by Brianna Karp
Perhaps you’re not homeless, have never been homeless and are currently not faced with the threat of becoming homeless. Maybe you are reading this because homelessness is a topic close to your heart or maybe you just feel that you should cultivate some knowledge on survival skills because, with the economy the way it is right now, who knows what will happen in the future? In any event, I hope that my postings will give you something to think about and/or something to laugh about, for humor can be mined from even the most dire of circumstances.
I have just over $300 cash to my name, in addition to various personal belongings. I have three days to take my plans for the coming weeks/months and put them into motion. I have never been homeless before and I will not deny that I am afraid, but I plan to face this with humor and dignity. I can do this. I can do this without becoming a casualty or a stereotype. I can be homeless and still be clean, nourished, confident, well-dressed, dry in the rain and warm at night. I can make wise and preventive decisions that will help protect me and keep me safe in tenuous circumstances. I can and will continue to bring in revenue, interview and locate permanent employment. I can be a tall woman with flaming red hair, with a jowly and imposing Neapolitan Mastiff and a thirty-foot RV in tow, and still manage to remain inconspicuous and under the radar (…right?). I think that if a wussy chick like me can do all this, then anybody can.
I scrambled into my truck with trepidation. I had thirty feet of train hitched to my bumper and I could feel it, even before turning on the engine. It was a massive presence that blocked out my rearview mirror and made me feel very tiny, insignificant and prone to accidental vehicular manslaughter.
“Now then, yer all good to go, ma’am. Just take the corners wide and slow, and when you want to back up, just remember to turn the wheel the opposite direction of the way you normally would to back up.”
Terror thrummed through my every nerve. Tentatively, I revved the truck to life, and inched forward. OK. This wasn’t too bad, right? The kind rangers cheered me on and waved goodbye. OK. This was good. All good. Yup, yup. Holy mother of god, what have I gotten myself into?!
The 21/2-hour drive to Blythe became a 5-hour drive back. The truck, bogged down by the trailer, could only go a maximum of 50 mph on the freeway. Downhill. The rest of the time, it chugged along at about 40 mph, or even 25–30 on a hill. Although I stayed in the far right lane, road-raging motorists sped around me, occasionally yelling or flipping me the finger. At a couple of very scary points, the transmission began to overheat and I had to pull off to the shoulder of the road and allow it to cool down. Even scarier, I had to reenter the freeway from the shoulder, without the luxury of being able to build up speed, weighted as I was.
I had left Blythe around 11:00 a.m. I arrived at my mother’s house at 4:00 in the afternoon, achy in every single muscle from the sheer tense terror of constantly bracing, trying not to wipe out entire lanes of people on the freeway. Mom wasn’t home, and had locked me out, so I began the sweaty, thankless job of yanking all Bob’s crap out of the trailer. Trash pickup was scheduled for the following morning, and there were several empty garbage cans by the side of the house, so I pulled them out to the curb and began loading them up with the junk. It took over an hour.
Drained, and knowing that I had several hours’ more work to do loading up my own boxes, I lay on the grass in the front yard, trying to relax enough for my muscles to unlock. I didn’t have long to wait. My mother pulled her van into the driveway and stepped out coolly. Gone was the screaming rage, replaced by still, inhuman coldness. She must have been surprised at the enormous trailer pulled up by the curb, but to her credit, she didn’t show it.
“Get all this shit out of my garbage cans and back into your truck. Take it and dump it somewhere else.”
“Trash pickup is tomorrow. It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t. You’ll pull every last item out of the trash and load it right back up, or you won’t enter this house, and you won’t carry out a single box of your things.”
“You aren’t allowed to keep my things from me. I’m here to pick them up, well within my rights, and the law prohibits you from withholding them.”
She smirked.
“Watch me.”
She stalked in and locked the door.
My back breaking in half, I dragged all the trash out of the cans and threw it into the truck bed. I knocked. Nothing. I rang the doorbell. She wouldn’t let me in. After several rings, she shouted through the door, “You’re not coming in here until Joe comes home. I’m afraid for my safety.”
