The labor that pays my salary
Survival under capitalism makes demands on our flesh—and some of us have to pay more than others.
I met Mel (I’ve changed his name) one summer at a weekly community meal with housed and unhoused people, in a clearing along a highway service road. Our church partnered with others to provide food. Mel had recently relocated to the woods behind a nearby Walmart. “Just passing through,” he told me. “Here until the Spirit calls me elsewhere.”
Later that week, on my commute, I saw him in a yellow vest standing on a median, holding a sign. At the stoplight, as I waited to take a left turn, we chatted and he said he’d like to join my church for worship that Sunday. We quickly worked out the details—before the light turned green—for when and where to pick him up.
That Sunday, at the appointed time, I found the gravel road down from the shopping center—the turnout he had told me about. I spotted him just beyond the tree line. We exchanged a wave as he walked down the hill. He hopped in and swung a gallon-sized Ziploc bag of coins onto his lap. “That’s an impressive haul,” I commented. “All of it from this weekend?”
