What Would You Do in the Worst Case? A Freakonomics Quorum

Photo: Jamesfischer

These are the economic times that try men’s souls, and women’s too. In the past few months, a lot of people have seen their net worth fall substantially, and I’m sure more than a few have contemplated what would happen if they lost everything.

So we asked a group of people — Nick Mills, Josh Piven, Adam Shepard, Will Wilkinson, and Ann Wroe — to consider the following scenario:

Imagine you just lost all your possessions and money, and you were suddenly living in the streets.

1. What’s the first move you would make?

2. What’s the first organization you would turn to?

3. What would your extended plan look like?

Here are their answers. I have to admit, I’ve thought about this scenario myself many times in my life and my answers bear scant resemblance to those given below. I will not go into detail because I don’t want to pollute your reading experience; part of the fun of these quorums is to throw a question out there and be surprised by the answers.

I am, however, interested to hear your comments. And please feel free to tell us how you’d respond to this scenario.

Will Wilkinson, a research fellow at the Cato Institute and editor of the online magazine Cato Unbound, a regular commentator on American Public Radio’s Marketplace, and host of a weekly discussion on his Bloggingheads TV show, Free Will.

“I’d politely ask sympathetic-looking strangers for some help, and I’d get it. That’s privilege.”

1. What’s the first move you would make?

I’m going to assume I’ve got amnesia or am doggedly prideful so that this isn’t too easy, or too boring. So “call my friends and family” is out.

But even if my entire social network — my entire fund of “social capital” — is wiped out by some freak virus, it’s still too easy. I can lose a wallet, but I can’t lose the balance of my good fortune. I’m a Midwestern white guy with good manners and an excess of education. That is, I’m rich in human and cultural capital, and that gives me a safety net too few people have. Even if my one set of clothes was funky and filthy, it would be easy enough for a guy like me to approach strangers and get them to trust me. So that’s what I’d do; I’d politely ask sympathetic-looking strangers for some help, and I’d get it. That’s privilege.

2. What’s the first organization you would turn to?

While enjoying the charity of the big-hearted strangers who have come to value my conversation and dog-walking skills, I would turn to the local, state, and federal government agencies with which one must deal in order to gain the identification documents needed to secure legal employment. Then I’d head to an organization such as McDonald’s that might offer a job on the spot.

If my couch-surfing strategy didn’t work out, I think I’d go to the Mormons, who I understand are extremely helpful in getting people back on their feet, as long as you are willing to seriously consider becoming a Mormon, which I would be … until I got an apartment.

3. What would your extended plan look like?

Starting with a minimum-wage gig and a cheap group-living situation, I’d continuously upgrade my employment and housing until I found myself in a job and living quarters that I liked, in a city I enjoyed, and among friends that I love. And I would have a large gold coin implanted under my epidermis should this ever happen again.

Adam Shepard holds degrees in business management and Spanish from Merrimack College and is the author of Scratch Beginnings, a book about his experience moving to Charleston, S.C., with $25.

“They wanted us to get the heck out of there, and they did a good job of making that happen.”

1. What’s the first move you would make?

First of all, it’s important to note that this is not an unrealistic situation, by any means. Inconceivable? Sure. We never suspect this can happen to us. But how many guys in homeless shelters across America thought that one day they would end up laying their heads on a cold tile floor, dependent on someone else to feed them?

My first move was to have a plan and get myself into a positive state of thinking. But that wasn’t going to put food in my mouth, so I located the local homeless shelter for a hot meal and a cot, and maybe some kind of direction.

2. What’s the first organization you would turn to?

When I arrived in Charleston with just $25 and the clothes on my back — and a pretty ambitious dream — I figured it might be easier for me to seek out assistance — a hand up, rather than a handout. So I made my way down to the Crisis Ministries homeless shelter where I not only met some of the most fascinating guys I’ve ever met in my life, but I was also amazed by the level of assistance being offered, from career services to the social workers to the medical personnel. They wanted us to get the heck out of there, and they did a good job of making that happen.

3. What would your extended plan look like?

So often we think in terms of quick fixes and getting it all right now. Forget tomorrow. I want today.

