New York on $70 a Week

by Mickie Meinhardt

Think about the cost of living where you live. Think about what you actually need, financially, to live on. The bare minimum. Does it sound like $70 a week? Probably not. But I’ve done it three times — in New York City.

There was a time when I was very good with money. I still am, to a degree — I use a budget app, pay off my credit card almost monthly, regulate my spending, and prioritize saving. I’m conscious, if not exactly frugal; you learn to be when you’ve lived here flat broke.

2008

I attended Fordham University in the fall of 2008 — a few months after the housing market bubble burst and sent my dad, a real estate developer who’d been making risky deals in the up market, into the financial red zone. “Poof” went the money that was supposed to help me get through college in the most expensive city in the country. Naive and a little spoiled, I had believed my dad when he told me I didn’t have to apply for financial aid or work study, that I would be taken care of, and that he “had me.” I thought that my meager waitressing savings would be pocket money, and most other expenses would be covered.

Then I was told, a few days before leaving for the Bronx, “Sorry, sweetie. You’re on your own.” I had $3,000 in my bank account and needed to make it work over nine months in New York.

“Fuck,” was all I could say.

“OK,” I thought. “So what do I need to live on?” Though I hadn’t yet experienced New York’s higher cost of living, I could imagine it. I sat in my dorm the first week and calculated a budget with an accountant’s precision. With $1,500 per semester, and after the cost of schoolbooks, holiday train tickets (I didn’t yet know about the Chinatown bus), and the fee for a new Blackberry (my trusty flip phone died, with perfect timing, one week into school), I was left with $70 per week to spend. I wrote every single thing I spent in a pocket Moleskine, then recorded the weekly totals, plus any other large needs, in a marble notebook; every Sunday, I subtracted and recalculated how long it would be until my money ran out.

At the time, $70 sounded totally do­able. Living rent­-free in a dorm, on a full meal plan with unlimited cafeteria use and flex dollars for the campus grill and cafe, limited transportation spending (subway swipes were $2 then!); Fordham’s campus is self-­contained and jaunts to “the city” were purely for pleasure, often deterred by the long, 45-­minute D ­train ride. Plus, I had wisely stocked up on toiletries and cosmetics during cheap CVS sales back home — enough stored in a box under my bed to last me the full year. Expenses would be in booze, clothes, books, extra spending, etc. “I’ll be OK,” I thought.

I underestimated what it meant. Making sure I could get food when I needed it was the first hurdle. The cafeteria had short hours, vending machines were expensive, and the flex dollars ran out fast. One look at grocery store prices made me pale ($​5 for a box of cereal?)​. I started pilfering from the cafeteria, using Zip­locs to sneak out sandwich meats and cheeses, slices of bread, and granola for my dorm, surreptitiously slipping single­-serve packets of peanut butter into pockets. The fruit situation was bleak: Always­ hard pears, dubious oranges, waxy Red Delicious apples. Students complained of rickets; some ordered a fruit­-of-­the-­month boxes. The food was notoriously terrible — Fordham’s supplier, Sodexo (a particular favorite of prisons across America), was rumored to include laxatives into all prepared foods to “avoid accidental illness,” a fact that was evident after each meal. Everything was incredibly high in sodium. You could feel it by your swollen fingers after Taco Tuesday. The cookies were the only good point. But free food is free food, and I ate it.

From the cheap Bronx grocery stores came bananas and flavored lemonade powders to mix in my portable water bottle to quell hunger pangs during class. I don’t recall ever really buying “groceries” — for the most part, my four-­person room’s mini­-fridge held other roommates’ goods, bought at Whole Foods; I remember being laid up in bed with a horrific fever, watching a roommate unload her brown paper bags of delicious food, and later slipping into a fever dream about lasagna. Though we lived right across the street from the famed Arthur Ave — the original Little Italy — delivery and dinners out were not an option for me.

Booze was the biggest expense. Throwing a few dollars for a swig of someone’s fifth of flavored Smirnoff, taking shots to save money on mixers, chugging 40s — $4 for two Colt 45s or Bud Lights. The alco­pop killer Sparks was key, back when it contained both caffeine and alcohol; two would cost only $5 and put you on the floor all night (Perfect! ​thought the binge­-drinking undergrad). Bars were tricky. If I exceeded my limit on spending that day or was running low for the week, I wouldn’t order a drink at all, either playing nice to boys in hopes of a free round, or simply staying sober.

Getting sick, which happened frequently that year, was a huge setback; medicine could easily blow half of a week’s budget. I didn’t buy a single article of clothing all year. When it got cold — brutal New York cold I’d never experienced — I called my grandparents and asked for anything warm they didn’t want; I still wear my grandpa’s flannel he sent me in that box, along with some fuzzy gloves and grandma’s banana bread. I didn’t have a winter coat (Maryland rarely gets cold enough to require more than a pea coat), but I couldn’t afford anything warmer. When newfound friends organized a Secret Santa I couldn’t skip out on, I cried in an Urban Outfitters while forking over a precious $25 for a silvery wallet I would have loved to own.

