with me as I pursued my dream; a dream, mind you, without a raison d’être.

We’d gone in with two other couples for a lease in the unfashionable Portola neighborhood of southeast San Francisco. Though the predominantly Asian neighborhood is at a remove from the more celebrated and urban areas (or, at least, was back then), wherever you find yourself in the city’s 49 square miles, you’re never far from some activity.

We arrived under the red glow of the gloaming. Greeting us at the Jeep were Ann and Don, he an aspiring stand-up from Australia, and she the manager of a clothing boutique. Inside were Samantha and Glen, an earthy, vegan couple who, like Selene and myself, were brand new transplants to San Francisco. After first impressions, I expected to have more in common with Ann and Don, but they’d soon demolish that assumption.

With greetings out of the way, Selene and I unloaded our belongings and called it a night. In echoes of my first night in Philadelphia, all we had to sleep on was a pile of blankets.

Exhausted, Selene still couldn’t sleep. The alien surroundings mixed with a motorcycle engine revving belligerently beneath our window had her on edge. I offered to go out and say something to the cyclist, but Selene insisted I stay with her. I was her anchor to the familiar, and would be for some time. I had every intent of staying awake until Selene fell asleep, but eventually I dozed off. She never did.

Our first San Francisco morning, Selene was clearly operating on frayed nerves. I suggested a walk to familiarize her with the neighborhood so the strangeness might dissipate.

She appeared to have calmed some by the time we came across a discarded mattress a few blocks from our apartment. We hauled the find back to our place, and even though we didn’t have the right size bed frame, just having a real mattress to sleep on felt like a victory. Laying sheets down, we crawled into one another’s arms. For a moment, everything felt settled.

The moment was brief.

“Are you okay?” I already knew the answer. I could feel Selene crying into my chest, her body taut as a violin string.

“I can’t do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t stay here.”

Since our arrival, her anxiety had only grown worse. I attempted to convince her to stay and give San Francisco a chance, to trust that in time she would acclimate. I knew well the unease of unfamiliar territory. My best efforts weren’t enough, though. Even as I begged her to reconsider, she gathered her things and headed to the Jeep.

Out on the street, I tried every last arrow in my quiver to change Selene’s mind. For an instant, I thought I might have succeeded when she slid back out of the driver’s seat. But it was only to give me a tearful, trembling goodbye.

Another woman driving away.

Selene didn’t answer her phone while on the road, so I called Kate, a mutual friend, and filled her in. Kate had worked with us at the bookstore in Costa Mesa and had been privy to every development in our romance from the beginning. Sometimes she seemed as invested in Selene and my relationship as we were.

Kate leapt into action. Throughout the next week, she worked on persuading Selene to give San Francisco another shot. Sometimes, Selene and I would talk by phone, but with 400 miles between us, it was up to Kate to act as our mediator.

Alone again, I had little else to do but wander San Francisco. One afternoon, having stepped into a bookstore, a title caught my eye: Stuff White People Like. Absentmindedly flipping through the pages of the book, one entry stuck out: “Difficult Breakups.” Touché, hipsters, touché. Under the circumstances, the humor was a bit lost on me.

Day by day, Kate chipped away at Selene’s doubts. Finally, Selene called and we discussed what it would take for her to feel comfortable in the city. I vowed to spend all day, every day with her until she felt at home. We would go to shows, take in the sights, have our bohemian, San Francisco romance.

Meanwhile, Selene was remembering why she had gone with me in the first place: her boredom in Orange County, the lack of ambition she felt there, her desire to see more. She was primed to travel. Would she take the risk?

A week after I had helplessly watched her drive away, Selene returned.

It might have been the biggest mistake of her life.

September 2008

It’s hard to express just how disastrously those first months in San Francisco went for us, but consider: We moved to one of the priciest cities in the world at a moment in time that economists have identified as the nadir of the worst economic collapse since the Great Depression. So, not ideal.

Up until that point, it had never taken me more than a month to find work. In San Francisco, I went without employment until January of 2009. Selene had better luck, landing a gig with the San Francisco Symphony, selling tickets on commission. Bafflingly, the middle of a recession is not the best time to try to hawk tickets to the opera.

And then there was Ann and Don, the Platonic ideal of horrendous roommates. Don, the Australian comedian with an allergy to jokes, didn’t have a visa to work and so spent his days lounging on the couch in his underwear. He might have pulled off the charming layabout cliché if he weren’t such an unrepentant piece of shit. Verbally abusive towards Ann, he berated her for her cooking (though she worked all day, she made his dinner every night) and could be heard yelling at her behind their closed door almost daily.