But that mentality doesn’t work when you start over from the bottom. It’s all about building, slowly, over time. I thought: “O.K., I make minimum wage now, but I can get a raise in six months if I can show up to work on time and with my shirt tucked in.” My present situation is either a means to an end or an end altogether.

Using my talents and advantages to the best of my ability is so very important in the long run. I’m a young, healthy male (and I’ll work until you are tired of bossing me around), so I know what I’m capable of in regards to work. But I also know that I have zero talents, so I need something that requires little thinking but lots of muscle. Maybe somebody else is an artist, or good at working on cars, or good at sewing, or good at talking to people. It’s important to take full advantage of those talents in the long run, rather than exploiting them.

So am I saying that here, in the greatest country on the planet, a country free and fertile with opportunity, that my attitude alone can get me out [of poverty]? You’re damn right.

Ann Wroe, obituaries editor for The Economist, co-author of The Economist Book of Obituaries, and author of, most recently, Being Shelley: The Poet’s Search for Himself.

“I’d work as long as I could at my menial tasks, and go on writing, until I gathered a reputation as some sort of anchorite and could sell my ramblings to the newspapers.”

Assuming I hadn’t lost my wits (a big assumption), my first move would be to walk away from those streets, towards the sea or towards the woods. It’s easier to be empty there. The leaves or the waves would soothe me, as they always do, and I would try to reconcile myself to being stripped down to the essentials. The death-in-life could become rebirth, if I was strong enough. I could breathe deeply there, feeling my limitations vanish along with my burdens while considering what the dickens to do next.

If I were to seek any institution to help me, it would be a church or some repository of faith. Charity ought to help me without paperwork, which my stripped-down self couldn’t abide. (Besides, how could I fill in any box on any form?) But I would rather live off the land than beg.

I would try to offer work in exchange for food — bread, cheese, apples — and some sort of basic shelter, like a bed of sweet-smelling straw. (I like to think before I sleep of lying in a dell of sea-pinks on a cliff overlooking the sea, and this would now be possible and free.) I’d do picking work from season to season — the repetitive, soothing, outdoor work I’ve always loved, and as I picked and walked I’d accumulate fragments for a grand, mad book — a cross between Walden and Tristram Shandy.

Traditionally, it’s men who are wandering poets, but I’ve long fantasized about such a life: a small pack on my back, a crust in my pocket, paper and pencils scrounged or picked up from the pavement, no possessions except those I need to keep myself kempt and clean. A comb, a toothbrush, and a notebook would be my first purchases, and they might be my last.

The long-term plan would involve an uninhabited shack in a small valley by the sea, with my washed clothes flapping among a few stunted apple trees. I’d improve the shack as I could afford to, or as gifts came: a lick of blue paint, a scrap of carpet, a rickety table on the ramshackle deck. Eventually there might be power and plumbing there, a wood stove, and broadband.

I’d work as long as I could at my menial tasks, and go on writing, until I gathered a reputation as some sort of anchorite and could sell my ramblings to the newspapers.

The hardest part would be remembering my former life and the family I adore. But then again, while with them I’ve always harbored these dreams of stripping down, abandonment, and escape; so at last living these spare, mad dreams, perhaps I’d continue from time to time to dwell in a place of cushioned comfort, laughter, conversation, and maternal love, and the one would be as real as the other.

Nick Mills, a professor of American studies at Sarah Lawrence College and author of Winning the Peace: The Marshall Plan and America’s Coming of Age as a Superpower.

“For the rest of my life, I would be nouveau poor, and sooner or later I would, I believe, accept my reduced expectations.”

What would I do if I lost my job, lost my apartment, and lost my savings? My short-term answer is the middle-class one: I would turn to friends. After that I would begin the long haul of trying to find some sort of college teaching job to replace the one I now have, and after that, waiting tables or doing manual labor would be my options. For the rest of my life, I would be nouveau poor, and sooner or later I would, I believe, accept my reduced expectations.

In this regard, I don’t find my personal situation so interesting. All of us with middle-class backgrounds and a college education have coping skills and rich networks of friends. I could, if push came to shove, follow the path many of my students take and join the Peace Corps or Teach for America.

It is when I think of what it would mean to lose everything if I were a 20-year-old with a high-school education who lives in the inner city that the what-if disaster question gets interesting. What would I do if I had no family or friends who could afford to take me in for an extended period of time?

