My friend called me the other day in barely suppressed anxiety. She is a gifted artisan and artist who lives in New York City. She is a freelancer. She gets jobs, does the (fine) work and gets paid for each one separately.
At the end of last year, she was commissioned to make costumes for a children’s play. The designer, a respectable professional, had employed her previously. She finished the work, got it to him and waited to be paid.
She’s still waiting. Why? Because the play was at the Kennedy Center.
She can’t reach the designer. It probably isn’t his fault. He probably hasn’t been paid, now that the Kennedy Center has been seized in toto by Trump and his various…whatevers.
My friend needs that money to pay her rent, among other crucial items.
That feeling of enraged helplessness assaults me every day when I read the news. This time, it’s intrapersonal and I am riddled with anxiety, too.
The fucker isn’t paying the government’s bills.