Those of you who have fallen on hard times in the past may relate to the situation that I found myself in recently, the never-ending grind of unwilling poverty.
Perhaps you were gainfully employed, with a decent salary. Then the company, startup or small business folded, leaving you with your prudently stashed savings – and no job.
So you squared your shoulders and sent out your resume. You received good feedback and were interviewed dozens of times.
You were hopeful.
But as time wore on and your savings dwindled, you were forced to move into smaller, cheaper accommodations. You sold off your valuable possessions for less than they were worth; to keep money in your account and your credit rating above board.
Then the depression began to set in.
It was hard finding the wherewithal to interview for jobs you just knew you wouldn’t get - and sending out your resume seemed an equally pointless exercise. Getting out of bed was difficult, and an ineffable sense of hopelessness pressed itself into your flesh, the weight of it dragging you deeper into the spiral of depression.
But temping work and odd-jobs kept you alive, just barely. You turned to ‘extra-legal’ ways of making money – and you scoured thrift shops and antique bazaars to find clothing and furniture; trying to find ever cheaper ways to live.
And so that is your lot now, and mine; we scratch and beg, we recycle and we upcycle.
There will never be an office job again. No air-conditioned, ergonomic, nine-to-five mundanity – no blessed midday boredom, clicking through pulp-media websites while sucking down your third coffee.
But even though I’d never see that life again, it didn’t seem so bad.
After all, humans can get used to almost anything.
I call it the beggar’s eye.
It’s a knack for spotting items that might have potential value amongst all the garbage in flea markets and junk shops – the ability to discern not just what something was, but what it could be.
Whether I was born with this ‘gift’ or I developed it organically out of need, I don’t know – but regardless, it was one of the few things left that I was proud of.
I especially had an eye for electrical things; broken radios, old shavers, defunct mixers and battered microwaves. Some of them could be fixed and sold, some could be cannibalised for parts. Whatever the case, my beggar’s eye was always finely tuned for things I could use, repair, remake or sell.
And that’s how I found the lamp.
Calling it a ‘lamp’ is probably not entirely accurate, since I didn’t actually know what it was. Fashioned of brass and copper, it stood about a foot high and had a flared metal top to it, studded with triangular holes. Parts of it flanged and bulged; some of it copper mesh, some of it brass plates and bronze rivets. The strange asymmetry had a sort of 70s aesthetic to it, like those avant-garde lava lamps owned by hippy types.
The electrical cord had been cut off about four inches from where it entered the thing, but wiring a new one on would be simple enough – and for ten dollars, I could at the very least sell it for scrap.
