DOWN AND OUT ON DAY ONE
With a new job but no paycheck, a father struggles to make ends meet during the federal shutdown
Jesse Bear Runner knew his dream job wasn’t considered essential. But it was his first day, the start of a better life he’d promised his children, so he went to work anyway.
He sent the kids to school and drove an hour through the desert, searching for the Bureau of Indian Affairs office in Sacaton, south of Phoenix. A custodian let him in through the locked front door. He found his new supervisor, and she led him around the tiny office. He dropped a nameplate on his new desk and met his fellow realty specialist, who showed him a table full of leases and land-management contracts, waiting for Jesse to work through.
“I’ll hit the ground running,” Jesse told him. As they walked, he told his supervisor about what he called his “adventure”: He told her about the two-day drive from North Dakota and how he rented the first nice apartment he could find. How eager he was to get to work.
After the tour, his boss told him to stand. Jesse rose his right hand and swore into his new job, pledging loyalty to the United States. He felt himself fill with purpose. This, he told himself, was everything he wanted.
Then his boss handed him a set of furlough papers. Jesse’s first day, Dec. 26, was the fifth day of a federal government shutdown that would eventually become the longest in American history. Until Congress reached a deal, only employees deemed “essential” could work. Jesse didn’t count. He couldn’t earn a paycheck. The fresh start would have to wait.
Jesse’s furlough papers didn’t include a return date, but his boss warned that this shutdown might be longer than usual. Jesse waved her off. He had been a federal employee for 12 years and two shutdowns, and neither
had lasted more than two weeks. He assumed this time would be just like the others.
As he walked out the door, he figured he’d be back in no time.
A fresh start in Arizona
Thirty days later, the government still hadn’t reopened, and the life Jesse promised had yet to begin. The dream job hadn’t produced a paycheck. He had $20 in his wallet, 31 cents in the bank and no idea what would happen at the end of the month.
“What happens if we can’t pay rent?” his 12-yearold daughter, Justice, asked him one day.
“You let Dad worry about that,” he said, partly to ease her nerves and partly because he didn’t know. It had been more than a month since his false-start first day, and the partial government shutdown had no end in sight. Partisan posturing had prevented a compromise, keeping 800,000 federal employees home without pay as one month stretched into two.
They’d barely survived the shutdown’s first month, relying on a family friend and a GoFundMe account to keep his Nissan and stave off eviction. He thought that would be enough. But the shutdown kept going, and the bills kept coming, and Jesse started to wonder if they’d have to give up and go back home to North Dakota, leaving behind a life that had barely begun.
“That would be a tragedy,” he said. He’d promised his children a better life, a fresh start after their parents’ divorce and the year of fighting that followed. They’d struggle at first, he told them before they left. But he had reached the pinnacle of his career. Half a lifetime of federal service — the Marines, the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the Bureau of Indian Affairs — had led him to Arizona.
He’d been hired as a realty specialist in the BIA’s Sacaton office, tasked with managing leases for tribal lands. It was the same job he’d done back in North Dakota, and he already knew he loved the work.
“I was meant to be a realty specialist,” he liked to say. A federal job filled him with worthiness. He swore he’d never work for anybody else. He felt comfortable in the space between Indian Country and the federal government, and he thrived in the work. On his last annual review, his supervisor scored his performance “superior.”
The job in Sacaton came with a promotion and a five-figure pay bump, to more than $62,000. But mostly, it offered a chance to start over. The office was close enough to commute from Chandler, the first real city he’d ever called home.
Before Jesse even started, he could see himself staying for the rest of his life.
So they packed everything they could into a Nissan Altima and headed south. They spent the first night in a Denver hotel, where Jesse heard on the news that Congress couldn’t agree on a budget. He figured they’d work it out. The next day, he drove to a Motel 6 in Flagstaff and flipped on the room’s TV. The news scrolled across the screen: The federal government had shut down. “Couldn’t be worse timing,” he said.
Now he needed $1,145 in rent and $680 for the car. An electric meter in the empty master bedroom showed a few days of power left. He hoped his ex-wife could cover their car insurance payment. And the federal loan he used to buy his kids’ school clothes was nearing default — the payments were supposed to come automatically from his paychecks.
The stress knotted in his chest. But there was nothing he could do. His best option, he decided, was to hold on until it ended.
On the shutdown’s 34th day, Jesse awakened on an air mattress in an empty apartment. Most of his belongings were in a storage locker in North Dakota. Until he found the money to ship them south, he and the kids ate on dollar-store dishes and slept on air mattresses, laying them side-by-side on the living-room floor. They liked to sleep as a family. It helped everybody feel less alone.
One by one, they rose and dragged their beds into empty bedrooms. Justice shut herself in the bathroom and fiddled with her hair. Junior, her 10-year-old brother, found the remote and turned on Cartoon Network. Then he left for school. Jesse locked the door behind him and switched the channel to the morning news.
SENATE VOTE TONIGHT ON DUELING SHUTDOWN PROPOSALS, the screen screamed. WILL LAWMAKERS CROSS THE AISLE TO END SHUTDOWN?
Jesse shook his head and turned away. He opened the fridge, the freezer, the cabinets. They had enough food for a couple of weeks, if he worked to make it last.
“I’m ready,” Justice said just before 9 a.m. The apartment was close enough to her school to walk, but Jesse liked driving her. It gave them a few minutes alone. And he had the free time.
