Author’s Note: I wrote this nearly 10 years ago after I founded my business, Maven Leather + Design. At the time, I was living in a remote part of Maine near the Canadian border. I was based out of a cabin-workshop in the middle of the woods and most of my work was focused on building custom leather motorcycle seats. Things have changed — after a successful five years in California, I now live and operate in Brooklyn, NY. I’m glad I wrote this when I did.
Yesterday morning I woke up and Googled: How much do cam girls make?
After scrolling through some how-to articles and developing a persona based around reading poetry on a blanket next to my woodstove, I realized the social media commitment was probably too much for me to take on. When it comes to success, social media always seems to stand in my way. Plus I have spotty cell service.
At this present moment, I live in Downeast Maine and I’m pretty close to broke. I rise every morning in a 500-square-foot cabin that needs siding and a roof before winter. I can’t see out of my window because it’s stuffed with temporary insulation, but I know that outside in my gravel driveway, there is a 1999 Toyota Rav-4 suv with a misfire in cylinder head three and spark plugs so corroded that my mechanic has refused to touch them. After excessive YouTube watching, I’m beginning to think I should be the one to touch them, but that’s just another thing I might learn to do myself.
Half of my house is an uninsulated workshop that is devoted to an auto upholstery business I’ve just started. I have a steady stream of work, but it’s still getting off the ground. To earn seed money, I work at a dive bar-restaurant 30 minutes away on the Schoodic Peninsula. Transportation for me is crucial, and soon it will be too cold and icy for me to ride my motorcycle.
In the year that I’ve founded my business, I’ve realized that a large part of it will be devoted to chasing down money from people who can easily forget about it. As I write this, there is a hobbyist bike builder in Alabama who has been evading my invoices all summer. But today his check finally came through.
I celebrated with grocery shopping. Between the free meal I get at my restaurant job and a dwindling box of steel cut oats, I’ve been able to avoid buying food for the past few weeks.
This is a low point, and I can feel it. And usually when I’m down low, I tend to push things just a little bit further.
Case and point: even though my car is running on just three cylinders, I still drive it 9 torn up miles to the grocery store. Because technically, it still runs. The check engine light screams at me as I dodge potholes and blast Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” to welcome in an uplifting energy and paint the experience with a carefree, nostalgic essence.
I do make it. (I always make it.)
And I fill the backseat with modest provisions — grilled cheese and a can of tomato soup — just as the store closes behind me. The Toyota starts rough and struggles to exit the deserted parking lot. A loud rattling from underneath is telling me I should have bundled up and taken my motorcycle, but it’s too late for that now.
This is what I live for, I guess.
I pull into the gas station across the street, open my door and duck under to take a look. My exhaust pipe has finally rusted through and I am now dragging it, like a torn limb, behind the vehicle.
This is a classic rural Maine experience. Some people drive here with no exhaust pipe at all, contributing an occasional horn section to a soundtrack otherwise composed of flowing water and birdsong.
I pull my e-brake and officially crawl under, attempting to wedge the still hot, broken pipe back on in the dim light of the gas pumps. An old man pulls up in an obnoxiously brand new Subaru. Leaving his lights on for me, he gets out and asks me what I’m doing.
This is something I’ve gotten used to, and often count on, as men of all ages and backgrounds are always very curious about the tasks I’m completing. No matter how capable I become at playing it, I am never going to look this part. I am never going to look like my life, and I’ve grown to enjoy the juxtaposition of that very much.
“I need a wire coat hanger,” I tell him.
This man, bearded, dressed in a camouflage t-shirt and khaki shorts far beyond their prime or season, entered every nearby business establishment and knocked on every nearby car window asking for a wire coat hanger on my behalf. But all that turned up was a coil of speaker wire and two 6” pieces of copper.
Five years ago, I was living on the West End of Portland, Maine, completely unfamiliar with this lifestyle. That past version of myself would never have believed that this was actually the second time I had wired an exhaust system back together with limited materials, but that’s neither here nor there.
“I wish I could be down there with you, but I’m too old,” the man said from above as I hooked the copper around a random bolt and tied the speaker wire in a surgeon’s knot.
“Let me know that you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I said, springing up with a smile.
And I was, I made it home like I always do. I’m very feline in that way.
When I was safe in my driveway, I crawled under to inspect. The rubber of the speaker wire had melted away, as expected, and my exhaust pipe was hanging by a single remaining copper thread. The visual was metaphorical, and I wondered how much longer I’d suspend my life in this way.
If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll raise you one.
As I wiggled around on the fuel stained pavement just 30 minutes before, one thought wouldn’t escape me: I love this.
This morning I woke up with no way to pay my mortgage, my credit card bill, or my student loans. Financially, I had hit rock bottom. But something I’ve learned over years of observing rock bottoms and toying with my own version, is that you can see clearly down there.
A man had been avoiding my unpaid invoices for months, and suddenly I had the strength to advocate for myself. I advocated for myself so the money came through. The money came through, so I turned it into fuel to feed myself. I had my priorities straight, so fate hit me with an experience that reminded me of my own capability.
Life is filled with tests, I’ve recently awakened to this.
Another thought I had was: I don’t even care.
Maybe I should be embarrassed, riding around in a rusted truck, dragging a piece of fuming hot pipe behind me while I blast classic rock. But I’ve come to realize that when you’re going through something difficult around here, most people have been through it before. The other day, my friend opened the hood of her ancient S10 truck and showed me a 10mm ball valve that she had installed within her air intake system, which allows her to shut it down if she thinks the truck is going to overheat.
“When my legs get hot, I just turn it to cold,” she said.
I don’t know what my plans are lately, but if I ever float out of this place, I’ll remember it as the one that taught me resourcefulness. Tying speaker wire with a surgeon’s knot isn’t as advanced as installing a ball valve, but it’s thinking in the same camp. There’s a lot of wisdom left to gain, and I feel lucky that I’m observant enough to glean it.
The old man brought me the speaker wire, but it came from a 17-year-old kid who had to leap down from his jacked up Silverado to hand it to us. A kid that young, in a truck that huge, it made me feel a little sorry for him. The man wasn’t under the truck with me because he was too old, but the kid wasn’t there because he didn’t know how to be. Again, if you had told me five years ago that out of these three individuals, I would be the one jerry-rigging my exhaust, I wouldn’t have believed you, and no one else would have either. Life has a funny way of sending you where you’d never imagine you’d go, and giving you the insight you need to get out.
I’m in my 20s. I don’t have kids. I’m able-bodied with a college degree. For me, struggle is still an adventure. It feels like feeling something. Maybe if I work hard enough, there will come a day when I don’t get into trouble like this anymore, when I’m not driving something I bought off Craigslist for $1,650. Or if the trouble comes, someone else deals with it.
That would probably be nice, but I can’t imagine it now.
My dad used to call me his ‘tooth and nail’ girl because if a path is difficult for me, I will bite and claw my way down it anyway if I feel it’s where I’m meant to go. This is kind of an intense way of life, but I am feline, after all.
I’m always kind of looking forward to a future when I don’t need to use my teeth or claws. But I’m scared of that future, too. What will I write about when I no longer feel like I’m fighting for my own survival? What will make me laugh then? My struggle gives me grit. It fuels my creativity. I don’t know what comfort does yet, but I have a distant feeling that one day I’ll find out. And when I’m there, I know I’ll envy a little bit, the girl who was here.
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