Halfway through my meal of fried rice and chicken at a Chinese restaurant on 23rd Street, I realized that I had no money. I checked my pockets and found only a few coins and a scrap of paper with adjectives written on it. These words weren't going to help me pay for my meal, but it didn't occur to me to stop eating. I just gnawed away at each bone, sucking it clean and dry. Then I scooped up piles of fried rice and shoveled it into my mouth.  

I was in Chelsea to see and review a performance at Dance Theater Workshop on 19th Street. It was a place that reminded me of my ex-girlfriend, Brazilla. Going to DTW gave me anxiety, pacified only by a few tall boys. 

I swallowed hard and pictured my bank account: all zeros. Then I wondered if I knew anyone in the neighborhood who could lend me five bucks. I probably could just go out into the street and stand there a while; someone—surely—would save me.

I stood up and for a few seconds and considered walking out of the restaurant. I pictured it in my mind, the whole act of picking up my bag, throwing away my plate, and just strolling out into the street. Maybe they wouldn't notice; maybe they wouldn't care. It could be a surreal movement whereby we all saw the uselessness of money, and we agreed collectively that both parties were tethered together by this unholy thing, and that we had a chance to now let it go. Yes, that was possible.

Then it vanished, and I approached the counter gingerly. The bill was a paltry $4.50. I dug out 75 cents. 

“I'm short,” I said.  

They both looked at each other and then into my hand. The cook started barking something at the woman. I was hoping that she was going to be on my side on this one. 

“I'll pay you back tomorrow,” I said. “I work in the area.” 

“No, no, no, no, no,” the woman said. “Pay now, pay now.” 

“This is all I have,” I said. 

“Why you eat when you have no money?” 

“I didn't know I had no money.”

“Go to the bank, leave your bag,” she said. 

That was smart thinking, but I didn't want to tell her I had no money in the bank either, so I said, “I don't have my bank card.” 

Then she turned back to the guy, who looked really pissed off. His hand was just inches away from a meat clever on a wooden chopping block. They conversed for a moment. 

Then, the cook led me through the kitchen, waving me on and on like he wanted to show me something. I knew that he understood very little English, and I also knew that he saw I was willing to do whatever it took to repay him. We had a tacit agreement: I would work for my food. All the other cooks stared at me agog, stepping away from their woks; one of them said something, another responded and smiles grew on their lips. 

When we got to the back of the restaurant, he pointed toward a mop and bucket. I put down my bag and rolled up my sleeves.  

As I was mopping the bathroom floor, I thought of Brazilla: She's somewhere in Brazil right now, sitting on a beach, basking in the sunshine; she'll probably return home where her mother will cook her some food; she'll stretch out her long beautiful legs on the couch and wait. She's comforted and loved, given money, bought clothes, cooked for; there are many family members around her—she's happy.

Mop in hand, pumping hard, my palms feeling the dry wood, I became drunk on self-pity; the odor made me feel like vomiting. 

After about a half-hour, a Spanish guy walked in and looked at me with surprise, peeling off his headphones. A few other Chinese guys came in while I squeezed the dirty water into the bucket. The guy who sent me off on my task looked in my direction and waved me out.  

As I trudged down 8th Avenue, I fought off the feeling that I was smaller—by several feet—than when I had woken up that morning. But in fact, I was tiny. And my legs ached and my knees were sore.

I stopped outside of Dance Theater Workshop.  I couldn't bare the thought of watching a dance performance for the next two hours, being reminded of Brazilla the entire time. Seeing nothing but the image of Brazilla—the memory. So I plodded up 7th Avenue, all the way from Chelsea to Midtown to the Upper Westside. I meandered along, my head dropping from side-to-side. But I felt as though I had repaid—at least for that day—a debt to myself.