Is This What It's Come To? Really?

Back in September, when my severely broken foot had four rods poking out of it and I was getting around on a walker, I called a writer friend to ask if she could sub for me for the first day of my fiction class at the New School. I got her machine, so I left a message that it would be just the first day: hand out the syllabus, explain to them why I wasn't there, take attendance ... that's all. I told her I could pay her $50. She never called back, so I asked my department if they could get someone. They chose another teacher, and graciously paid her a guest speaker fee so that I wouldn't have to shell out.

Yesterday I ran into this friend at an event at the New School. She said the reason she never called me back about subbing was that she was deeply offended that I would ask her to do it for only $50.

"What about my time getting ready?" she demanded. "And the time it takes to get there and back on the subway? I was so offended, Sharon, because I respect you so much and I thought you were my friend."

I asked her why she didn't just call me back — we could've discussed a higher rate.

"I shouldn't have to bargain with you."

I explained to her that $50 was all I could reasonably offer because I was looking at having to pay $75 a week for fifteen weeks just to get myself to school and back in a car service, because as part-time faculty I don't qualify for disability, and the school has no provision for reimbursements like that.

"That's none of my business," she said, and turned away.