By Robert Dean
Carter County Times
I think about where my money goes daily. I’m not some high-cotton dude. I’m a working writer. I live paycheck to paycheck. I buy used books, try to live within my means, and I’m still broke within days of my paycheck hitting.
The other day, I dropped thirty dollars on lunch. I went to my local coffee shop and got a large cold brew and a large ice water. With a tip, that was seven dollars. I went to Jersey Mike’s and got the large—the fourteen-inch sandwich. It was my only meal of the day. Nothing fancy: turkey and provolone with pickles and peppers, add bacon, on wheat. With a buck-fifty tip, it was twenty-four dollars.
Who has the money to eat like that? Look, I know you’re going to say, “eat at home,” and you know what? No. I work. I do what I have to do to live, so why can’t I enjoy lunch without going broke? My kids were at their mom’s, my girlfriend was at work, and we needed to grocery shop. I didn’t want to throw something together; I wanted to enjoy my Saturday. We shouldn’t have a continual conversation about belt-tightening.
Jersey Mike’s makes money the old-fashioned way—by charging more and convincing you it’s worth it. The subs aren’t cheap, but people keep lining up because they taste fresh and feel a cut above the fast-food crowd. Those higher prices, multiplied across thousands of shops, keep the lights on and the cash rolling in.
This sandwich fiasco got me thinking about other things in life: Amazon. I don’t want to support them. I canceled my Prime membership just before writing this. I’m tired of seeing nothing but Amazon drivers everywhere. I want to buy things directly from the seller or at the mall, where people are. Bezos has enough of our cash.
Same goes for Spotify. I’m tired of musicians getting the shaft while Spotify only grows richer. Metallica doesn’t need our money, but a band like The Sword or a legacy band like Garbage does.
I want to buy my Dickies at a workwear store, not Walmart. I’m tired of giving the middleman so much money, but I’m also tired of getting squeezed in the process. Profitability is one thing, but the late-stage Capitalistic nightmare we’re enduring is emotionally draining.
Lunch shouldn’t be a luxury item. I just want to breathe without doing mental math on whether I can afford this meal. The other day, I was out on the run for a story and got two burritos. I didn’t know when my next chance to eat would be, so I was trying to think ahead—that was twenty bucks.
The grift of being alive is a lot. We’ve all gotta be members of Costco now to feel like we’re getting a deal when, in fact, we have to pay to be there in the first place. We’re all hostages to recurring billing. I’m finally getting my credit in order, and it feels like there’s always some new surcharge ready to murder my bank account just when I’m running on fumes.
It sucks around here. Can I just eat my sandwich in peace? Maybe that’s the trick to survival—laugh while you’re being pick-pocketed. Smile through the service fee. Tip the algorithm. And hope there’s still enough left over to buy another overpriced sandwich for tomorrow’s lunch.
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