I Like to Drive

That’s the thing with this city… if you don’t have a ‘place for your stuff’, if all you have is your body, you’re a nobody. With no place to stand, you have no standing. You ain’t got a castle, who are you?

So, being homeless, unless you call my car a home, I wanted a place to lay my head besides my steering wheel.

I drove into the camp to check things out. Little kids wandered like stray dogs. No one cared. I slammed my brakes and yelled a blue streak out my window when a pack of them ran into the road. Last thing I needed, to run some kid down.

They all hightailed it but for this one pitiful little girl who stood in the road crying. Dirty, with tangled hair and torn clothes, she looked about six.

I stepped out and gave her some Kleenex. Said I didn’t mean to scare her. Didn’t touch her though. I don’t have enough trouble? Kids running free with no one looking after them? Anything could happen.

Standing by my car I looked around. Some woman came by who acted like she knew the tyke. She eyeballed me something fierce and took the girl away. I continued on.

To the average person driving by, we homeless all pretty much look the same. You have no idea. You might think we have nothing. Down and out can be a tough life. Between the relief checks, government programs and the panhandling, some do pretty well. No rent and all. Only real expense is juice or smoke and food. Always a tradeoff. You get by.

Some have received nice government subsidized tents. Others spend the night under what, to the uninitiated, looks like a pile of trash. Protective coloration, my friend. What fool forages around in the above mentioned trash heap? He might get shivved or shot for his trouble. Don’t doubt the homeless will defend themselves.

You see solo tents scattered on the bank of the river or a settlement under a freeway underpass. An old church downtown lets people camp on the lawn. Too many rules for me there.

But the camps! You have hundreds of people in these makeshift settlements out in the sticks. And more arrive daily. As long as the government cuts those checks…

It’s human nature. Put three people together and within a half hour you have a hierarchy. Multiply that by a thousand? Like it or not, someone will take charge.

I asked around about who runs things at this camp out where the freeway crosses the wash. Hobbes. Boy, has he got it going.

Unelected head of the camp, he famously and emphatically does not believe in rules. Unless he makes them. Like some tin pot dictator. Hold the bananas. With his skills he could run a Fortune 500 company but who needs the hassle? It’s his camp and he’s free. Government relief and unorthodox income sources provide Hobbes a comfortable life. I doubt the IRS ever heard of him.

And political connections? Believe it. Some new program comes down the pike? New tents? Food delivery? He’s on it and always gets his cut. Hobbes runs things tight.

He’s got a network of enforcers. I mean protectors. They ensure no one hassles the panhandlers. In the spirit of no free lunch, the panhandlers award them a piece of the action. You know what I mean. God help the poor slob who doesn’t appreciate their support. Those protectors will eat his lunch.

I chose to go homeless. Not wanting to wake up dead, or worse, I left my lady. You know, before she went all Lorena Bobbitt on me. The terrors of homelessness are nothing compared to that scenario. Yikes!

There are basically two classes in the camp, Innies and Outies. The Innies are close to Hobbes and get first dibs on spoils and power. Outies get the scraps, whatever is left over. Not much, but better than scrounging along the river bank.

No helping the scroungers. They travel their own orbit.

I got word these pallet houses were coming. Tiny one room houses bought by the latest program and shipped by train from up north. I wanted one. Even temporary, they had to be better than a car seat and a jacket. I sleep better with a locked door between me and the wolves.

It didn’t take a genius to see getting on the inside would enhance my chances of scoring a little house to sleep in. Who doesn’t want to be an Innie?

The government provides housing for needy people who follow the rules. Someone gets assigned an apartment. The rules state he can’t share the space with anyone. Good luck with that.

He gets set up and holds a party to celebrate with all his friends. Only they never leave. He’s got twenty slackers smoking up the place and he can’t kick them out. They’re his friends! So he gets evicted and he’s back on the street. Take two.

Pallet houses are too small for a bunch of slackers. They’re new. They’re clean. They’re basic. Toilet facilities are separate and come with a cleaning crew. They’re perfect.

