In the summer of 1992, Sonya and I moved from our first apartment to our second. Our first place was a shithole, and the new owners were anxious to put us out and renovate. The new place, even though it was a third floor walk-up, had two bedroom, electric appliances and non-nausea inducing carpet. We felt like millionaires.
My grades were so bad that I didn't qualify for a work-study job that summer. I had to go to work at Arby's. Again. But I was good buddies with the manager, so it was much cooler. I stole a lot of food, and gave away a lot, too.
We thought we were going to have to do the spaghetti-and-bread thing again that summer, but somehow money never got that tight. I guess we got better at managing it.
Christie lived with us for a while. She cooked and did the dishes.
The night before my twentieth birthday I went to steal some letters off the Arby's sign. They were heavy, plastic letters. I knocked one off and it caught be square in the mouth. I skipped class on my birthday and sat at home, sulking with a monstrously swollen lower lip.