Modest employment in an immodest neighborhood

These days I spend the hours 9 to 5 at a swanky law firm in New York City's financial district. I help the paralegals by compiling witness binders, fact checking, and on occasion, but only if I'm lucky, composing spreadsheets. While I'm mostly able to maintain concentration like a 6th grader watching porn, there comes a time of day when I find myself staring blankly at my monitor, willing myself not to close my eyes...*lifts sinking head, blinks slowly* Fearing the possibility that a colleague caught a glimpse of me shutting down (I sit at an open desk), I try to appear hard at work and grateful for it. The little men in my brain race frantically, unable to disable the flashing red lights indicating my low blood sugar, and I realize that it's 1: lunch time.

I grab my umbrella (ella, ella...) and head toward the elevators, making a clever comment about rain in June to a secretary along the way. Thirty stories later, I emerge out the revolving glass doors and into the stainless steel world of bustling businessmen, hustling brokers, tie-clad lawyers, and unemployed bankers (zing) that is the financial district. I pass people with six figure salaries, some making $500 an hour (think five iphones) and ponder to myself I'm better off.

A bit parched from the stale office building air, I stroll through the drizzle to the closest convenience store and grab a bottle of grape soda. I approach the counter, nod to the heavyset man sitting behind it, and plop my soda down as a shockwave of bubbles rises to the top. My taste buds beg for the purple drink (not to be confused with Purple Drink, which has no bubbles) as I pull my wallet out the back pocket of my trousers. "Two-fifty." "Pardon?" Either he didn't speak loud enough, or my eardrums muted the outrageousness of his request. "$2.50" He rings up the register and it's only when I see the numbers that I understand what he had said.

"Really?" I ask, my instinctive haggle kicking in. He responds with a telling look, then glances at the developing line behind me. Decision making time. Do I put it back, or pay for it and live with regret? What's the point of a summer job if you break even before leaving work? He already rang me up, though. The line adds another two to its ranks. Will a different store have better prices, or is this the best I'm going to find? The guy behind me, looking out of place with his sleeveless t-shirt, raises his hand and asks for a lotto ticket. Back up buddy, this is my sale; you'll have your turn. Reading my mind, he steps up to the counter next to me, daring me to challenge him again. The loser inside me takes over: he reaches into my wallet, puts three dollars on the counter, grabs the soda, now wet with condensation, and, flustered, forgets my fifty cents on the counter.

I spend the rest of the week doing neighborhood reconnaissance.

• Sandwich $6.50

• Pizza slice $3.00

• Can of soda $1.50-$2.00

The final blow is cast when I find out that the local McDonald's is without a dollar menu. I fold, bruised and beaten by the exorbitant prices of downtown. Solemnly inspecting my empty wallet, I resolve to pack my lunch for the rest of the summer.