My freshman year of college I was a math major.
My sophomore year of college I was a music major.
My junior year of college I did drugs.
My senior year of college I was an art major.
My fifth year of college ended abruptly when I couldn’t pay for tuition and couldn’t get another loan.

With loads of debt, a diverse set of skills, and no job, I filled my car with gas and drove to the city in my state with the highest average income per capita—Dellwood, Minnesota.

Then, the door knocking began. I wore a suit. A sign that read “I’m poorer than I look” hung from my neck.

I made a simple request at each door. Would the kind people who lived there commit to pay the debts I had incurred ($58,781) while studying at a liberal arts university for the past four years and a quarter?

Some might call this begging. Fresh off the drip drip drip of the drug that is college art curriculum, I preferred to frame these solicitations as performance.

Seventeen houses in, I was no closer to financial freedom. But also, no one had called the cops. My privilege was showing. And so was the privilege of the residents of Dellwood. The comfort of their estates was causing me to consider whether riches were perhaps superior to the purity of the arts.

At house number eighteen, I ran into a man performing snow angels in his front yard. A bottle of champagne had recently been opened. I could see the man’s wife through the window. She was fetching two glasses, now three, in which to pour the celebratory refreshment. The man sprang up and pointed at me. “You are the kid asking everybody in the neighborhood to pay your college debts,” he said. “Yes,” I said, and I gave a slight bow. “What is your cause for celebration?” I asked, hoping to derail any accusations towards me that the man had planned next. “We just sold our company,” said the man, beaming. His wife walked to the champagne bottle, slapping the man on the ass as she passed. She poured three drinks and handed one to her husband and one to me. “We are going to pay off all your debts, honey” said the woman. “Yes,” said the man. “We’ve been scheming all day on how to best show off our new wealth to the neighbors. Thankfully, you’ve become the gossip of the town and we want in on the buzz.” The woman clinked her glass against mine and said, “You’re a godsend, honey.”

I blushed and thanked the couple profusely. Then I downed my glass of champagne and asked for another. The woman slapped her husband’s ass again and poured me a second drink. Then we went online and made the bank transfer.

The undeserved forgiveness of debts is gross, and happy, and sloppy, and rude, and glorious. And something that happened to me on an early winter day in Dellwood, Minnesota.