IT TAKES A LOT OF MONEY to be poor. I never knew that until I lost my job. Lights, phone, water, heat—the bills keep coming. Snag an interview and it’s miles away, so factor in a car note. The landlord keeps knocking. That rainy-day fund you spent years assembling washes away in months and suddenly you’re headed downhill with no brakes.
I’d never sniffed wealthy, but I’d always been flush. At seventeen I was bringing home more money than my old man, hanging boxcar doors at an N & W repair yard overlooking the Cuyahoga River, the junior partner by two decades in a firm populated by former members of the Wild Bunch. Most of my contemporaries were wearing paper hats and being told to hold the pickles. I had…