I don’t remember how I got through Christmas. I don’t think I bought much of anything for anyone.

But I made it, somehow. When my mom picked me up at the end of May, I had $2.25 in my checking account, and my savings was gone. I cashed in several years worth of $2 bills, gifts from an elderly neighbor, to make it through the first few days at home until my job started, wondering how it had come to this. That summer I was sure to save over $5,000, finagled a work study job for the next year, and was able to allowed myself up to $100 a week the next few years with leniency for a shopping trip or dinner or two.

2011

Summer of 2011: forever remembered as the worst three months of my life. I was interning a few days a week at a fashion blog, and had hoped to use my seven years of waitressing experience to land something lucrative in the city; yet even that long resume didn’t stand up against the catch-­22 caveat “New York experienced required” most bars stipulated. After weeks of applying, I found a newly ­opened Lower East Side wine bar that wanted a pretty girl with personality; “never mind learning about wine, we’ll teach you” should have been a red flag. The off­-the-­beaten-­path location and relative un­coolness proved damning; customers were few and far between. I’d work the internship from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., then walk down Houston to tend a near­-empty bar until about 2 a.m., eventually boarding the after­-hours D train to the Bronx with maybe $40 in my pocket. “​Fuck,” ​I would think, nodding off on the late night express.

By mid­-June, I was broke and panicking. Though the night job and long hours didn’t allow much time to go out (and spend more money), food was a serious worry; living off­-campus, I had no meal plan from which to hoard food. The bar fed me before each shift, so I’d often skip lunch on those days and gorge myself there. The Bowery Whole Foods was invaluable; I’d fill up on samples on my way down Houston, sometimes snacking from the salad bar when employees weren’t looking. Most breakfasts were bananas and 1⁄2 Nature Valley bars; I’d sadly split the package, eating 1 bar one day, squirreling the other half in my purse for the next. My Little Italy neighborhood was dotted with bakeries whose bread trucks unloaded at 4 a.m.; it was known that if you happened to be stumbling around drunk, the delivery guys would toss you a loaf. I took to staying out late, pounding $2 well drinks with friends until last call just to score a few free loaves, begging for three or even four. I basically lived off that bread, bags of apples, and peanut butter; I was hungry, pathetic, depressed. The wine bar announced in late June it was shuttering after only three months in business. I called my mom, bawling hysterically in broad daylight outside the Broadway­-Lafayette subway entrance. “What am I going to do?” I wailed, “I’m so hungry!”

By a miracle, I was able to get another waitressing gig; not even 21, I was drinking with friends and a fake ID at a beer bar in Midtown and asked if they were hiring. They were. Significantly more lucrative, with delicious free bar food to sneak home (and “shift drinks” that often meant staying after work until the wee hours) I managed to flesh out my bank account, eventually making it back to a liveable $100-ish a week budget.

Though those conditions sound unfathomable now (I’ve spent far more than $70 on a dinner-­drinks-­cab Friday night), that’s probably the budget a lot of less privileged New Yorkers operate on, or even under; I’m aware my middle-­class, liberal­ arts insolvency does not look anything like real poverty.

Nonetheless, these periods took a toll. I was always anxious; the worst dinner companion, constantly analyzing receipts and menus to save a few cents. My social life was nonexistent, which made me deeply depressed. That 2011 summer, the guy I’d been sleeping with on and off for three years and probably loved (though I didn’t realize it then), had been pursuing commitment hard. He worked the dispatch for our campus security and every night would send a car to pick me up from the subway after my bar shift, sending sweet texts to make sure I got home all right. But I was too much of a stressed, harried mess to consider him, shoving him away saying “I can’t deal with this right now” until we stopped speaking entirely. I was horrid to my friends, cranky and snapping at everything, destroying a friendship with my then-­roommate that took years to rebuild. I made it through, but at a cost. A savings account isn’t very good company.

I graduated in 2012 and landed a lucrative copywriting job right away; when HR called offering a $45K salary, I cried on the phone. I didn’t know what it was like to live here and be able to enjoy it. So for the next few years, I did. I went out long and hard. I bought clothes, and designer shoes, and $14 cocktails. I started following the restaurant scene, traipsing to expensive dinners on a whim. I was living the life I’d moved here to live — not extravagant in comparison to the serious New York elite, but heady compared to what I’d been restricted to for four years.

I eventually calmed down, reinstated a budget, and learned to enjoy myself within limits. I felt responsible enough. Then I decided to apply to graduate school.

Suddenly, my life seemed a little less responsible than it had. After a recent happy hour with a friend that started as, “wanna get food?” and became, “let’s go to this fancy place and gleefully drop $80 on dinner,” I thought maybe things had gone too far. Looking at my spending more critically, a regular week included several $5 fancy coffees, $8 snack mixes, a few $40-­drinks nights, $60 on dinner or $100 on clothes I didn’t need. Blue Bottle and Whole Foods and manicures, sure, why not, “treat yourself,” I’d say. “You deserve it.”

