As the first cases of COVID-19 in New Jersey were confirmed in Bergen and Hudson counties, local and state governments enacted increasingly stringent rules regarding how life may progress for the citizens of the Garden State. On March 21, Governor Phil Murphy issued an executive order equivalent to the shelter-in-place orders which had already been enacted by New York and some parts of California. This order, alongside preceding executive orders and legislation, broadly shut down nonessential activity. This included shuttering certain types of businesses, or severely restricting the methods by which they may conduct sales.
One of my closest friends worked as an employee at such a business. I left Hoboken the week classes at Stevens were moved online, fleeing from the urban density that so easily lends itself to contagion and retreating to the sliver of free space which exists between endless, uncaring trees and the foamy beaches of the Atlantic Ocean. This anomaly of a biome contains the place I was born, the places I grew up, the places where the majority of my memories were made. I, unique among most of the people I made those memories with, left this place after graduating high school to seek new fortunes at Stevens.
The friend I mentioned earlier, like most friends I have from this place, chose a different path. Although entering school at the same time as me, they are now five years into their full-time career. With an average paycheck easily triple what my (already generously compensated) on-campus job pays me, we would often joke during previous visits of mine about how much of a “waste” my education was. Once they even sent me $0.12 on Venmo for “college tuition,” purely as a rather curious flex.
Three days after I retreated from atop the spire I live upon in Hoboken, I bought my friend a Big Mac as we chatted in their car. (Before you report me to the police: Governor Murphy’s shelter-in-place order says that visiting close friends is essential travel.) Their story was one I had feared but hoped not to hear. The state had mandated that all restaurants only serve food via delivery or take-out, so they had been laid off. The government had effectively outlawed their line of work overnight, and no business was seriously hiring due to the need to transition to online-only work. Despite this, the bills were still coming, and my friend had no idea how long they would be able to pay them. All they knew was that it wasn’t long.
Had this happened any other year, it would have been fine. My friend is good with money, and generally kept several months’ worth of rent and expenses in a savings account. However, this year has not been kind to them. After paying off an entire funeral service alone and facing a doubled monthly rent payment since October, there was nothing left of that savings. It had been raining for six months; there was nothing left in the rainy-day fund. But here is the tsunami.
The governor has placed temporary moratoriums on eviction and shut-offs for electricity and gas. These were important decisions made decisively, and I commend the governor for his continual proactive response to this unprecedented crisis. However, for people living paycheck to paycheck, it’s still unclear how to pay for food and water. My friend told me that they believe they have enough money left for about a month of food if they seriously restrict their diet and “min-max” what they buy at the store. After that, who knows. I have heard, anecdotally, that food banks are in serious pain right now across the country. It will certainly get worse in the coming weeks. My friend applied for unemployment; they will be denied. For those of you who have never had the unfortunate experience of needing to apply for unemployment insurance, you must have made a reasonably high amount of money to qualify for anything. The national extension of unemployment insurance subsidies to tipped workers was a pleasant change, but none of that matters if your salary wasn’t taxed.
That was the story I was told while sitting in my friend’s car in a McDonald’s parking lot at 10:30 p.m. Pretty soon they would have to choose between lunch and deodorant. After that, between breakfast and soap. They won’t get a check from the federal stimulus bill because they haven’t paid taxes since 2017. The pandemic shows no signs of slowing, and time is running out.
Unlike the last time I told a sad story, I don’t have a profound message this time. I urge officials to be even more proactive about assisting the needy with food and water. Yet, I know that the governor and his team are already looking at everything they can do. For those on the ground, it’s just going to be really, really bad for a while.
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