Prometheus 6

It just reminds me so much of the way Black folks were described a few short years ago.

When he lost his job, Scott had no savings, his primary objective always having been to earn enough to cover the rent, eat an occasional steak, feed and clothe their children, ride his dirt bike, fish, golf, play poker, buy lottery tickets, and drink Bud Light.

For two decades, a robust U.S. economy had allowed Scott a paycheck-to-paycheck life, one in which he was always confident that the next payday was ahead. Lose one job, and soon enough there was another. He flipped burgers at a diner. He was an apprentice at an auto body shop. He drove a delivery truck, was a gopher for an elevator mechanic, mopped floors at a burrito plant, worked as a forge operator, and sanded and buffed and painted truck caps and RVs.

But this time, as weeks stretched into months, Scott found himself not only with no job opportunities, but nowhere to turn for help. His parents, a retired machinist and truck-stop waitress, still live in the same cramped mobile home in which he grew up. His brother, the one who persuaded him to move to Indiana, has been behind on his own bills since his RV company cut his hours. And Kelly's mother, a retired public school teacher, can offer only her basement.

Nowhere to Go but Down
By Paul Schwartzman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, August 3, 2009 9:36 PM

MIDDLEBURY, Ind. -- He sinks into the couch, foot jiggling, his gaze traveling from his wife to the television to the darkness outside, broken now and then by the distant glow of passing headlights.

His mind settles into another round of "What if?"

As in: What if we don't have cash to buy milk, eggs, bread or diapers? What if our unemployment benefits run out? What if we never find jobs?

And then Scott Nichols thinks of the words he doesn't want to say, what for him, a 39-year-old husband and father of two, is the option he has hoped to avoid since being laid off nine months earlier.

They already took free food from a church pantry, cardboard boxes filled with Corn Flakes and bologna and saltines, his wife, Kelly, walking in, head down, while he stayed in the car, ashen. They pawned his wedding ring, sold part of her Silver Eagle coin collection and had help from the Salvation Army paying their electric bill.

Now another cliff approaches: the loss of the home they rent.

"Looks like we'll have to go to your mom's," Scott Nichols says to Kelly, 33, who is in a beige recliner, staring ahead.

Moving to her mother's would mean returning to the rundown industrial town where they grew up, a place that makes him feel dirty, inside and out. They would sleep in her basement jammed with forgotten furniture, a few steps from a pair of cat litter boxes and below three narrow windows blocked by insulation.

Twenty months after it began, what has the American recession come to?

There are signs that the bottom has been reached. The stock market is on its way back up. Retail sales are improving. The overall sense of desperation, so widespread at the beginning of the year, has eased.

Every day come new reports suggesting some improvement.

But underneath all of the reports is this living room.

"Okay," Kelly says.

The people who have just agreed that they are out of options sit in silence, wondering the way out.