Having a car I volunteered to chauffer the protectors around town. They gave me gas money and then some. It was fine. All I had to do was drive. I like to drive. A long time since I afforded better than fast food.

Must say, I didn’t like their roughing up some codger for shorting them. But this was my ticket to a warm bed. Life is full of compromises, you know?

It looked like they enjoyed the fisticuffs a bit too much, though. Even when the guy gave them everything, they’d teach him a lesson, just because. They didn’t know when to quit. Even boxers get a breather between rounds.

They had it in especially for one old guy. Giving him the business ‘cause they could. When I said something, they laughed. Asked me what the cops would say about my blood stained seats.

So I kept my ear to the ground for my little cottage in the pallet park. Rumors kept flying. Next week. Next month. Not happening. Maybe tomorrow.

I drove and minded my business.

One of Hobbes’ lieutenants told me to stand by. Hobbes came out, got in the front seat and lit a big cigar. Built solid, like he works out, and a military style haircut.  His guy sat in the back.

I introduced myself and asked what music he liked. He wanted silence. I kept my chit chat to a minimum too. I drove a while and he pointed where I should turn.

We arrived to Palletville. It looked like I was in!

I didn’t say anything about his smoking up my bedroom.

The village was set up with neat rows of little houses. Each street had a different color scheme. So bright and clean, I could hardly believe it. Imagine, electricity, heat, a modicum of privacy…

Called transitional housing, these were to assist people returning to more traditional living circumstances.

Experts presume people actually want a traditional life style. Bureaucrats have no idea how many homeless prefer their current life to one with all those rules.

Personally, I couldn’t wait to move into one.

Hobbes saw my reaction to the place. He smiled. “Looks like you’re already picking out curtains.”

“After a year in my car, I can’t wait to stretch out.” He took a puff and blew a perfect smoke ring. I asked, “How does this work? Is there an ETA on this? A waiting list?”

“Everything in its time. Setting up now.”

That was that. But he knew I had my sights on one.

A few weeks went by with no word. Driving the thugs had worn thin but keeping my priorities straight, I bit my tongue. As the carny rat says, ‘you pays your money and you takes your choice.’

One morning I crawled out of my car. Someone had stuck a notice under my windshield wiper. Cottages would be assigned that day, after noon. Morning dragged on. All I could do to focus.

Come noon, I went to the camp HQ per the instructions. Quite a crowd had gathered. More than the available cottages. I hoped I was in the first tier. I’d paid my dues.

One guy made a stink about missing the cut. What a dope, bellyaching. You get shunted down the list or off it altogether for spouting off. I would’ve warned him but kept my fingers crossed and my mouth shut. His loss…

But the guy wouldn’t let up. He was young. Didn’t fit in. So many reasons why he deserved a place. Had a wife. A kid. He worked. Needed a break. An upstanding citizen. Tax payer. No end. Had he earned his Innie’s stripes? Clueless.

They called my name. In exchange for a few signatures they handed me the key and an address card to a cottage. What a relief! I almost cried.

The young guy stood by the door, eye-balling me. I had to walk past him to get out. Didn’t want any trouble. A woman stepped through the doorway and to his side. A little girl followed, clutching her mother’s skirt.

It was the girl I saw crying in the street. She’d be dodging cars and sleeping in a tent while I had my nice warm cottage.

Our eyes met and she shrunk behind her mother. The guy watched me. I didn’t want a fight.

I looked him in the eye and said, “We need to talk. Outside, though.”

He exchanged glances with his wife who pulled at his arm.

He nodded, “I’ll be okay.” He followed me out. “What’s up?”

He took a defensive stance. His family watched from the doorway.

I shook my head. “Be cool, man. We have no quarrel. You need a cottage more than I do.”

I held out my key and the paperwork.

“Is this a joke? What’s the catch?”

“Don’t over think it. You want it? Take it.”

Bewildered, he took it from me. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Care for your family.”

He turned and embraced his wife and girl.

Needing fresh air I walked to my car and hit the road. I like to drive.