Ann, who could be perplexingly chipper and assertive with the group, confided her grimmer truths to Samantha: she was pregnant and hoped to keep it, but Don was demanding she abort or he’d leave her. Having furthermore admitted a penchant for finding (nay, seeking) abusive relationships, there was little question which decision Ann would ultimately make. One weekend, the couple disappeared without announcement; when they returned, the matter was closed.

Samantha, Glen, Selene, and I resolved that they had to leave. Best case scenario, Don might be forced to return to Australia and would simply ditch Ann. Since they were persistently behind on the rent and owed Samantha and Glen money, their protestations garnered little sympathy. Still, Ann knew there was only one person responsible for their ousting: me.

Cornering me in the kitchen one afternoon, she unloaded, arguing that she and Don only fought because of my sinister presence. I, it turned out, was the real corrosive element in the household. More stunned than angry, my bemused expression must have rubbed her the wrong way because suddenly she reared back, snatched a spoon from the counter, and flung it at my face. Thankfully, her aim was as poor as her taste in men.

In the midst of that drama, Selene and I had our dwindling finances to worry about. We rarely went out. Instead of drinking cheap whiskey, I settled for cheaper vodka (sacrifices had to be made). We did manage a pleasant New Year’s Eve out when an elderly queer gentleman at the bar took a shining to me and bought us drinks all night in exchange for the occasional ass grab. Worth it.

As our poverty worsened, I grew convinced that my project would become a causality of the recession. The stress dissolved our bound like acid; Selene and I existed in a perpetual cycle of fighting and reconciliation.

In November, Samantha alerted me to a two-week medical study that paid $2,100. I promptly signed up. It was a drug trial. I was administered two different drugs: the first was a potent opioid, while the second was supposed to nullify the narcotic effects of the first in an effort to quell withdrawal symptoms. Either the drug worked or I was on a placebo, because the only effects I felt were constipation.

For the length of the study, I was sequestered on a single floor of the hospital, leaving Selene behind two months after promising to be by her side through everything. She was on her own, and she was fine.

When I left the hospital – practically rich – Ann and Don were gone.

Shortly afterwards, we received news that Selene’s great-grandfather had passed. Driving down to Orange County to attend the funeral, we had no choice but to stay with her parents where I was not a popular guest. Still, aside for a few pointed remarks about my joblessness, her father was generally civil.

Preparing to leave, I carried our bags to the Jeep. With Selene in the house, her father stood on the driveway, drinking a beer.

“Must feel good to be the man for once,” he called out. We didn’t speak another word to each other.

(At this time, I was also dealing with excruciating pain: my wisdom teeth were coming in, but jobless and without insurance, I had to live with it.)

In December, a charming young woman named Nicki moved in with her kitten, ushering in a quiet, calm breath of fresh air. Our living dynamic was now peaceful. The five housemates spent many nights playing board games or watching movies together.

In January, I interviewed for a management position at the locally owned Books, Inc. I had interviewed for this exact same position when I first arrived in the city, but never received a call back. That was 2008; in the new year, the store manager hired me essentially on the spot. After five months adrift, we found land.

Then Nicki’s breathing problems began. We discovered moist, black mold growing in almost every room of the apartment. At first, we only noticed dark spots in the middle of the walls, but upon investigation, we uncovered thick sheets of growth behind our bookshelves and dressers. Our attempts to wipe it away were futile: the apartment was a lost cause.

Leaving behind our friends – comrades in arms, by this point – Selene and I moved to Outer Richmond, a short walk from the beach. We had been in San Francisco for six months.

After half a year of constant, roiling turmoil, our lives were stabilizing. The new apartment was clean and the new roommates were boring, but in a good way. Selene, adapted to her new life, worked as a bank teller. We could afford the occasional date night, usually Mexican food and margaritas at a corporate chain followed by a film at the indie cinema. We were making it work; we worked.

But there’s no such thing as status quo in my life.

Year 5 was on the horizon.

Keep reading: Chapter V – Chicago

2017: How Will It Be A Better Year?

December 27, 2016December 27, 2016 Joseph Lyttleton

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions.

I’m a big believer in personal change, I just don’t put any stock in arbitrary time markers. The division of years, while useful for a myriad of practical and societal reasons, is given too much prominence in our personal lives. You’re going to be the same person at 2016-12-31 23:59:59 as you will be at 2017-01-01 00:00:01. We don’t change because the calendar turns; we change because we make a choice to do so.

