At the back of the car lot was death row. It was there where the real “one foot in the grave” cars were lined up, where desperate men with cold hard eyes gave the deadbeats serious looks, weighing the options while nodding gravely to themselves. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was just such a man.Poverty and I went way back. Thanks to my mother’s generosity I hadn’t been homeless during our first brush, but I knew well the psychological toll that the inability to support oneself takes on a man. To end that extended period of unemployment, I had rolled the dice and taken a dead-end job teaching English in Japan and now, after two and a half years, I had come home with money in my pocket. But without a steady job and with no prospects on the horizon, I felt poverty’s familiar presence close at hand, and the old feelings of inadequacy had returned with shocking intensity.As sure as if we had shared a secret handshake, the man who emerged from the ancient travel trailer that served as the car lot’s office, recognized my situation at first sight. Despite all the stories that swirl around… Read full this story
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