Cracks In The Cement

Seattle had never felt colder. Sitting on the ground, back up against the wall of a brick building, staring at the cracks in the cement - her mind wandered. Not six months prior had her life been a completely different vision. She remembered the smiles of close friends, of co-workers. The warmth of her bed in her small studio apartment on the lively Capital Hill. She could almost smell the scent of freshly baked, freshly bought pizza sitting atop her counter after a long day at the office. She could almost feel the healing rush of hot water in the shower on a cold day. Her thoughts brought subtle tears to her eyes. The pandemic had changed everything.

With all the belongings she had managed to hold onto shoved tightly into a backpack, sleeping bag tied tightly on top, she forced herself to get up off the sidewalk and carry on. Just another day, she thought, zipping up her hoodie as high as it would go, attempting to stay warm in the all-too-familiar Washington weather. She wondered if anyone she once knew would recognize her underneath the facemask and dirty clothes. If the people she had once known saw her on the street, she wondered if they would speak to her - or just turn around to avoid confrontation; avoid giving any kind of comfort or the kindness of a once-familiar conversation. It felt as if it had been years since she had seen anyone she knew or felt the presence of anyone she could call a friend. The small smile of an acquaintance on the sidewalk would have meant the world to her about now. The pandemic sweeping the world had caused friends to become distant, in fear of consequences resulting in theirs or the death of a beloved family member. With laws in place to supposedly protect the public, the truth was it had made people all to complacent with being told what to do, how to live, to accept the new norm of anti-social life. What a strange time to be living in, and the resources for help were scarce.

She knew she couldn’t have been the only one struggling like she was, but she had never felt so alone. This is not my life, she told herself, time and time again. Nothing felt real. Her hopes of waking up one day from this nightmare never came to pass. Every day was the same. With each new, cold morning her hopes diminished more and more. No one ever asked her if she was okay – she would have told them she wasn’t. Would anyone listen anyways? She had always pushed herself, harder than most, to get through in life. Before loosing her job as a design consultant at a Graphic Design firm in Seattle, she had felt she had found her way. She had felt happiness. Perhaps not every day, but the feeling was familiar. Now, she faulted herself in having been so comfortable, so confident that it would last.

Business became slow, and the company she worked for was forced to make cuts. She had to accept that she was disposable. She had continued to pay her rent with her savings, looking for work elsewhere, but found nothing. When the savings ran out and she was evicted, she was left with no where left to go. No family to turn to, no friends who stepped up… So, there she was. Alone, on the streets. Unemployment, when it finally came, provided some support, but not enough for a start somewhere else. Not enough to buy food, pay rent, and bills all at the same time. So, here she was. Tired, alone, making do with close to nothing. This was a life she had never pictured for herself, though she figured not many people who found themselves in a position like hers ever really planned it out that way. Each day she asked the universe to help her find a way through her circumstances, to help her find herself again. When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see her face, she saw a stranger. She missed being her; some days the reality of it all felt more than she could take.

Trying to rid herself of her thoughts, she went searching for substance. When she first lost everything, she had to force herself to dig through dumpsters in alley ways in search of supplies to survive – like her sleeping bag, that she clasp to tightly everyday now as it proved to be her most valuable possession. She was grateful to have found it. Her first time having to endure this humbled her, while tearing her apart. She had become numb, and sadly accepted this as a part of her new life.

Today, she was looking for food, or cleaner clothes that fit. Most of what she went through was rotten food, with a smell that clung to her if she unfortunately mis stepped while tearing open a tied garbage bag. She continued to dig, hoping to find something useful.

Without thinking much of it, she opened a bag full of old newspapers and documents. In the middle of the bag of strewn papers she noticed a purse, black, with light blue hearts embroidered throughout. In hopes of finding some loose change she opened the bag, but instead found a small, black notebook. It was tied shut with a black string of leather, a silver leaf hanging from the end. It reminded her of a notebook she had once had in college, where she kept her thoughts and dreams for the future. Out of curiosity she opened it and began to read.

