Cost of Living

On a Friday night in December, a week before Christmas, Eddie Torres, a man in his 40s, sits in a hipster bar called St. Mazie’s in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The stage directions describe him as a man who doesn’t indulge in self-pity; he knows that self-pity is a privilege reserved for those who have loved ones who care enough to listen. Drinking a seltzer, he tells an unseen stranger: “The shit that happens is not to be understood. That’s from the Bible” (9). Eddie explains that his wife died right before her birthday, and he had been planning to take her to Maine to see the trees. Now that he’s alone, he leaves all of the lights on in his home. It’s a “smoke signal: I’m still here” (10).

Eddie offers to buy the stranger a drink. He is indulging in sadness, describing it as a swear jar for gloom. Eddie used to be a truck driver, and he loved driving across the country and seeing beautiful scenery. But he had lost his commercial driver’s license after getting a DUI while driving his car a few blocks from his home, and now he is unemployed.