“Thank you for keeping me on track, my girl,” Jesse said. He turned off the TV and cleared the counter of bills and mail. Then he reached into a narrow closet and pulled out a small cardboard box. Coins jangled inside as he opened the flaps and looked inside, hoping there was still enough for his morning coffee at McDonald’s. He fingered through a pile of pennies.
Two cups left.
Seeking help: ‘Hopefully, this works’
He believed he could power his way through anything, that sometimes the only solution to life’s challenges was to turn off your brain and work. Resilience ran through his Oglala Lakota blood. Don’t think, just
do, he’d always reminded himself, and now backup plans cycled through his mind.
Most of them wouldn’t work. He signed up to drive for Lyft, but nine rides had brought in only $52. Daylabor centers required him to be there before dawn, and his kids needed him home in the mornings. Unemployment benefits would never be enough, and he wasn’t sure if he was eligible since he’d never actually been to work in Arizona. His church could only offer $100 for utilities. He’d already sold almost everything of value. A GoFundMe account he named “About 2 Be Homeless In Arizona” covered January’s rent, but that money was already gone.
Now he worried again that they were about to be homeless. February’s rent was due in eight days. Even if the shutdown ended before then, it would be weeks before he saw a paycheck. And a temporary compromise, like the offers he’d seen discussed on TV, still left the possibility of a second shutdown. There was only one option left.
“Hopefully this works,” he said as he parked outside AZCEND, a community non-profit a short drive from his apartment. He read online that they offered emergency rental assistance, something called a Community Assistance Program. Two missed paychecks sounded like an emergency, so Jesse called a number he found online, silencing the part of himself that hated asking for help.
He walked into the building’s blue lobby, carrying the weight of embarrassment and a manila folder with every document he thought he’d need. The receptionist waved him into the lobby. Jesse took the first available seat and stared straight ahead, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.
After a few minutes, an eligibility specialist named Mychelle Arias called his name and led him into a back office. Her cubicle blocked sights, but not sounds. Ringing phones and midmorning gossip floated around the room. Jesse sat in a too-small chair and looked around, avoiding eye contact as long as possible. A flyer on the wall said, “It’s not too late to have a rewarding career!”
“I haven’t received any money since I’ve been here,” he said.
“You haven’t received a paycheck?” Mychelle said. “No,” he said. He opened the folder and flipped through the paperwork, showing her his Marine Corps discharge papers, his two furlough notices and the unemployment paperwork the government sent home. He looked her in the eye, hoping she would see that he was telling the truth. He wouldn’t ask for help if he didn’t need it.
“So you had moved down here with a job,” she said, slowing it down to make sure she understood. “And when you got here, no job?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a hard thing, there.”
“Yes,” he repeated.
Mychelle nodded slowly and tapped at her keyboard. Just a few minutes had passed, and she seemed satisfied. She already knew the shutdown situation. In a meeting earlier that morning, her boss warned that furloughed employees would soon start calling in bunches.
“You’re all done,” Mychelle said. They could probably help, she said, but she didn’t know how much. She would run the numbers after he left. “I hope things turn around quickly.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Things need to go back to normal.”
“Yeah,” Jesse repeated, rising to his feet. “And end the shutdown. Soon.”
Resolution, but will it last?
So far, nothing had gone according to plan, but Jesse still clung to his vision of a perfect life in Arizona. He wanted a big house with beautiful furniture, somewhere with palm trees and a view of the mountains and a boat waiting in the backyard.
Sometimes he needed a reminder. On the way home, Jesse made a sharp right and turned into a neighborhood called the Waters at Ocotillo. Every house was white and massive. Every block had a lake. A golf course snaked through the neighborhood. Jesse opened a window and hit the brake, staring out at everything he’d ever wanted.
“A guy can dream,” he said. Then he pointed the car toward home. Vintage rap pulsed quietly through the stereo. A brand-new Lyft sticker clung to the windshield. From the rearview mirror swung a beaded lanyard and a plastic ID holder, still empty, because he hadn’t been at work long enough to have his picture taken.
The neighborhood was still in sight when Jesse’s iPhone buzzed in the cup holder. He slowed down and looked at the cracked screen. The call had a Phoenix area code, but he didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” he said.
“Hi, Jesse,” Mychelle Arias replied.
Jesse froze. The car slowed to a stop, lingering in the center of the road. He reached for the stereo and turned down the music. He needed to hear everything.
Mychelle told him that he qualified for assistance, and that money had been donated just for federal workers. “Oh, wow,” Jesse said. Mychelle kept talking. She told him that AZCEND could pay both his rent and his utilities. They would send $1,414.92 to his apartment complex and put more than $640 onto his electric meter.
As she spoke, Jesse ran the numbers: It was enough to cover part of next month’s rent and more utility money than he could spend all winter.
She told him the checks would be ready in about a week, right when his rent came due.
Before then, widespread flight delays at busy airports would force Congress to finally end the shutdown. Federal workers were called back to work and promised back pay as soon as possible. But the deal was only good for three weeks. By Feb. 15, it could all fall apart, and 800,000 people could go back on furlough.
“Thank you so much, ma’am,” Jesse said. He hung up. He sat in his silent car and stared straight ahead. A single tear darkened his shirt. Relief ran down his limbs. The knot in his chest loosened. “It just gives me more time,” he said. “And I was running out.”
The job in Sacaton came with a promotion and a five-figure pay bump, to more than $62,000. But mostly, it offered a chance to start over. The office was close enough to commute from Chandler, the first real city he’d ever called home. Before Jesse even started, he could see himself staying for the rest of his life.