The entries were almost poetic. The author spoke of sympathy, of love for her fellow human. There were illustrations of neighborhood dogs, of landscapes of different sites of Seattle and poems throughout that read beautifully. Halfway through the book a piece of paper fell out and landed on the dirty concrete below her feet. She unfolded the paper and discovered it was a check. As she looked it over, she realized it was written out for twenty thousand dollars, signed in an elegant cursive that read the name Elizabeth Everly. However, the name for the check was blank. She contemplated what an odd thing it was to have found - her curiosity grew stronger. She continued reading the small, black book hoping to find answers.

While admiring the illustrations and poetry of the artist who had put their heart and soul into this small, black book, one page caught her eye. The author had illustrated a picture of a dumpster, remarkably similar, if not identical, in dimension and location as the one she was sitting by, the one she had found the little black book in. At the bottom of the page, there read a poem, “This world can be unusual, unkind, but this can be some hope should you find, feel no doubt though it may be strange, take this money and make the change.” The words stole her breath and cut her deeply all at the same time. The idea that someone would put an act like this out into the world was hard to entertain given how life has changed for her. She wondered if it was real, or just a joke the universe was playing on her. Could she have been somehow destined to find this book? Could this be the change, the hope, the salvation she had asked for - in a book, in a dumpster, in an alley way – by some miracle? She stood with her thoughts for a moment, unsure of what to do next. One foot after the other, she told herself, as she began walking to the bank associated with the check. She dared to find out, she had to.

Deep breath drawn outside the doors of the massive building that she hoped held the change and the answers she was daydreaming of, she trudged inside. She had hidden her backpack in a park a few blocks back, trying to give the impression of someone with more means than hers. Her fingers began to sweat, her heart beating faster than before. She wasn’t trembling out of fear for getting in trouble, more out of the idea of the nightmare her life had become being over. The pandemic would still be there, but she would have moved on, personally moved out of this life she had never asked for.

The teller looked her over once and asked politely how he could help her. She asked for a pen. Making sure the check was out of view, she wrote in her name and signed the back. She gave a shy, teethless smile and handed him the check. Surprised, he carried on. Asking if she wanted it transferred into a bank account, savings or checking, part cash, and so on. It had gone through. She almost couldn’t hear him speaking anymore when she realized it was really happening. Trying not to seem too shocked she asked for some in cash, and the rest be put into her previously empty bank account. Still in a state of shock, she walked out of the bank, changed. Her mind wandered about how she would change her life first… a motel room with a shower seemed like the best first option.

Finally again feeling the healing rush of a hot shower on such a cold day was more than she knew how to describe after all she had been through. She sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands, staring at the chipped paint on the walls of the motel room. It all still felt surreal. On the bedstand sat a pad of paper and a pen. She leaned back and started writing, doodling the possibilities of what she could do, what she wanted to do. Of course, getting back a life she could call her own was top on her agenda, but it didn’t seem like enough. How would she make sure this did not happen again? Would changing her life be enough of a ‘change’ to live up to the anonymous expectations of a local poet she had never met? She was at a standstill, thoughts racing. Start small, she told herself.

The convenient store on the corner seemed as good as any of a spot to look for the next step forward. The local newspaper sat on the counter. Not wanting to spend wastefully, she decided to find a room for rent back in the area she had once learned to love. The next day she was able to meet and find a roommate as her first step to her new life. Her few belongings were easy to unpack, she knew eventually she would accumulate more. A roof over her head was more than she could ask for. What’s next, she wondered.

Laying on the carpet of her newest chapter, she thought about her talents, what she could see herself pursuing. Then it hit her, art. With money to help keep her sheltered and a new opportunity at her feet, she finally had a real chance to start anew, to really make a change. So, she did. She invested in art supplies and strategically sold her art and prints to others throughout her local area. The dream came true.

Never was she able to properly thank Elizabeth Everly for the change she had made in her life, but she was able to make a difference. She did what she had to for herself first, but through her love of art and her dream of a better, self-fulfilling life she was able to start the change. After the pandemic, her art began to take off. She opened a small art space for the misplaced. Through this she got to know, help and support the many voices that were waiting to be heard in the Seattle community, never forgetting where she had been.