"If not now, then when?" said the poster in the apartment hallway.
We walked by it, all the same, as we did every day. Up three flights of too-brightly-lit stairs and into our single-unit flats that each housed three. We washed our bargain-bought vegetables and cooked our expired grains and for a time called this happiness.
Lights shut off by nine PM, replaced by candles and flashlights for those with important nocturnal business; batteries were expensive, after all. The potato trick did work, our tenants would be quick to tell you, but it was always a balancing act to keep it charging.
Reading was popular in our building. Televisions were more often stolen than kept. If ever we saw one we knew we were only looking at another unfiled police report. No one talked about the book they'd read, though, no book clubs. To do so was to appear pretentious. Dropping a line or two from a well-shared novel, or sighing in lament while comparing one's situation to a popular character were the proper ways to clue others into one's literacy.
Everything took turns breaking. City planners were kind to us that way. There was always another pair of hands to not fix it. Another kindness, for work to be fairly distributed.
As the old saying goes, we were never without company.