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itisiives · 2 years

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Let Me Tell You About the Time I Tried Living on the Streets

Now, let’s not get confused: I was actually homeless, and chronically so. In this go-around, I was bumming it up on my brother and his ex’s couch after I and my mother lost the apartment we were sharing, and losing my two cats, after too many failed attempts at landing a job. This was also right around the time that I was hospitalized for the first time in my life for panic attacks that worsened into catatonia and suicidal ideation.

I do not recommend experiencing all of that at the same time, by the way.

During this time, my brother was traveling for work, which meant weeks upon weeks of living alone with his ex. His passive aggressive, snarky, venomous, controlling woman of a girlfriend. Snippy questions like “Were you raised to be dirty?” whenever I forgot one day of cleaning the bathtub after a shower, or not folding the bag of cereal properly. There was an insult that was one too many, and one day, I thought Honestly, I would prefer to be on the streets. And that was that. I packed up a large duffel bag of stuff I thought I needed at the time (nice clothes for job interviews, snacks, books, notebooks for writing a story) stuff that would have totally marked me as an amateur homeless person. I gave my brother’s girlfriend a bullshit reason for leaving, that I was going to stay with my mother at the shelter she was staying at for the weekend, in case she tried to tell my brother and he and my mother would throw a fuss. With that, I lugged my heavy duffel bag on a bus and took my leave.

I rode it all the way to the city’s Uptown neighborhood, Plaza Midwood. I loved Plaza Midwood; still do, and I miss it to this day. A trendy little area full of activists and diversity, stickers of indie bands and musicians plastered on street signs, small businesses thriving in the face of their neighbor corporate businesses and chains, and the library just minutes away by foot; my favorite, besides said neighborhood library, was Petra’s piano bar that used to hold game night every week for patrons to just come in and play video games, from the classic Mario to the newest racing game. I killed it at a duck shooting game they had. Although I did look forward to being able to go to Petra’s more often for game night, I mainly picked Plaza Midwood because it was where I felt I would be the safest, and where I felt that I would be at home.

Of course, finding a place to camp out would be hard. I tried to find a spot in the park, but I was aware of police arresting homeless people who were staying in parks not designated for camping, and there were too many people in the park, anyway, and I would have drawn unwanted attention. So, I dragged my pack on down, scouting for places to rest, until I simply resigned myself to a bus shelter. There were plenty of people living in bus shelters in the heart of Uptown; it wasn’t easy, but it would work, and it would have to do until I figured out where I can squat that was away from the eyes of the public. I lied down on the concrete -- cold for the time of the year -- and secured my bag to me and tried to use it as a pillow. I covered the blanket over my face, a trick I learned on an old, tone-deaf episode of Tyra Banks about homelessness in which Tyra pretended to be homeless for a day or two. It was apparently to hide the identity so a person is less likely to be harassed or assaulted, physically or sexually. I had planned to sleep for only a couple hours before it grew dark, because I also knew that, as safe as Plaza Midwood was in my mind, I knew that it always became less safe at night no matter where one was. Except I couldn’t really sleep, not just because of the uncomfortable concrete I was sleeping on and the trash left behind at the bus stop, but my mind raced with what to do next.

I was going to use my library card to use the computers to apply for jobs, and then get some sleep in the library; I was going to land a job this time, probably at the nearby McDonalds, and save my money to get an apartment. I’ll wash up in my new job’s bathroom or the library’s bathroom, and make my meager food supply stretch until I can afford hot meals or go to shelters to eat, and if worse comes to worst, I’ll swallow my pride and eat from the garbage or beg like I’ve seen others do. All the while, I’ll craft my bestseller in my notebook. The fantasy of a scared hopeful only vaguely aware of predatory capitalism that all of us except the rich suffer under.

I was trying to remember survival tips I read on Tumblr when a man’s voice spoke up, “Excuse me, sir?” I pulled the blanket down to reply, and that was when I met Dave.

“Oh, sorry!” he said, explaining that he was just trying to be sure that I was okay and, honestly, I was in his usual camping spot.

