It’s 10:56 p.m. and I’m walking down the sidewalk texting my friend. “If anything happens to me and I don’t text back, call the police.” I send her the address I’m headed to. My heart is racing and my mouth is uncomfortably dry. I am ashamed and embarrassed for myself, but if I die, this will make for an interesting story. (No, this is not a Grindr hookup.) I look down at the time on my phone and it’s 10:57. Three more minutes. I slow down my pace and can see the streetlights in the distance. I walk even slower. I am going to die. This is how I’ll go. Every worst-case scenario starts playing in my head, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in an episode of “Dateline NBC.” “Keith Morrison reporting. It was a humid July night in Chicago … his body was found decapitated in a dark and hidden alley …” There’s a high chance that I may get kidnapped, murdered, or even forced into sex slavery. My stomach grumbles and I pick up my pace.
I had just moved into my very first Chicago apartment about a month ago. The idea of living on my own in a big city was one of excitement and great adventure, but I didn’t fully realize what I was getting myself into. I thought I could be Carrie Bradshaw, my summer filled with brunches and beach days and lavish dinner parties. I’d post all these beautiful Instagram pictures, and the kids from high school who didn’t want to be friends with me would be jealous of my life because that’s really what social media is for.
My parents didn’t want me to move out on my own because they didn’t think I was stable enough, both financially and emotionally. Watching "A Walk To Remember" three times a week and sobbing uncontrollably is not emotionally unstable; I just have a lot of fluctuating emotions. In the end, we came to an agreement that I could get an apartment under the terms that I pay all my rent and bills on my own. It can’t be that hard, right? I’ll just get a job right away, and the dough will start rolling in. I was very wrong.
Within the first month, I still had no job and all my money went to paying rent and bills. None of the employers I applied to were returning my calls, and I finally knew what my past Tinder dates felt like. I had zero dollars left in my bank account, and the only food I had in my apartment was oatmeal and rice. I would go a couple of days without eating and would be too full of pride to call my parents asking for financial help. I wanted to prove so badly to them that I could pull off this adulthood thing. My food was running low and I didn’t know what else to do. Selling my body was not an option, although it did cross my mind. One day while using the free Wi-Fi at the public library, I decided to surf through Craigslist. I usually go on there to read the missed connections and laugh at other people’s misery, but today I had a different intent. I clicked on the “Post advertisement” tab and began typing away: “Buy groceries for a broke college student.”
I’m here. I might have at least 10 more minutes to live, maybe a little less. I look at the text from my friend that says “Be careful!” and walk into the grocery store. My tongue is as dry as the Sahara, and my palms are sweaty. I nervously look around and try my best not to seem suspicious. After a couple of minutes of waiting, a tall white man in a gray shirt and stained jeans enters the store and approaches me. His hair is greasy and he looks well into his late 40s. “You’re the Craigslist guy?” he asks. I nod and extend my hand to greet him. “Put whatever you want in your cart and I’ll pay for it all,” he says. I am overwhelmed by a plethora of emotions, but mostly shame and embarrassment. One year ago I was at home with my family eating my mother’s food, and now I’m meeting a stranger from Craigslist so he could buy me groceries. This is rock bottom.
My parents raised me to live a life of integrity and strong morals and values, but I’ve become so desperate that I’ve lost all grasp of who I was. I frantically look around us, afraid that other customers might be critical of the sight of a young Asian boy walking with an older white man. If anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m his adopted son. My stomach grumbles again and the fear diminishes.
We walk up and down the aisles, and the man tells me about his life. He’s a truck driver, so he gets to travel all over the country, but he immigrated to America ten years ago from Bosnia. When he first came here, he had absolutely no money. Now that he’s financially stable, he likes to help others out in return. I don’t ask many questions, but I assume he cruises through Craigslist in his spare time looking for young boys like me to help out. Tonight I’m his charity case: a broke college student living on his own in the city. Carrie Bradshaw would never do this. I’m very conservative with what I put into the cart, but he places bags of chips, cookies, boxes of cereal, and a couple of orange juice jugs in the cart when I’m not looking. “I don’t want you to run out of food anytime soon,” he defends when I catch his sly actions. My cart is full by now, and we roll up to the checkout lane.
As the cashier scans each item, the man and I stand next to each other but don’t exchange a single word. The total comes to over $70, and he whips out his credit card and pays for it all. I try to say thank you, and I do, but no amount of emotion behind those words can fully express the overwhelming gratitude I feel. “Enjoy your food and have a good night,” he says. He walks out of the store and I never see him again. I didn’t even get his name.
I walk into my empty apartment and drop all of my grocery bags onto the floor. I am ashamed, embarrassed, but forever grateful at the humanity that was shown to me tonight. I crawl into my bed with a doughnut and cry for the rest of the night.