It’s already a cliché that 2016 was a shitty year, but you know what they say: They’re clichés for a reason.

It’s quite possible your favorite artist died (with David Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen, George Michael, Gene Wilder, and Harper Lee topping the list of the deceased, odds are good at least one creator you enjoyed or even adored passed); or maybe the man who was elected President of the United States deeply concerns (terrifies, sickens, etc.) you; or perhaps your personal life has fallen apart all around you. All reasons to hate the year that was.

Also, let us never forget, millions of people around the world were displaced from their homes and are still facing uncertain futures and unrelenting terror. It’s hard to look back on the headlines of this past year and not feel despondent. This Saturday, people across the world will gather to enthusiastically celebrate 2016’s end, myself included.

But then what?

It’s time to ask yourself the question, how are the next twelve months going to be better than the last twelve months?

I’m not talking about weight loss plans, or resolving to read a book a week. Those are all fine goals to set for yourself, but they’re skin deep endeavors. Even if you accomplish your goal, you will exit 2017 essentially the same as you entered it.

Look, if you’re content with yourself and your place in the world, I’ve got no advice for you. Just keep on keepin’ on, stay golden, Ponyboy, and so on.

For the rest of us, though, it’s time to think about how we’re going to make actual change in our lives and our world.

ART

Firstly, if you’re depressed because a bunch of celebrities died this year, I don’t know what to tell you, other than, buckle up, it’s only going to keep getting worse. If, however, you’re saddened by the loss of artistry as represented by those who departed in 2016, maybe it’s time to do your part to make sure new art keeps being produced in the world. Lord knows we need it.

That could mean finishing your album or novel. Maybe you take a big risk – quitting your job, performing live – and actually put faith in your art. It might not even be about your own art: You could start a company or group to support other artists. Or maybe you’re a parent and you encourage your child to pursue music, or theater, or dance, or any form of expression. The David Bowie’s of this world all started somewhere.

POLITICS

If you’re looking around the planet and don’t like what you see, you are not alone. The global political landscape is looking pretty grim right now, and there’s no one singular cause. There’s also no one solution.

If you’re politically inclined, now is ~~as good a time as any~~ the absolute best time to get involved. I can’t speak for politics in other countries, but in the United States there is a dearth of thoughtful, engaged people throwing their hat in the ring. It’s not enough to go to protests or to sign petitions (and it’s certainly not enough to share articles on social media). There are open positions in your local government that aren’t glamorous or sexy, but still matter. Stop bemoaning the lack of viable candidates, and become one.

You can blame a rigged system for why Bernie Sanders or Jill Stein or Gary Johnson or some other (better) candidate didn’t get their shot at the presidency, but politics is a game of chess, and there are more pieces on the board than just the King and Queen. The great thing about a pawn is, if it makes enough moves, it can eventually become a knight, rook, bishop, or, yes, queen.

CHARITY

Politics matters, but there are some causes that will never be fixed by laws or deal making. There are many lives that cannot hold on long enough for a treaty to be signed. Donating to good causes is a straightforward and admirable way to help out others, especially when there’s no clear answer for a problem, but that money doesn’t just go to a magical cloud to rain down on those in need. Wherever there is a need to be met, someone has to physically step up to do the work. Could that be you?

Doctors Without Borders, the Peace Corps, and countless other disaster relief organizations all do great work around the world. If you have a medical background, especially, your services could be put to great use. There is likely even vital work to be done in your own neck of the woods. Volunteering somewhere, anywhere, whatever your skill sets, is massively important. Obviously, not everyone can do it, and that’s why donations are still so important, but for those who can, there is a world of need.

2017

This isn’t meant to be a guilt trip. It’s easy to read these kinds of posts and think, “That sounds great, but I know myself and I won’t/can’t do any of it.” Believe me, I get it. All of those suggestions I made, I don’t intend to do them.

As readers know, I’m moving to Spain next year. In my next post, I will write about my plans and purpose in making that move. It’s true that I’m doing it because I love to travel, but I’m also moving to hopefully have a positive impact. Like I said, I’ll get into the details next week, but for now I just want to say I spent much of this year frustrated and determining how to improve my world and my place in it.

There’s no wrong way to make a change, but there’s a surefire way to make sure nothing changes, and that’s doing nothing.

I started out this post by saying that I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I never have, I never will. But that doesn’t mean I don’t make resolutions. I’m resolved to be in a new place – geographically, psychically, intellectually – than I am right now. If, for you, tying a resolution to the New Year gives it more weight, then do what you need to do. Just make it a resolution that matters.