Dave was a homeless person, just like homeless newbie me, but he was of course more experienced. I don’t know what it is about me that causes people to open up (my mother did say that I have a trusting face) but when I introduced myself, Dave opened up to me. Just... dumped everything on my lap. He talked about how he had been homeless for a few months, how he worked as a barber, how he had a friend and coworker that offered to let him set up a tent in his backyard (that Dave declined, and I don’t blame him because what the hell? Did the guy not have a guest bedroom or at least a sizable closet?) He asked about my mother, and teased about all three of us getting an apartment together and getting out of homelessness. Then, he offered to show me a place that he usually used to sleep at, and even carried my pack to there.

Looking back, I... was stupid to follow him. Thankfully, he hadn’t hurt me, but I had overly estimated my ability to fight back if he were inclined to hurt me. And he was making it pretty obvious that he had some of that interest in me. When he led me to the back of the warehouse center that he camped at, he dug in the dumpster for cardboard boxes, breaking them down and layering them to make into a pallet for us to sleep on. He convinced me to give him a back massage despite my discomfort, and that was thankfully as far as uncomfortable as it had went. We talked some more, about what, I don’t know, maybe about what I plan to do next, about why I left my family, and whether I should go back to them.

But before we could actually go to sleep, I received a phone call. Then another. Another and another until I knew that I couldn’t ignore it any longer, because there was only one person who would call me that incessantly, and who would throw a fit and burn the city to the ground if I don’t answer and let her know I was safe. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and checked the calls.

Of course, it was Mom.

I answered at the next call, and though she sounded calm, I could hear the threat of panic in her voice as she asked me where I was. And though I tried to lie to her at first, telling her that I was hanging out at a bar to be out of the house, she told me that my brother’s ex told her my plan to stay with her in the shelter for the weekend. Just like that, my plans unraveled.

I told her the truth: that I had ran away (which was a ridiculous notion, as someone who was in their early twenties at the time) and was squatting in the Plaza Midwood area. For some reason, Mom felt the need to put the call on three-way and include my brother, hundreds of miles away on his trucking route, and they both rightfully got into a cursing fit about my stupid plan that could have put me in danger, especially with how mentally and emotionally fragile I was. When the first call ended, I had told Dave that I had to go, and he agreed -- no use in sleeping on the streets when I had a nice couch to sleep on and a roof over my head. I offered him my food supply, since he was going to need it more than me, someone who had an address to go back to, and we carried my stuff back to the main street so the police that my mother called to pick me up would spot me.

It was, of course, embarrassing to come back to my brother’s home, having to explain to his ex what my true intentions were when I left. It was a tense few weeks after.

I believe I had written and shared this because homelessness is a constant fear in the back of my mind. As I’ve mentioned, I grew up in chronic homelessness: my family ended up in shelters and other people’s couches quite a few times, and when we were lucky to have our own home, infested with roaches as they were, sometimes right in the heart of neighborhoods where we went to sleep listening to the popping of guns, the threat of losing our home still lingered above us. I think about living on the streets especially now, since I have my own place, my name on the lease and everything. I think about how it would be if I were to end up like the very people I pass every day to work, how I could be priced out of my apartment and have to find shelter for winter and make the heartbreaking decision yet again to give up my pet, who is curled up on my calves as I write this. As it is my first time having a place of my own (unless college dorm rooms count, in which case, this is my second), my family is worried about me, and have explicit told me and still remind me to call them immediately before the worst happens.

Even with this backup plan and a support system, I still imagine myself homeless in the Twin Cities, being in the thick of drugs and violence and cold and sickness. I think about the countless flyers I put up for jobs and available apartments, about the spare change and dollars I give to these people despite not having much of my own, because this homeless endemic is a much bigger problem than impoverished me can solve. The fear of being homeless once again is the driving force of my selling clothes and my precious vinyl records and movies and books to have spare change on me, or when I deposit money in my savings account, money that I hope to move to Oslo with if the Republicans win, but will most likely be used to move back home if I lose my apartment. It’s why I pick up every penny on the street to put in the jar.

The constant fear of being homeless again is why I remember to dig for cardboard boxes to sleep on.

#essay #short story #short stories #writeblr #bookblr #writeblrcafe #confession #homelessness #mental illness #writerscreed #written word #story time #my writing #writers of tumblr #writers of ao3 #spilled ink #rejects corner

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