You’ve got to fucking be kidding me.
Another hour passed before Joe’s silver Tacoma pulled up and he let me inside. I was too dead to care.
Joe cornered me upstairs in my former room, where I shoveled anvil-esque boxes of books, which constituted the vast majority of my belongings, through the window. It was a shorter path through the window and across the lawn than carrying boxes down the hall, down stairs (my parents’ home is trilevel), through the foyer, out the front door and across the driveway to the trailer. It also minimized the number of trips I’d have to make past Mom.
“I just want to let you know that I’m proud of how you behaved today. You didn’t engage her. You just sat back, remained calm and did what she demanded, instead of fighting. I think she’s proud of you, too, even if she doesn’t say so.”
Tears dropped silently down my cheeks, partially because he’d never before told me he was proud of me and I had assumed for years that he didn’t really care, and partly out of disappointment that the only way I could ever gain his approval was by acting like a doormat, allowing myself to be degraded, humiliated and crushed when I was already so exhausted and felt I had nothing left to give.
I thanked him, though.
He began to help me load books, but my mother flung open the door and ordered him to drop the box he was carrying.
“Don’t you dare help her. She thinks she’s better than everyone else. Let her do it all alone.”
Too stubborn and proud to argue, I wrenched my back over and over again, lifting box after box and staggering to the car, entreating any non-specific higher power out there, if it existed, to keep me from passing out from fatigue, just until I was done and could pull the trailer out of their sight. Anger spurred me on; it was now dark—the light hours had been wasted by my mom’s little mind games—and I could barely see the inside of the trailer, or where I was putting things.
Last of all was Fezzik.
I had set up his crate in the trailer with a fluffy bed and an area for his food and water. I would worry about what to do with him later, if and when I found a job. For now, though, he could stay with me in the trailer. I would exercise him every day. I couldn’t give him up—not now. Not only would he keep me safe and give me companionship (I was sure the experience to come would get very lonely), but I could never forgive myself if I gave him away to a new home and days or weeks later managed to restabilize my life, having to start over again without my best friend.
I ambled into the kitchen and out onto the patio with Fezzik’s leather lead. I clicked it on to his collar ring and led him back through the house. Almost free.
My mother stepped into my path.
I was half-dead. I was emotionally fried. I didn’t want to deal with any of her shit. I never wanted to see her again. I just wanted to be free.
“I just want you to know that I love you. I don’t approve of your life, or your choices, or the person you are, or anything about you…but I do love you, and I’ll always love you.” Her eyes grew moist. I felt a very faint stirring in my chest. This should mean something to me. This should make me cry, too, bawl and throw my arms around her and beg for her forgiveness, confess that I loved her back. Shouldn’t it?
It was too little, too late.
“When I swallow a shotgun, I’ll dedicate my suicide note to you.”
Her eyes widened.
I felt evil.
I left.
It
was Thursday, February 26, 2009. I was parked in a Walmart lot in a trailer with my dog. I was scared and alone. I was homeless.
Chapter Seven
Despite the restlessness and the cold, I eventually conked out and passed the night relatively peacefully and uneventfully. Fezzik settled into his crate and didn’t make a peep all night, and when I awoke, the sun was shining and there were no parking tickets or tow notices on my windshield. Perhaps irrationally, I had half expected that there would be. It was becoming natural to expect the absolute worst possible scenario. But so far, so good. I seemed to be blending.
If you are homeless and living out of a vehicle, you may think that it’s a good idea to find some isolated spot to park, since it is illegal to sleep in your own personal vehicle. This is an insane rule. You can eat in your car, listen to music in your car, just sit there for hours and read in your car, but sleep in it? You’ll get branded as a “transient” by the police pretty darn quickly, and then you’ll be asked to move on. So I can understand the logic involved in trying to find somewhere obscure and isolated—you just want to sleep without the police bugging you.
