Broke in a Blizzard

there is a general distinction between "broke" and "poor" in my mind. in this fancy, a "broke" person is somebody who doesn't make any money, doesn't have any money, and doesn't generally have access to money but who has what those dirty liberals call "privilege", a safety net, parents who could go deeper in debt bailing them out, an electric guitar to pawn, a dusty college degree. I guess I got some Catholick'd guilt about calling myself poor when I see what the word "poor" in this world really means. it doesn't mean not having shit. it means not having shit. poor is living in the projects, selling your daughter slavery to keep the farm, cutting your leg open for beggar's advantage, working long days in factories just to eat... when you're 12. it means the only way to vote is with your body in the street blocking a tank. and that only works if there's enough of you out there pissed off enough to stay in the streets for weeks but smart enough to absorb the blows with your bodies rather than returning volley, as anyone opposing a military/police force is automatically a criminal unless they're being dramatically rolled over.
When the radio went off a few weeks ago in the middle of broadcasting the Egyptian Resistance, when the power went out and I was momentarily cut off from my creature comforts- light, heat, and my all-consuming news-junky/idle boredom /face-eating book fueled internet addiction- panic ensued. But just briefly, somewhere at the back of the spine. meanwhile, spreading from guts to naughty bits and shooting back up thru my chest, a burst of fevered excitement. Candles! Cloaks! Maybe a trash can fire!
Severed from the ability to do research, no escape in the middle of a ferocious traffic stomping Tormenta de Nieve sent straight from the cold unforgiving teat of Bitch Mother Nature, I was free of all fucking responsibility- no work, no shower, no phone! Just me stranded in the cave and a shit-ton of eager books and notebooks, possibly a candlelit jack-off session. And when it got too goddamm cold even for that, I put on as many fucking pairs of pants and shirts and long underwears and gloves and hats as I could and piled into some fucking blankets and felt like a Brave American, facing the hardships of a single night out of my element without complaining a bit, and went to fucking sleep.
In the morning, I woke up cold as hell and pulled open the door to my basement cave, walked up into the street, which was about 20 fucking degrees warmer, with snow up to my bluejeaned thighs (well, even though I can't use the dryer, I do have an extra pair of pants. yup, just one. broke.)
It was beautiful. Everything blanketed, I mean huge piles of snow, all my neighbors frantically shoveling out cars and stickin broken chairs and buckets in the space for dibs. The firemen had had a rough night of it- I watched as they furiously shoveled out the ambulances that were called all night to struggle along unplowed roads (Surely the storm fucked over some people, was tragic for some people, which must give us pause) -but those poor bastards had gone home for some well deserved rest, and the morning crew were as pleasant and friendly as firemen generally are. My landlord, a fireman as well, txted me that the door of the firehouse was stuck open and it was "fucking cold!".
I cheered and waved to the grumpy lady driver of a garbagetruck-turned-plow, she broke into a grin and waved back. Later I'd see kids clambering all over, enjoying the snow day, building elaborate snow people & igloos, hosting all-family snowball fights.
Eventually the power came back on and it was back to work for me, researching would-be politicians and comedy sketch shows (technically I'm not getting paid for either so they carry about equal weight if I'm not vigilant). The radio resumed it's crackling yell, and the dry, serious disembodied journalists regaled me with tales of the Egyptian revolution and folks stuck out on Lake Shore Drive, but made no mention of the over 12 hours of power & heatless working class 'hoods, though maybe that report came in later. It wasn't long before it was business as usual for me and the rest of the goddamm city.
But, just briefly, the power of the face-eating book was broken, the complacency, the boredom, the dullness of privilege. A tiny glimpse into what actual deprivation is like. See, I knew the lights would come back on, knew the city would take care of me, at least give me somewhere warm to stay if I needed it. Not everybody has that luxury.
My chances of surviving if dropped into the life of any one of the poor unfortunate motherfuckers who are actually poor, actually surviving is slim to nil. I'm fat, I've smoked my lungs into a coma, and I don't posses the most basic of carpentry skills. Sure I can scribble my way outta a paper bag, but that doesn't exactly help me put food on my family even in this life; I ain't Chaucer, I don't have some fucking King feasting me in exchange for dirty limericks. Fuck, if I was born in some other time or place I'd probably be stoned for the gay or burned as a witch before I had the luxury of starving to death from incompetency. I'm a broke motherfucker, sure, but I'm a privileged, lucky son of a gun too, and I fucking know it. Even if I am technically a "surf to the Corporate-ocracy" as my conspiracy theorist friends like to point out.
Don't get me wrong, sometimes it sucks to be broke- if I wasn't, I could fly to Egypt and see the Revolution first hand, rent a jet-ski and (uh... what's the verb, to jet-ski?) ...run around town, taking pictures of the awesome blizzard with my high powered camera before getting sucked into Lake Michigan by a powerful gust of wind (no disrespect to the poor bastart that actually happened to). I could live in a mansion and pay women to feed me chocolate and doctors to suck the fat outta me afterwards. I'm not sure Id be any happier, though. See, in a way I'm lucky to be broke, to have something to struggle against. Fuck rich people anyway, they're generally assholes. I'm lucky to be broke in a place where I get to eat every day no matter what and say what the fuck I want without getting stoned (although I do like to get stoned occasionally), where I can walk around without much likelihood of getting bombed or shot. Beats the hell outta bein' poor. Maybe that's the worst thing- I can't do much for myself, there's just about jack shit I can do for them. But I'm close enough to give a fuck, close enough to try. -HK