A life of crime? Maybe. But that option seems melodramatic.

The one institution that I think would be helpful is the Army. Meals, clothes, and training in a skill that could be used in civilian life. A bargain, especially for someone feeling desperate. I think of today’s Army as far more reliable in helping the poor than any welfare agency, and despite our failed war policies in the Middle East, I think the Army gives those serving in it a sense of pride; they don’t have to apologize to anyone for what they are doing.

The catch is that by serving in the Army I would be risking my life. At 20, I would be aware of the bargain I was making and old enough to have no illusions of invulnerability. But when I think of risking my life vs. facing humiliating poverty for the indefinite future, the choice is easy. Humiliating poverty with no visible prospect of relief is far worse than death for someone who has absorbed as much of the American ethos as I have.

It might well be that over the years a liberal, 21st-century, Franklin Roosevelt-like administration would restore the country to financial heath. But at age 20, I would not be holding my breath. I would go for the most immediate solution at hand.

Josh Piven, author of Bad vs. Worse, The Escape Artists, and The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook series.

“Ripping up my clothing so I looked the part might bring in some short-term funds, but as a long-term street-survival strategy it probably wouldn’t pay off. Plus I might need that suit later, for interviews.”

1. What’s the first move you would make?

I’m not so sure I like this line of questioning. Have you been peeking at my retirement account?

I might rob a bank. Wait, never mind.

Or I could try to get a loan. Wait, never mind.

Brother, can you spare a squeegee?

O.K., I get it, this is a serious topic and a serious question, and in fact may not be out of the realm of possibility for some. All those golden parachutes turning to anvils almost makes one feel sorry for them. Almost.

In any line of work — swapping credit defaults on Wall Street or begging for loose change on Market Street (on general principle, I refuse to use the term “Main Street” ever again) — appearances matter. If my clothes were in decent shape, panhandling probably wouldn’t pay off, at least not initially. (Would you fork over your hard-earned cash to a beggar in Brioni, regardless of how sincere his entreaties seemed to be?) Ripping up my clothing so I looked the part might bring in some short-term funds, but as a long-term street-survival strategy it probably wouldn’t pay off. Plus I might need that suit later, for interviews. You know, for an investment banking job.

Assuming I had no family or friends I could rely on, my first order of business would be to locate a) water, b) food, and c) shelter.

I’d ask a police officer to point me to the nearest shelter, and from there I’d gain information that would (hopefully) help me cover these three basic human requirements for a while. Since the question is assuming this is me and not some hypothetical stranger, I think it’s also safe to assume that I may be broke and homeless but not deranged, addicted to crack, stumping for LaRouche, etc. Thus, my next step would be to find a job that would help me cover my basic needs while allowing me to demonstrate my intelligence, hard work, honesty, and good humor.

Perhaps I’d volunteer to work at the shelter (helping others, serving food, cleaning up, etc.) in exchange for a bed and a hot meal. If they didn’t need me, I’d ask them for a reference and I’d find someplace willing to hire me in exchange for meals. I’m a firm believer in the old chestnut that any job worth doing is worth doing well — and the corollary, that hard work tends to be recognized. Plus, hard work never scared me. (Though it sometimes startles me from a distance.)

In six weeks I’d be running that shelter, or at least slinging soup. From there it’s just a short step to a sub-prime loan and then … home equity!

2. What’s the first organization you would turn to?

FEMA. I hear good things.

I don’t really like asking people for money — mostly because I don’t like lending it either. That said, once my immediate survival needs had been met (see above), I’d probably turn to all the very rich, really successful writers I know and ask for a bridge loan. After they turn me down, I’d cast around for some freelance work. This is about eating, not health insurance, right?

3. What would your extended plan look like?

Honestly, I don’t worry too much about the future — or at least I didn’t until Bush arrived in office.

I don’t need a lot. Family, good friends, a nice house, comfortable shoes, a German sedan, two vacations a year, Starbucks Café Verona, 18-year-old Scotch, and maguro.

All kidding aside, I’m basically a simple person, and I like to live simply. To paraphrase Henny Youngman, I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need … as long as I die by noon tomorrow.