With this year coming to a close, those of us who are dissatisfied with the state of our world need to decide what we’re going to do about it, and as individuals, we need to resolve to take action. 2017 will only be better than 2016 if we make it so.

A Year to Remember

December 13, 2016December 13, 2016 Joseph Lyttleton

We are going to remember 2016.

We are going to remember it for what we lost. We are going to remember it for all that happened, and for all that we had hoped would happen, but did not. There will be times when the memories will come back to us in waves of pain and anger and utter dismay. We will not be able to forget.

And we should not.

I remember 2008.

I was living in Costa Mesa when January 1st, 2008 rolled around, rooming with a woman about my age, a bartender and a fellow writer. She had been invited to spend New Years Eve in San Diego with one of her regulars, and because we were close friends at the time, she got him to extend the invitation to me. It was, if memory serves (though it rarely does) my first time in a limo.

It was also my first and only time getting V.I.P. bottle service in a club, which we followed up by bouncing from house party to house party with a limo driver who was more than game. It was an auspicious way to begin what would be one of the most transformative years of my life.

In retrospect, 2008 was the year that solidified 10 Cities/10 Years. While I had already made three moves by then, there was still a part of me in that third year that assumed something would come along to get me to stop somewhere. By 2009, I was committed to the project.

The first few months of 2008 weren’t all that remarkable – there was one pretty bad date – but springtime herald a seismic change in the form of a girl. It’s no exaggeration to say that meeting Chandra changed the direction of my life, though perhaps not as much as I changed hers, for better or worse.

Frankly, my life’s course was altered fairly easily in those days. Throughout the project, but most especially in those first four years, I was a leaf in the wind, boundless and subject to whims. Falling in love was both a tether and a weight, which in time would feel constricting, but at first simply felt like security, like a purpose.

When Chandra and I moved to San Francisco for my fourth year, we had only been dating three months, we were madly in love, and a global financial collapse was looming. I’m almost certain there’s no connection.

2008 was the year I couldn’t find work. 2008 was the year that I spent two weeks in a hospital for a medical study just to pay rent. 2008 was the year my hair started falling out. I’m almost certain there’s a connection.

In November of 2008, Barack Obama won the presidency of the United States of America, and for the first time in my life, I felt pride in my country.

It wasn’t that I had ever hated America or felt ashamed of the nation of my birth. Up until that point, I had been largely disengaged both socially and politically other than being a fan of Jon Stewart. When Bush won in 2000, I shrugged. When he won in 2004, I was surprised and disappointed, but largely blasé about the results. 2008 was the first time the results of an election moved me.

I had tears in my eyes. Most of San Francisco did, too.

As Chandra, our roommates, and I sat in our living room watching the results come in, we could hear the celebrations in the street. But at the same time, I also vividly recall that indescribable mix of feelings as we realized that, while we had just elected our first African American president – I had voted for a black president – California had simultaneously passed Prop 8, the statewide ban on Same Sex Marriage.

Now I see that moment as a warning, a metaphor for the next 8 years of American history. Each victory for justice, every step towards progress would be met with an equal force of opposition, a step backwards.

The next few years would bring gains and losses in equal measure, often because of choices I made that year. 2008 remains a notable highpoint for 10 Cities/10 Years, but not because it was my happiest year – far from it. In fact, that year included some of the lowest lows of the entire decade, including near homelessness. But surviving 2008 made me conclude that I had to finish the project. It gave me resolve.

Similarly, 2016, a year of extreme lows (with a few peaks), has helped me realize that what I need in my life more than anything is travel. I adore New York City, have thoroughly enjoyed living in Brooklyn, but I haven’t found my final home. Maybe I never will.

Everything about this moment in history feels uncertain, and 2017 looms ahead of us like a dark forest. If someone claims to know what the future holds, expect the tithe buckets, because one way or another, they’re coming for your money.

I hope in 2024 I can look back on this year with the same clarity that I now see 2008. I hope when eight years have passed, I recognize this moment as the point where I made the decision that shaped my life going forward. I hope I’m still traveling.

And, above all else, I hope in 8 years, I can feel proud of my country again.

2015: Year With A View

January 2, 2015February 17, 2015 Joseph Lyttleton

From the point of view of a recent college graduate who had just moved to a city he knew next to nothing about, the year 2015 was about as distant in the future as 3015. Back to the Future II was 1 of the first movies I remember seeing in theaters and entering my 30s seemed like crossing that fine line between living and dying. So when I was freshly 22 and ostensibly beginning a decade-long project, it was hard to imagine actually being here: At the end.

