I am Santiago Wright, thirty years old, and my life in Portland, Oregon, feels like an endless, unrelenting loop. I rent a tiny room in the suburbs where the walls are damp and moldy, and the sound of traffic from the highway hums all night long like a tired engine that never shuts off. I’m single, no girlfriend, no long-term plans at all. I just live day to day, trying not to think too far ahead about the future, because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart.
Every morning when I wake up, I look in the mirror and tell myself, “Just today. Tomorrow will be different.” But tomorrow comes and it’s the same, and I still force a smile and accept it.
My life revolves around three jobs, like three ropes tightening around my time. During the day, I work as a cashier at a small convenience store called QuickMart on the edge of downtown Portland, where most customers are either drunk guys stumbling in from nearby bars or stressed-out moms with screaming kids. I scan cards, ring up purchases, smile politely, and try not to notice the stale cigarette smell that clings to everything, from the Lotto tickets to my own work shirt.
“Thank you,” I say, over and over, but in my head I’m thinking about the exhaustion building up inside me.
In the afternoons, I switch to delivering food for an app called Fast Eats. I ride my e-bike through streets slick with light Oregon rain, the sky a constant gray blanket, holding bags of hot food and silently praying I won’t be late. Every late delivery means a penalty, and a penalty means my dinner will be a cheap gas-station sandwich instead of something decent.
Late at night, I work the graveyard shift as a security guard at an abandoned warehouse on the industrial outskirts near the Willamette River, sitting in a dark booth, staring at camera monitors, fighting to keep my eyes open while my body screams for sleep. I rarely get a full eight hours, usually just four or five. I wake up with bloodshot eyes and a body that aches like I’ve been beaten.
But I still act cheerful, at least on the outside. I tell myself this is just temporary. Things will get better. I’ll find a better job, maybe an office job with normal hours in one of those glass buildings downtown, and I’ll finally have time to live instead of just survive.
My meals are usually cheap stuff—grilled cheese sandwiches, instant noodles, or hot dogs. I don’t complain. I know I’m luckier than a lot of people. And every month, I set aside $2,000 from what I earn. Money I have to scrape and save every penny for, to send back home to my parents in Idaho.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
