The Starving Artist Remained Starving

My socks had holes, my shoes were secondhand and a size too big. Rent was usually late or borrowed and it wasn’t uncommon that I wouldn’t eat for a day. None of this mattered. I was in the throes of discovering myself creatively and was enamored with every aspect of being a starving artist. 

I usually could scrounge together something to eat. I would sneak into the backbar of Second City and scarf down some crackers and pub cheese. Catered charity events were often held at the theater which meant leftover mostaccioli or some sort of dry chicken dish with lemon slices on top. I’d load up styrofoam containers and pack every inch of my mini-fridge so I could eat for the next couple of days.

The producer of Second City Joyce Sloane would bring a huge bag of bagels and cream cheese for morning meetings. I knew that when the meeting ended and there would be bagels remaining I could help myself. I’d wait in the lower lobby with a growling belly like a stray dog awaiting someone to toss me some scraps. When I heard the meeting had adjourned, I’d walk up the stairs as if I had happened to stop by and help myself to some bagels. I’d eat an untoasted one to quell my hunger pangs as my second one warmed in the toaster. If there were a few remaining bagels I’d wrap them in cocktail napkins and take them home so I could sustain myself on stale bread for a day or two. 

One morning I strolled over to Second City to have my free cup of morning coffee. To my disappointment there were no bagels or food scraps for me to scrounge. As I headed to the back bar to grab some crackers and cheese the coffee shifted things in my  intestines. My belly rumbled as the cheap tap beer I had consumed the night before began to rush forth towards my bunghole. Time was of the essence. I hurried to the Second City ETC restrooms and rushed to get my pants down. By the sweet grace of God my lily-white butt hit the cold plastic toilet seat just in time.

As I sat there, humbled by the stench that one can create after an evening of Old Style on tap I noticed something on the floor to the right of my foot; a brown leather wallet and a fairly new looking one at that. I picked it up and immediately went to the billfold where I found six dollars. A fortune to a man who had zero dollars to his name. My mind raced with the possibilities of what I could do with the money.  I could go to the local cafe Savories and get a decent cup of coffee, and a muffin with a little money left to buy a pack of cigarettes. Perhaps, I could go to my favorite diner Nookies and have a bowl of soup. I quickly discarded this idea because that wouldn’t leave any cash for cigarettes. I then had the epiphany; I could get a chicken sandwich meal at Arby’s with curly fries and lemonade and still have cigarette money. 

Another feeling moved around in my empty belly that had nothing to do with the coffee and tap beer. It was my moral compass informing me that this money wasn’t mine. Keeping it would be stealing. What if the owner of the wallet was as broke as me? I decided I’d look at the owner's ID and if they lived nearby I’d deliver the wallet to their home.  If not I’d toss the wallet into a mailbox for I had heard  the US Postal Service would return the wallet free of charge. 

I pulled out the driver’s license out of the wallet and discovered the picture of a very handsome blonde-haired, blue-eyed male who was about the same age as me. He had a game show host smile and an ease in his eyes that let me know life was going his way. His address was in Kenilworth which happened to be one of the  richest suburbs in all of the United States. “Fuck this guy,” I mumbled to myself. 

I finished my business and I headed down Piper’s Alley to the corner mailbox and tossed Smiley McBlondie’s driver’s license inside. I stuffed the six bucks into my front pocket, emptied the contents from my ratty wallet, and placed them inside my new wallet. As I headed  to Walgreens to buy my smokes I flippantly discarded my old wallet into a city trash can.

The Arby’s at the of North and Wells circa 1989 was not pretty.  It was a place where forgotten Nelson Algren characters lived in a fast food purgatory as they smoked borrowed cigarettes and conversed with dead relatives. I once saw a man there whose nose looked as if it had been chewed off by a rat. He didn’t seem to mind though. He was all smiles as he carried his tray to a table. However, the visual of this man’s nose turned my stomach and I wasn’t able to eat for the rest of the day.

However on this day Arby’s may as well have been the Champs-Élyées. I ordered my chicken meal and quickly headed to the front steps of Second City so I could enjoy my meal on the beautiful Chicago spring day. I placed my lemonade and curly fries next to me and pulled my sandwich from the bag. It had been a while  since I had enjoyed warm food. As I brought it to my mouth, the entire contents of the sandwich fell from the back of the bun and plopped onto the dirty sidewalk. 

I was shocked. I stared at the pieces of chicken as they glistened in the sun next to a cigarette butt, some street grime and a piece of gum that was black and had been pounded into the pavement. I negotiated with myself if I could rescue all or some of the chicken. I finally had to face reality, the chicken was lost. I made an attempt to eat the bun, but it felt like the gesture of a lost soul like a widower dancing with the wedding dress of his deceased bride. Defeated, I ate my curly fries and as I sipped my pink lemonade and wondered, is what I get for stealing the blue-eyed kid’s wallet?