With 5 months until the project’s 10th anniversary and 8 months until I’ve officially hit 1 year in Brooklyn, I still have some time before the end, with plenty of opportunities for me to screw it all up in the meantime. It’s looking like finances will still be a question mark all the way up until the finish line, which is thematically appropriate.

There’s still a lot to experience this year.

I have spent much of my first 4 months in Brooklyn like I spent most of my 20s: ping-ponging between 2 groups of people. The first are the late 20-something (or older) service industry workers who are struggling to make ends meet and have vague ideas of what they want to do with their lives (be married; move away; write something) but are generally settled in this moment in their lives.

The second are the young 20-somethings, the college students and newly graduated who are still coasting on scholarships/parental support and know what they want to do with their lives. They talk about their futures with great certitude, even without a plan, and they pontificate about the world with even greater certitude.

This is the ironic seesaw of our 20s. On one end, we’ve been raised up above the world, praised for our school work and accomplishments, imbued with the confidence that we have the greatest view of humanity because we’ve studied it in books. On the other end, we’re in the dirt, beaten down by a world that doesn’t give a shit about our perspective or how many ‘A’ papers we wrote. Optimism gives over to realism.

There’s an old adage attributed to any number of speakers (most often and most incorrectly to Winston Churchill) that goes like this: “If you’re not a liberal at twenty you have no heart, if you’re not a conservative at forty you have no brain.” Taken literally, this is patently false on both accounts, but understood as a maxim about the way life blunts our dreams it speaks a fundamental truth.

I am where I am because of the choices I made nearly a decade ago. Which is to say, after a long and winding road, I am finally in the city I wanted to live in when I was 17-years-old. So many of the people I have met skipped the journey and the years of poverty and came directly to the holy mecca of Western Civilization. I’m not sure either path is better than the other.

The other night, 1 of those energetic 20-somethings greeted me at a party and asked, “How are the tips?” There was no reason to interpret anything in the question. I work as a server, it’s a fair question to ask especially around the holidays. And yet, I’ll admit, in the moment a part of me took it as a dig. Here was a young, wealthy guy still on the verge of all his potential and almost certainly on the path to a lucrative, respectable job, and he was asking how my menial job in the service industry was paying. Even if he meant nothing by it, there was an inherently classist level to the interaction.

Or maybe that’s just the insecurities of a 30-something man talking.

I want to reassure myself with thoughts like, “Well, I have 10 more years experience so…” and that kind of shit, which is certainly what plenty of people would tell me. But I don’t buy it. Experience has no material or quantifiable worth. Not to 22-year-olds and certainly not to the world at large. Experience only benefits the person who has it, and mostly in intangible ways.

My experiences have blunted my dreams a bit, I admit. This project that seemed cool and impressive when I told people about it at year 5 now sounds silly and pointless when I talk about it here at the end. Partly it’s because the project was always conceived to be pointless: I didn’t have any great plans for my life, I just wanted to do this one thing.

It also feels somewhat hollow because people keep asking me, “What’s next?” and I have to admit I don’t have an answer. Travel, sure. But what does it all add up to? Lots of people travel. Check your Facebook wall, one of your friends just posted a picture from the Great Wall of China. Travel isn’t an ends, it’s a means. Or at least it should be.

It’s not just the gaining of experiences that we should strive for, it’s the accumulation of wisdom and empathy. We should be going into our 40s with both brains and hearts.

At the beginning of this project, I was a 22-year-old kid hyping all the great things I would accomplish (believing I would be the next Fitzgerald), and my vision was spoken with certitude. This year, I’ll turn 32, and I am anything but certain. I am older. I am more experienced, and more cynical.

But I don’t begrudge the 22-year-olds of the world their passion and confidence. That’s the age at which you begin audacious journeys, that’s the mindset you need to create something that no one else has ever created. And many of them actually will accomplish great things. In my years among them, I’ve seen no shortage of talent and intellect.

I admire the young, impassioned 20-somethings. I respect the older, aimless 20-somethings. I commiserate with the beaten, insecure 30-somethings. We’re all in this together.

Like almost everyone who grew up watching Marty McFly traverse the time stream, I spent my youth imagining all the possibilities that 2015 could hold. Now we’re here and we have to work with all the realities that 2015 does hold. Cars don’t fly, boards don’t hover and jackets don’t self-dry.

But, hey, there’s always 2016.