Fry Me a Liver by Delia Rosen

all that, but small business funds are there to be used.”
    â€œI don’t believe in taking what I don’t need,” I told him. “Not from anyone but most especially I don’t want handouts from the government.” I looked up at him. “And what is ‘independent and all that’ ?”
    He shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re from New York City. You’re a feminist accustomed to having a support group for any opinion you care to have.”
    â€œYou say that like they’re bad things.”
    â€œWhen they hold you back, they can be.”
    â€œWould you take offense if I said that about your color?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, yeah. It’s not the same. I am black. I can’t—” He came to a hard stop.
    â€œYou can’t what?” I pressed. “Change what you are, who you are? Well, Mr. Harkins, neither can I.”
    He held up his hands. “Lady, I give,” he said and backed off. “I didn’t mean to offend your politics.”
    â€œYou didn’t. You can’t.”
    He shook his head and I watched him go, typing on his tablet. I still didn’t think he understood. It wasn’t politics. It was about survival. He wasn’t offering to help, he was offering a crutch. It wasn’t a way to heal, it was a way to continue on as a cripple. Because even if we got through this thing his way, I’d still have, in my head, the idea that if I fell, the government would be there to pick me up. That was not how I was raised and it was not what I believed about myself or about this nation. Whatever part of this country you lived in, whatever stratum of society you were born into or rose to or fell to, I believed that you were responsible for yourself. Otherwise, whatever you achieved was not really an achievement, it was a dependency, a lark, a whim; not a fierce need, not a real risk. It was like riding with training wheels and calling yourself a biker.
    That was not how societies grew. It was how they stagnated or fell.
    I had been through rough patches in my life—the worst of them was what brought me down here to Nashville—but I had never faced a situation like this, where I had somewhat limited savings, all kinds of potential liabilities, and no clear path to tomorrow. I didn’t know how long the insurance company would take to cover my loss—or how much of the loss they intended to cover. I also didn’t really have anyone I could turn to for advice.
    Those were the negatives , I thought. What about the positives ?
    I had come to Nashville to run a deli. I did that. I learned the business fast and had used my financial training and instincts to build on what my uncle had left me. I had good credit, I had a damn good staff, and I had me. I also had one other thing: nothing else on the horizon for as far as I could see.
    So where did all those plusses leave me?
    Uncertain and standing still on the street, neither of which was a place I was accustomed to. It was time to do something .
    I turned to my left and started walking in a gathering rush. I was still uncertain. I still didn’t know where to go, exactly. I couldn’t decide whether to retreat or to attack—who and what, I had no idea.
    But at least I was no longer standing still.

Chapter 7
    I decided to just go somewhere else.
    As I walked down the street to the parking garage, I felt a little bit of freedom but a whole lot of uncertainty. Despite my chutzpah with Harkins, I was scared down to my toes. I didn’t want help, other than whatever insurance I paid for and was thus entitled to. Whether that was principled or independent or stupid, I couldn’t say. To find out where I stood on my own, I decided to go see my broker, Alan Zebeck, who worked at a storefront agency on Charlotte Avenue. My cell phone was in my office and, to Alan’s credit, when I stopped at a phone booth to call the deli voice mail, I found a