Except I don’t. I found myself wondering if I could do $70 a week again. And if so, what would it mean for my life, socially in particular?

2015

It’s hard, it turns out. Really, really hard.

I knew I’d have to give up certain things: Morning coffee, afternoon seltzers, happy hour. Definitely dinners out. I already brought my own breakfast and lunch to work every day, a holdover habit from my broke intern days (nothing will ever make me justify an $8 chopped salad. You know you can make a week’s worth of salad with $8 worth of groceries, right? Learn to use Tupperware). I had a dinner date planned for Saturday with a guy I’d bailed on so many times I absolutely could not cancel again. So most of my week would be spent frugally saving for that.

Without a minute blow­-by-­blow, this I what I spent:

Monday

• $3, bag of granola.

• $1.35, five bananas. Every morning, I eat berries and KIND granola. I technically bought this bag on sale last week, but accounted for it to be fair. The mixed berries are normally $6, which seemed dumb in retrospect. Cheap bananas, it is.

• $7.43, groceries. I made a giant batch of quinoa broccoli cabbage slaw to last the week. This was cheaper than I thought it would be!

Tuesday

• .75, stamp to mail rent (2 days late)

Wednesday

• $2.17, book. I had a gift card to the Strand; this was the remainder.

• $6, ingredients for rum-­raisin quickbread — since I couldn’t go out after work, I was getting antsy and decided to bake / make snacks for the next few days. I am already sick of the quinoa broccoli situation.

Thursday

• $2.89, Coffee. I woke up exhausted and could not force myself drink the bad office coffee. I splurged on an americano and it was glorious. Some things are worth it.

• $0, concert tickets. My boss had two (free!) tickets to see Jason Isbell at the Beacon Theatre on Saturday. I tell my date. This is exciting, though I estimate the drink costs to be equivalent to what I would have spent on dinner.

Friday

• $9, 1⁄2 magnum of wine. My roommate and I went to a dinner party. I drank it all, and then some. It is 5 degrees outside, but I can’t afford a cab. She is not happy. At least they had free pizza!

Saturday

By this point, I have slightly less than $40 left for my date. I am concerned. It does not sound like enough. Also, I cannot believe I’ve spent all week saving for one outing! This guy has no idea how important he accidentally became.

• $1, honey roasted peanuts. I was hungry on the way to the concert. These I could afford.

• $17, beer. My date bought (some) drinks for me, so I completely underspent. Hooray! As a side note, the beers at the Beacon Theatre are a whooping $10. This is highway robbery.

Sunday

I’ve managed to make it to Sunday with $21 left. This is INCREDIBLE to me. My roommate and I go to a (light) dinner to celebrate.

• $23, dinner. Includes half a carafe of wine and my share of a few small plates at a cheap, but cute neighborhood place. I have overspent by $2 due to tip, but think this is somewhat OK.

What I’ve learned

The first thing to go when you’re saving is a social life, because in this town, seeing friends usually means buying drinks, or at least a coffee. Fortunately, it was too cold to really want to do anything after work at the moment, though I couldn’t imagine holing up most days, every week, just to afford one dinner. The grocery situation wasn’t hard; I’m much better at cooking well and on the cheap than I was in college. In fact, it made me realize how much I’d been spending on expensive snacks and things I don’t need. (Bananas are great!) I’d also developed a habit of over­buying groceries at the beginning of the week, inevitably throwing food away. Buying incrementally, only enough to definitely consume within a few days, is cheaper and more rational. It also make me realize what a difficulty eating well must be for New Yorkers without proximity to fresh produce, a problem in parts of the outer boroughs. Produce here can be a deliciously inexpensive way to sustain oneself, but true grocery stores are scarce in areas like East New York and the South Bronx — where residents might actually live on $70 a week. Bodegas that are lucky to have an avocado or beefsteak tomato next to their bananas and apples become the go-to; thus, so do more costly and often less nutritious packaged goods. My self-imposed financial diet would take on a whole new form if it was constant, and I didn’t live in a produce-rich neighborhood.

Also, writing down everything you spend is so much better than a budget app. Apps are automatic and can be ignored by simply not opening them; the head­-in­-the-­sand approach to money. When you’re adding up every purchase by hand, shit gets real fast.

Will I keep this budget? Absolutely not. I enjoy good food and good booze with good friends far too much for that. The anxiety and stress of those years came flooding back as I stood in the store trying to choose which items would fill my fridge and not blow the budget. But it was a wake­up call; kind of like a financial juice cleanse. Consider it the only $70 detox I would actually recommend.

Mickie Meinhardt is a fiction and non-fiction writer, and a copywriter to pay her Brooklyn rent. She tweets when she remembers and writes The Interwebs Weekly, a culture-tabs newsletter.

Photo: Geraint Rowland

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