The Dilemma

            I need to make money.  Pronto. 
            I have about four days left of wiggle room, and I have to make them count.  I need to be as productive as possible until my food/metrocard/prescriptions/grace period from the cell phone company/good will of the landlord runs out.  Once those things start to go, you’re screwed.  You’re no longer making decisions in your right mind.  So get out there and tap dance till your shoes smoke, kid. 
          I’ve applied to five jobs since I found out my contract was suspended—thee of them are band-aid jobs and two of them are white-collar.  I figure that if I keep applying to four per day, someone’s going to call me back, even in this crap economy.  The problem with this is that from the time I get called back and interviewed to the time I get hired to the time I get a paycheck is at least a month, and that is being almost unrealistically optimistic. 
           I need money coming in soon.  How? 
          Oh, I know how.  This ain’t my first rodeo.  Miss Margo has been taking care of herself for a long, looooong time.  I feel like I’ve been an adult since I was about twelve years old. 
          There are two solutions: resume work at my secret job, or ask the Surgeon for money to tide me over.

          Pick your poison.  

          Getting money from the Surgeon would be the fastest and most fail-proof option.  I am confident that he would give it to me.  I am extremely reluctant to ask him, however.  I’m extremely independent, and the thought of going to a man with my hat in my hand  and my other hand out makes me wince—but it’s more than that. 

           The Surgeon doesn’t give charity.  The money would come with strings attached; I’d have to work for it.  He wouldn’t explicitly set conditions upon its receipt, but the conditions would be there nonetheless.  What would he want?  Here, I’ll give you an idea: imagine you’re a kid and the rich kid invites you over to his house to play.  The rich kid is aggressive and has entitlement issues, but you have to keep him happy and you both know it.  This should give you an idea of what I would have to put up with.   I get worn out just thinking about it.

            Going back to work at a House for a few weeks is not without risk, but it would rest a lot easier on my mind.  I’d retain my autonomy and not be beholden to anyone.  I’d have to put up with some demanding, tiresome individuals there, as well, but hell—at least there would be an end to it. 

            So if you’ve read this far, you’re probably saying, “Go work in a House for a little while, then, if that’s the most palatable option!  What’s the problem?”

            The problem is this: The Surgeon would go nuts.  The Surgeon would go nuts.  The Surgeon would go nuts.  Did I mention that the Surgeon would go nuts?  Remember what happened last time?   When he freaked out and pinballed around Manhattan, ringing my phone off the hook and calling me from payphones and actually crashing my place of working looking for me?  Oh my God!  I couldn’t even write how that ended on this blog, it was so crazy.  Really crazy.  The guy was acting totally unhinged.  Major drama-rama.  I can never go back to that House again.  I had to leave about five hundred dollars’ worth of excellent wardrobe and equipment there, too. 

            That was how bad he was last time.  Can you imagine how he would behave the second time around?  I don’t want to think about it. 

             So, the Surgeon has me in a hell of a bind.  Or, rather, I’ve allowed him to put me in a hell of a bind.  I’m very ashamed about that, and I’m pissed that I have to placate and worry about interference from a man who has no honest claim to me.  The fact of the matter is that I don’t owe him anything.  He’s not my husband; he’s not really even my boyfriend.  But I can’t just tell him, “I have to take care of myself and if you don’t like it, you can get lost.”  I’m not ready.  I need to keep him close to the vest for at least a few more months. 

            If I go to work at a House, I’m going to have to lie about it to him.  I do not relish the prospect.  The anxiety, the energy involved, the consequences if I am caught.  I resent that I should have to lie.  It’s humiliating. 

          So you see, I’m facing a hell of a dilemma. 

         I have a few more days—literally, a few more days—to think about it.

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