However, parking somewhere isolated is also incredibly dangerous, and a good way to put yourself in harm’s way. Especially as a woman, my main fears included being mugged, raped or killed. Crazy and bad people seek out isolated victims. Police are also likely to be checking isolated spots—a single vehicle illegally parked on a quiet dirt road stands out. Sometimes the best place to “hide” is right in plain sight. Think about it—how often while walking through a busy grocery store parking lot do you look around and take stock of other vehicles or people? You’re in a rush, there are cars looking for spaces, you don’t have time to notice if there’s someone sleeping in his car. You’re wrapped up in your own little world, your needs and wants, whatever errand brought you there. Before learning about this Walmart rule, I had never even realized that there were RVs and trailers parked in their lot. I had been to this Walmart countless times, and I’m a pretty observant person, but I had never actually noticed the giant campers just sitting there. How can you miss something that huge? But I did.
Apparently, so did everyone else. It would be months before I was disturbed on the lot.
Over time, there were several unwritten rules I learned about camping at Walmart.
The first rule was to keep clean. No littering. No pulling out a barbecue or awning, playing Frisbee in the lot or similarly tacky behavior. This wasn’t a regular campground—it was a place of business. Occasionally, in some communities, residents complain about Walmart’s policy, and attempt to pass city ordinances forbidding RV parking. The most commonly cited complaints that they back this up with are: homeless people camping for a long time and litter/trash. One rude camper (long term or not) can ruin it for everyone else.
The second rule: Keep quiet and remain faceless. To me, it was important for people to be able to walk past my trailer and not even know I was there. I was trying to stay under the radar, remember? This meant that I didn’t play loud music on my laptop, and I rarely socialized with others on the lot. I didn’t want to give Walmart employees, patrons or fellow campers any reason to remember my name, face or vehicle. I wanted to blend. Greetings, random citizens! I am but one more camper on a cross-country trip, and I’ll be leaving in the morning (yeah, right).
I knew that if enough people noticed me specifically, there would eventually be some busybody who would complain about a homeless person living on the lot—assholes like this exist in every community. We all know them, don’t we? They’re the next-door neighbors who sit waiting for you to park your car just an inch too far from the curb, or for your hedge to extend just an inch too far over their fence, or for your grass to grow just an inch too long before they file a complaint and sic the cops on you. They don’t care about your circumstances; they don’t care if you’re clean-cut and quiet and respectful; they don’t care if you mind your own business and never bother anybody. To them, the fact that you are homeless says everything about you. How dare you continue to live an independent life, Brianna Karp, relying on yourself instead of on charity, trying to get back on your feet? To them, the only place a person like me belongs is in a homeless shelter. People like this will pursue the issue, so I tried never to give them a reason to remember me. My motto became: Just. Blend. In.
The third karma-driven rule: I also gave Walmart my business. The company is controversial, and many people don’t like Walmart. I can completely, 100 percent understand this. However, I also feel that anyone unwilling to at least occasionally buy supplies from Walmart, should then probably find somewhere else to park. You have to give the company credit for one thing: Stores that allow campers and the homeless to park there are doing them a huge service. I planned to take full advantage of this service, so it was only fair that I reciprocate by purchasing goods from them occasionally. Besides, it doesn’t get much cheaper than Walmart, except for the 99 Cent Store. If you’re among the earning homeless, and aren’t yet relying on a soup kitchen, it’s hard to find a more affordable place to shop.
The vast majority of my time—other than that spent taking Fezzik to the local tri-city park for exercise, thus thwarting the inevitable stir-craziness of a massive breed dog in an eight-foot-wide space—was spent in Starbucks, looking for work. Craigslist, Monster.com, CareerBuilder.com—I scoured them for hours, applying for anything that would pay more than unemployment. I wasn’t proud. Although ads with the words Executive Assistant or Secretary were particularly attractive, due to my work experience, I was willing to do just about anything, short of nudity, that could help me get back on my feet. It was a recession, after all. As the media kept telling me, I couldn’t afford to be picky.
