The noise wakes me and I immediately groan, falling back in bed and pressing my pillow across my face. I know this is Brooklyn, but does there really have to be a construction crew out working today of all days? The vibration of the jackhammer causes the pictures on my walls to shake.

If I could find some earplugs to block this noise I would. I was up late last night, tossing and turning. Now that it's morning, my body is finally ready to sleep.

But then I remember the job interview and I reach for my alarm clock, pulling it close.

No. No. No.

I slept through the alarm. How did I do that? I never do that.

Especially when getting an interview itself is such a struggle. I've applied for every receptionist position in the city. I don't have a college degree, and that takes me out of the running—seems like every recent graduate in this city is desperate for work.

So, I swallowed my pride and started applying any and everywhere. Last week, I got turned down at Hot Dogs R Us.

I wish I were joking.

I jump out of bed trying not to cry, knowing I've got to get to the interview, even if I’m late. Today’s interview is at a semi-decent place; a used car dealership. I spent yesterday afternoon at the public library learning car lingo and reading the Kelly Blue Book to at least have some knowledge to bring to the interview.

My life depends on getting this. So, no pressure.

I trip over my notepad, bills, and bank statements at the foot of the bed.

That's why I was up so late. It was a final attempt at trying to reconcile numbers that don't add up no matter how hard I try. I am good at math, but you can't make something from zero.

But that noise outside is gonna be the real end of me.

I reach for my bedroom window and yank it up. This rent-controlled apartment is the best thing I have going for me now, but even that will become a thing of the past if I can't get a job. I'm two months behind in rent and came home to a giant "EVICTION NOTICE" on my door last night.

"People are trying to sleep up here," I shout to no one in particular.

The guy with the jackhammer doesn't even turn to look my way.

I shout louder, "Hey, mister." He finally turns his jackhammer off and looks around to see who is calling for him. "Up here!" I scowl as best I can. I know my mean face isn't very mean. I'm usually described as too nice for my own good.

But not today. Today my desperation seeps into my words. And maybe it's not fair to take my pent-up frustration about my situation out on this stranger, but I never said I was perfect.

"Can you keep it down?" I yell, sticking my head out the window. "You’ve already ruined my morning!"

His eyes rise as he sees me from my two-story vantage point.

"You’re telling me how to do my job?" He pulls off his tee-shirt and runs it over his sweaty brow. "Because, darling, I'm just doing what I was hired to do." He gives me a smile so damn bright I have to shield my eyes. But I immediately lower my hands because I don't want to miss anything this hard hat is giving freely to every single Brooklyn-ite.

I clench my jaw, already hearing the whistles and compliments as women walk past him. "Nice ass!" and "What else you got in that tool belt?

I roll my eyes as he grins, waving at the women as they walk past practically salivating. To be fair, I find myself swiping my own lip.

But isn't it supposed to be the other way around? The construction workers should be the ones complimenting the ladies?

I'm not a catcalling kind of girl myself, but if I were... There are all sorts of things I could say about this man. He has a set of washboard abs I could put to good use. It’s not like I have a washer and dryer in this apartment. And his jeans are weighed down by a hefty tool belt, forcing my eyes to look at the perfect V, leading to places I haven't gone in a very, very long time.

"You done complaining? Because I have work to do," he calls up, bringing me out of my reverie and reminding me that I have work to do too.

Like, I have to get to that interview.

I groan loudly, making sure he knows how annoyed I am, knowing full well he does not deserve my irritation.

As I scrub my face and brush my teeth I hear the jackhammer rev up again, and I feel like a brat for having yelled at him. But I don't have time right now to apologize. Right now, I must get dressed and get on the subway. I have just enough money left on my subway card to get there and back.

Digging through my closet, which is stuffed to the gills, I try to find the right thing to wear. I pull on a dress that was my Grandma's once upon a time. Her collection of clothes from the 60’s is one of my most treasured possessions, but there has never been enough room in the apartment for all her beautiful things. This apartment may be larger than most but when it was designed, no one thought about closet space.

I choose a pale blue, short sleeve dress with a belted waist that hits me mid-thigh. I add a pair of black patent-leather heels and shove my wallet into a matching black purse.

I think of Grandma as I make a piece of toast and spread it with peanut butter. I know if she were still alive, in this apartment that she raised me in, she would have insisted I sit down and have a proper breakfast.

But everything was different before Grandma got sick. I was going to college, we had enough money that whipping up a special bacon and egg breakfast wouldn't mean the difference between having hot or cold water. I grab a banana—the cheapest fruit I can find—and lock my door, my toast on a napkin to go. I cannot be late.

As I rush down the stairwell that I spent my childhood bounding up and down, I know that I may not have much in the way of modern conveniences, like a smartphone or a laptop or cable tv, but I do have a lot of wonderful memories in this apartment with Grandma.

I can't lose her apartment.

I've got to get this job.