Starbucks was, I quickly discovered, optimal for a homeless girl trying to blend in. For one thing, the stores were ubiquitous. You couldn’t walk more than a block without finding one. There was, in fact, one right in the Walmart shopping center, so I rarely had to drive anywhere, conserving fuel that I really couldn’t afford anyway. Starbucks was also air-conditioned, in possession of comfy couches and would allow me to remain all day, if I wished, as long as I purchased a cup of coffee. The purchase of a $5 Starbucks card allowed me unlimited internet access for an entire month. I would arrive at the shop early in the afternoon, in my comfy Sweeney Todd sweatshirt and snug plaid flannel pants, after spending a couple of hours exercising Fezzik in the park. Often, I had my pick of seating. Occasionally, the couches would be occupied, and I would buy my coffee quickly, then perch like a hawk with my laptop on a rickety chair, until the more cushy seats were vacated. Then I would swoop in, plug my laptop into the nearest outlet and spend the next ten hours or so applying for jobs, and occasionally refilling my coffee, until the Starbucks closed. The employees never asked me to leave, or even really seemed to notice me all that much. I must have seemed like any other local college student living out of a coffee shop all day long. One green-aproned hipster with chunky glasses like mine and a choppy blond haircut once walked up to me and asked if I was a writer or something. I laughed cheerfully, and decided to run a little social experiment.
“Oh, no, I’m homeless!” I responded, beaming. He looked uncomfortable.
“Oh…I’m sorry…I didn’t realize…”
“Nah, it’s OK, really. I use the Wi-Fi here to job-search. I don’t know what I’d do without it!”
He backed away slowly and never approached or spoke to me again, except to take my order. But from then on, occasionally a regular employee would silently slip me a bag of leftover pastries or muffins at the end of the night, the ones they normally threw out.
The downside to parking at Walmart or Sam’s Club is that there are no electric/water hookups for RVs. This doesn’t matter anyway to those living out of cars. But for those living out of a trailer, I found that I could get around the electricity thing relatively easily. The lots are well-lit, and parking under a light helped a bit. I also bought a high-powered flashlight (from
Walmart, naturally) that stood on its end and reflected off the ceiling, lit the trailer bunk almost as well as a lamp and certainly well enough to read by late into the night. I only needed to replace the batteries once every month or two. I purchased foods that didn’t need to be refrigerated (which meant I very quickly got tired of bologna sandwiches, chips and bagels, but, still, it worked).
I was always sure to charge my phone and laptop during the day at Starbucks. That way, I could use the laptop in the evening to watch DVDs. It was also incredibly important, I realized, for my phone to be active at all times in case of an emergency. The last thing I wanted was for my trailer to be set on fire or for someone crazy to try to break in, or something, and not be able to call 911.
Water was another dilemma, which I solved by picking up several large gallon jugs from Walmart. After that, I saved money by constantly refilling them via hoses or restroom sinks. I even used the stored jugs of water to cool down in the heat, or to wash in an emergency. I found out very quickly just what was important, and just what standards I was able to lower. (Hint: Most of them.)
Restrooms posed another problem, of course. The trailer had a toilet, but since there were no water hookups, it was useless to me. So, instead, I located an Arco gas station up the street that was open twenty-four hours a day. I tried to regulate my peeing schedule, but occasionally I would wake up in the middle of the night with an uncontrollable urge. In a pinch, I would hop into my car and cruise up the street to the Arco, which felt kind of ridiculous and silly—going so far for a piss—but that’s one of the things that you take for granted until you find yourself homeless. Being female, it was more difficult to surreptitiously pee in the bushes or against a wall. You notice a woman squatting in the bushes, trying to keep her balance and avoid tipping over, and, next thing you know, you’re prosecuted for indecent exposure and on the sex offender list. (That’s something I always thought was one of the more absurd and unconscionable reasons to brand someone as a sex offender for life. I mean, seriously? A homeless person peeing against a wall because he must indulge a basic biological necessity is not equivalent to a creep in a trench coat exposing himself to a child in a park.) Besides being illegal, peeing outdoors can end up being pretty gross and unsanitary for a woman. It’s not like being a guy, where you just “point and shoot.” I’ve tried peeing in the woods before, on camping trips, and have always been an abysmal failure at it. There is absolutely no directional control. Women spray. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.